She peers at me. “I smell ambition.”
I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s Los Angeles. Isn’t that what this town is all about?”
“Ha! Carl’s lucky he’s got you. It’ll be interesting to see how long he keeps you. But let’s see … who here would intrigue you …?”
She casts about the room, finally pointing to a fifty-something man holding court in a corner. “That’s Charles Maynard,” she says. “I’ve known Charlie for years. Intimidating as hell until you get to know him. But it’s worth it. His clients are either celebrities with name recognition or power brokers with more money than God. Either way, he’s got all the best stories.”
“He’s a lawyer?”
“With Bender, Twain & McGuire. Very prestigious firm.”
“I know,” I say, happy to show that I’m not entirely ignorant, despite not knowing Rip or Lyle. “One of my closest friends works for the firm. He started here but he’s in their New York office now.”
“Well, come on, then, Texas. I’ll introduce you.” We take one step in that direction, but then Evelyn stops me. Maynard has pulled out his phone, and is shouting instructions at someone. I catch a few well-placed curses and eye Evelyn sideways. She looks unconcerned “He’s a pussycat at heart. Trust me, I’ve worked with him before. Back in my agenting days, we put together more celebrity biopic deals for our clients than I can count. And we fought to keep a few tell-alls off the screen, too.” She shakes her head, as if reliving those glory days, then pats my arm. “Still, we’ll wait ’til he calms down a bit. In the meantime, though …”
She trails off, and the corners of her mouth turn down in a frown as she scans the room again. “I don’t think he’s here yet, but—oh! Yes! Now there’s someone you should meet. And if you want to talk views, the house he’s building has one that makes my view look like, well, like yours.” She points toward the entrance hall, but all I see are bobbing heads and haute couture. “He hardly ever accepts invitations, but we go way back,” she says.
I still can’t see who she’s talking about, but then the crowd parts and I see the man in profile. Goose bumps rise on my arms, but I’m not cold. In fact, I’m suddenly very, very warm.
He’s tall and so handsome that the word is almost an insult. But it’s more than that. It’s not his looks, it’s his presence. He commands the room simply by being in it, and I realize that Evelyn and I aren’t the only ones looking at him. The entire crowd has noticed his arrival. He must feel the weight of all those eyes, and yet the attention doesn’t faze him at all. He smiles at the girl with the champagne, takes a glass, and begins to chat casually with a woman who approaches him, a simpering smile stretched across her face.
“Damn that girl,” Evelyn says. “She never did bring me my vodka.”
But I barely hear her. “Damien Stark,” I say. My voice surprises me. It’s little more than breath.
Evelyn’s brows rise so high I notice the movement in my peripheral vision. “Well, how about that?” she says knowingly. “Looks like I guessed right.”
“You did,” I admit. “Mr. Stark is just the man I want to see.”
2
“Damien Stark is the holy grail.” That’s what Carl told me earlier that evening. Right after “Damn, Nikki. You look hot.”
I think he was expecting me to blush and smile and thank him for his kind words. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat and got down to business. “You know who Stark is, right?”
“You saw my resume,” I reminded him. “The fellowship?” I’d been the recipient of the Stark International Science Fellowship for four of my five years at the University of Texas, and those extra dollars every semester had made all the difference in the world to me. Of course, even without a fellowship, you’d have to be from Mars not to know about the man. Only thirty years old, the reclusive former tennis star had taken the millions he’d earned in prizes and endorsements and reinvented himself. His tennis days had been overshadowed by his new identity as an entrepreneur, and Stark’s massive empire raked in billions every year.
“Right, right,” Carl said, distracted. “Team April is presenting at Stark Applied Technology on Tuesday.” At C-Squared, every product team is named after a month. With only twenty-three employees, though, the company has yet to tap into autumn or winter.
“That’s fabulous,” I said, and I meant it. Inventors, software developers, and eager new business owners practically wet themselves to get an interview with Damien Stark. That Carl had snagged just such an appointment was proof that my hoop-jumping to get this job had been worth it.
“Damn straight,” Carl said. “We’re showing off the beta version of the 3-D training software. Brian and Dave are on point with me,” he added, referring to the two software developers who’d written most of the code for the product. Considering its applications in athletics and Stark Applied Technology’s focus on athletic medicine and training, I had to guess that Carl was about to pitch another winner. “I want you at the meeting with us,” he added, and I managed not to embarrass myself by doing a fist-pump in the air. “Right now, we’re scheduled to meet with Preston Rhodes. Do you know who he is?”
“No.”
“Nobody does. Because Rhodes is a nobody.”
So Carl didn’t have a meeting with Stark, after all. I, however, had a feeling I knew where this conversation was going.
“Pop quiz, Nikki. How does an up-and-coming genius like me get an in-person meeting with a powerhouse like Damien Stark?”
“Networking,” I said. I wasn’t an A-student for nothing.
“And that’s why I hired you.” He tapped his temple, even as his eyes roamed over my dress and lingered at my cleavage. At least he wasn’t so gauche as to actually articulate the basic fact that he was hoping that my tits—rather than his product—would intrigue Stark enough that he’d attend the meeting personally. But honestly, I wasn’t sure my girls were up to the task. I’m easy on the eyes, but I’m more the girl-next-door, America’s-sweetheart type. And I happen to know that Stark goes for the runway supermodel type.
I learned that six years ago when he was still playing tennis and I was still chasing tiaras. He’d been the token celebrity judge at the Miss Tri-County Texas pageant, and though we’d barely exchanged a dozen words at the mid-pageant reception, the encounter was burned into my memory.
I’d parked myself near the buffet and was contemplating the tiny squares of cheesecake, wondering if my mother would smell it on my breath if I ate just one, when he walked up with the kind of bold self-assurance that can seem like arrogance on some men, but on Damien Stark it just seemed sexy as hell. He eyed me first, then the cheesecakes. Then he took two and popped them both in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then grinned at me. His unusual eyes, one amber and one almost completely black, seemed to dance with mirth.
I tried to come up with something clever to say and failed miserably. So I just stood there, my polite smile plastered across my face as I wondered if his kiss would give me all the taste and none of the calories.
I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s Los Angeles. Isn’t that what this town is all about?”
“Ha! Carl’s lucky he’s got you. It’ll be interesting to see how long he keeps you. But let’s see … who here would intrigue you …?”
She casts about the room, finally pointing to a fifty-something man holding court in a corner. “That’s Charles Maynard,” she says. “I’ve known Charlie for years. Intimidating as hell until you get to know him. But it’s worth it. His clients are either celebrities with name recognition or power brokers with more money than God. Either way, he’s got all the best stories.”
“He’s a lawyer?”
“With Bender, Twain & McGuire. Very prestigious firm.”
“I know,” I say, happy to show that I’m not entirely ignorant, despite not knowing Rip or Lyle. “One of my closest friends works for the firm. He started here but he’s in their New York office now.”
“Well, come on, then, Texas. I’ll introduce you.” We take one step in that direction, but then Evelyn stops me. Maynard has pulled out his phone, and is shouting instructions at someone. I catch a few well-placed curses and eye Evelyn sideways. She looks unconcerned “He’s a pussycat at heart. Trust me, I’ve worked with him before. Back in my agenting days, we put together more celebrity biopic deals for our clients than I can count. And we fought to keep a few tell-alls off the screen, too.” She shakes her head, as if reliving those glory days, then pats my arm. “Still, we’ll wait ’til he calms down a bit. In the meantime, though …”
She trails off, and the corners of her mouth turn down in a frown as she scans the room again. “I don’t think he’s here yet, but—oh! Yes! Now there’s someone you should meet. And if you want to talk views, the house he’s building has one that makes my view look like, well, like yours.” She points toward the entrance hall, but all I see are bobbing heads and haute couture. “He hardly ever accepts invitations, but we go way back,” she says.
I still can’t see who she’s talking about, but then the crowd parts and I see the man in profile. Goose bumps rise on my arms, but I’m not cold. In fact, I’m suddenly very, very warm.
He’s tall and so handsome that the word is almost an insult. But it’s more than that. It’s not his looks, it’s his presence. He commands the room simply by being in it, and I realize that Evelyn and I aren’t the only ones looking at him. The entire crowd has noticed his arrival. He must feel the weight of all those eyes, and yet the attention doesn’t faze him at all. He smiles at the girl with the champagne, takes a glass, and begins to chat casually with a woman who approaches him, a simpering smile stretched across her face.
“Damn that girl,” Evelyn says. “She never did bring me my vodka.”
But I barely hear her. “Damien Stark,” I say. My voice surprises me. It’s little more than breath.
Evelyn’s brows rise so high I notice the movement in my peripheral vision. “Well, how about that?” she says knowingly. “Looks like I guessed right.”
“You did,” I admit. “Mr. Stark is just the man I want to see.”
2
“Damien Stark is the holy grail.” That’s what Carl told me earlier that evening. Right after “Damn, Nikki. You look hot.”
I think he was expecting me to blush and smile and thank him for his kind words. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat and got down to business. “You know who Stark is, right?”
“You saw my resume,” I reminded him. “The fellowship?” I’d been the recipient of the Stark International Science Fellowship for four of my five years at the University of Texas, and those extra dollars every semester had made all the difference in the world to me. Of course, even without a fellowship, you’d have to be from Mars not to know about the man. Only thirty years old, the reclusive former tennis star had taken the millions he’d earned in prizes and endorsements and reinvented himself. His tennis days had been overshadowed by his new identity as an entrepreneur, and Stark’s massive empire raked in billions every year.
“Right, right,” Carl said, distracted. “Team April is presenting at Stark Applied Technology on Tuesday.” At C-Squared, every product team is named after a month. With only twenty-three employees, though, the company has yet to tap into autumn or winter.
“That’s fabulous,” I said, and I meant it. Inventors, software developers, and eager new business owners practically wet themselves to get an interview with Damien Stark. That Carl had snagged just such an appointment was proof that my hoop-jumping to get this job had been worth it.
“Damn straight,” Carl said. “We’re showing off the beta version of the 3-D training software. Brian and Dave are on point with me,” he added, referring to the two software developers who’d written most of the code for the product. Considering its applications in athletics and Stark Applied Technology’s focus on athletic medicine and training, I had to guess that Carl was about to pitch another winner. “I want you at the meeting with us,” he added, and I managed not to embarrass myself by doing a fist-pump in the air. “Right now, we’re scheduled to meet with Preston Rhodes. Do you know who he is?”
“No.”
“Nobody does. Because Rhodes is a nobody.”
So Carl didn’t have a meeting with Stark, after all. I, however, had a feeling I knew where this conversation was going.
“Pop quiz, Nikki. How does an up-and-coming genius like me get an in-person meeting with a powerhouse like Damien Stark?”
“Networking,” I said. I wasn’t an A-student for nothing.
“And that’s why I hired you.” He tapped his temple, even as his eyes roamed over my dress and lingered at my cleavage. At least he wasn’t so gauche as to actually articulate the basic fact that he was hoping that my tits—rather than his product—would intrigue Stark enough that he’d attend the meeting personally. But honestly, I wasn’t sure my girls were up to the task. I’m easy on the eyes, but I’m more the girl-next-door, America’s-sweetheart type. And I happen to know that Stark goes for the runway supermodel type.
I learned that six years ago when he was still playing tennis and I was still chasing tiaras. He’d been the token celebrity judge at the Miss Tri-County Texas pageant, and though we’d barely exchanged a dozen words at the mid-pageant reception, the encounter was burned into my memory.
I’d parked myself near the buffet and was contemplating the tiny squares of cheesecake, wondering if my mother would smell it on my breath if I ate just one, when he walked up with the kind of bold self-assurance that can seem like arrogance on some men, but on Damien Stark it just seemed sexy as hell. He eyed me first, then the cheesecakes. Then he took two and popped them both in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then grinned at me. His unusual eyes, one amber and one almost completely black, seemed to dance with mirth.
I tried to come up with something clever to say and failed miserably. So I just stood there, my polite smile plastered across my face as I wondered if his kiss would give me all the taste and none of the calories.
