“I—what? Oh …” I am a stuttering mess. This isn’t what I’d scripted when I rode up. I’d intended to demand to see him, refusing to leave reception until he spoke to me and explained himself. And for that matter, how does this woman know who I am?
I would ask her, but she’s already leading me through a set of frosted glass doors. We’ve entered yet another reception area, this one done in a contemporary style. There are photographs on the wall featuring waves, mountains, tall redwood trees. There’s even a close-up of a bicycle tire, a winding road visible through the spokes. Each is artistically composed, with such precise and startling perspectives, that I’m certain they were all taken by the same photographer. I shove my irritation aside long enough to wonder who took them. Damien, perhaps?
Another girl sits behind another desk. This one is a brunette, with a short pixie cut. She also smiles at me. “Ms. Fairchild,” she says as she pushes a button on her desk. “You can go on in.”
The woman who escorted me leads us forward as a set of beautifully polished wooden doors swing open in front of me revealing the impressive form of Damien Stark. Today, there’s nothing casual about his outfit. He speaks into a headset as he paces behind his desk in a perfectly tailored double-breasted suit in a dark pewter over a crisp white shirt. The outfit is pulled together with a red tie and onyx cuff links. The sheen from the material reflects some of the light coming in from the window behind him, making Stark look like he’s radiating heat and power. It’s an outfit meant to intimidate and impress, and I have to admit that it works.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” my escort says. “He’ll be with you in a moment.” Then she’s gone, the doors swinging shut behind her.
I don’t sit, but stand right in front of his desk, my arms crossed over my chest. I want to hold on to my anger, but it’s hard, because Stark is right there, and I’ve already learned that just being in the same room with him makes my head go all fuzzy. I think it’s because when I’m close to him, all the air seems to vanish.
“I’m looking at the quarterlies right now,” Stark says, snatching a sheaf of papers from his desk. It’s huge, and every inch of desktop is covered with papers. From where I stand, I see neat stacks of magazines—Scientific American, Physics Today, Air & Space, even the French La Recherche. Charts and graphs are spread out in the middle, both marked up with handwritten notes made with red and blue pencil. A stack of correspondence rests on the far side of the desk, the corner of the pile held down with a battered copy of Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot.
“I’m not interested in excuses,” Stark continues. “I’m interested in hard, cold numbers. Yes, well, tell him that the time to ply me with projections was when he pitched the project in the first place. And the time for excuses is never. If he can’t live up to the schedule we agreed to, then I’ll put in my own team. Hell yes, I have that right. No? Well, have him read the contract again. Then we’ll talk. Fine. No, I think this conversation is over. All right, then.”
He clicks off, and turns to me, and it’s as if I’m watching a computer graphic of a man shifting into the form of another. The executive seems to melt before me, leaving only the man. Albeit one insanely sexy man in a tailored business suit that probably cost more than Jamie’s condo.
“What a wonderful surprise,” he says as he crosses the room, his long strides bringing him right in front of me. He looks so cool, so fucking innocent that the anger that had been fading spews back up like hot lava out of a volcano.
“Goddamn you,” I snap as I lash out and slap him hard across the cheek, shocking myself as much as him.
The way his expression shifts from pleasure to shock to anger and then, finally, to confusion would be amusing if I didn’t feel so sick to my stomach.
“Oh, God,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I’m speaking from behind my hand, which I’ve pressed to my mouth. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“What the fucking hell?” he asks. His body is rigid and his eyes are burning. The amber one seems to hold some compassion, but the dark black one looks like it could suck me down, down, down. Dangerous, I think. Ollie’s right. That temper is dangerous.
“Carl fired me. Don’t even pretend like you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t,” he says. The tension leaves his body. “Fuck, Nikki, I swear that I didn’t, though I probably should have expected it.” He reaches for my hand, and I’m numb enough that I let him take it. He presses his lips to my fingertips, and the contact is so gentle and sweet it makes me want to cry. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why did you say no? The proposal was amazing. The product is amazing. You were impressed—I know you were. And now Carl thinks that I snubbed you or fucked you or otherwise got under your skin enough that you want to get back at me through him.”
“He told you that?”
“He hasn’t told me shit. He didn’t even have the balls to fire me himself. But I’m not an idiot. I know what it looks like and what he must think.”
“You have gotten under my skin,” he says. “But that’s not why I said no.”
“Then why did you? I mean, come on, Damien. It’s a damn good product.”
“It is.” He pulls a small device out of his pocket. It takes me a second to realize it’s a remote control. He pushes a button and the room grows dark as the lights dim and the windows shift from clear to opaque.
“What are you—” But I don’t bother to finish the question. A menu appears on a drop-down screen. Damien scrolls down to select one entitled Israeli Imaging 3IYK1108-DX.
A moment later, a grainy image appears. It’s difficult to see everything, but it’s clear that what Damien’s showing me is a product similar to the one Carl pitched.
“An Israeli company called Primo-Tech has already received a patent on a similar product. They have a marketing plan in place, and they’re deep into beta testing. They expect to roll out the full product next month.”
I shake my head. “Carl doesn’t know anything about this.”
“No? Well, maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he was hoping that I would invest so that there would be enough capital behind his product to beat Primo-Tech in the marketplace.”
I look at him. Carl can be a shit, but surely he wouldn’t do that. Would he?
“I don’t play those kinds of games, Nikki. When I invest, it’s because I have a clear path in the market. I said no to C-Squared because of the Primo-Tech product. It has nothing to do with you.”
I nod. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Would you like me to explain that to Carl?”
“Hell no. I don’t want to work for a man who jumps to those kinds of conclusions.”
“Good.” He looks me up and down, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“What?”
“Nice suit.”
It’s an innocent compliment, but it doesn’t sound innocent at all. I notice that the lights in the room are still dim and bite my lip in nervous anticipation.
“Not that I like to see you unemployed, but this works out well. Your day job was interfering with my plans for you.”
I would ask her, but she’s already leading me through a set of frosted glass doors. We’ve entered yet another reception area, this one done in a contemporary style. There are photographs on the wall featuring waves, mountains, tall redwood trees. There’s even a close-up of a bicycle tire, a winding road visible through the spokes. Each is artistically composed, with such precise and startling perspectives, that I’m certain they were all taken by the same photographer. I shove my irritation aside long enough to wonder who took them. Damien, perhaps?
Another girl sits behind another desk. This one is a brunette, with a short pixie cut. She also smiles at me. “Ms. Fairchild,” she says as she pushes a button on her desk. “You can go on in.”
The woman who escorted me leads us forward as a set of beautifully polished wooden doors swing open in front of me revealing the impressive form of Damien Stark. Today, there’s nothing casual about his outfit. He speaks into a headset as he paces behind his desk in a perfectly tailored double-breasted suit in a dark pewter over a crisp white shirt. The outfit is pulled together with a red tie and onyx cuff links. The sheen from the material reflects some of the light coming in from the window behind him, making Stark look like he’s radiating heat and power. It’s an outfit meant to intimidate and impress, and I have to admit that it works.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” my escort says. “He’ll be with you in a moment.” Then she’s gone, the doors swinging shut behind her.
I don’t sit, but stand right in front of his desk, my arms crossed over my chest. I want to hold on to my anger, but it’s hard, because Stark is right there, and I’ve already learned that just being in the same room with him makes my head go all fuzzy. I think it’s because when I’m close to him, all the air seems to vanish.
“I’m looking at the quarterlies right now,” Stark says, snatching a sheaf of papers from his desk. It’s huge, and every inch of desktop is covered with papers. From where I stand, I see neat stacks of magazines—Scientific American, Physics Today, Air & Space, even the French La Recherche. Charts and graphs are spread out in the middle, both marked up with handwritten notes made with red and blue pencil. A stack of correspondence rests on the far side of the desk, the corner of the pile held down with a battered copy of Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot.
“I’m not interested in excuses,” Stark continues. “I’m interested in hard, cold numbers. Yes, well, tell him that the time to ply me with projections was when he pitched the project in the first place. And the time for excuses is never. If he can’t live up to the schedule we agreed to, then I’ll put in my own team. Hell yes, I have that right. No? Well, have him read the contract again. Then we’ll talk. Fine. No, I think this conversation is over. All right, then.”
He clicks off, and turns to me, and it’s as if I’m watching a computer graphic of a man shifting into the form of another. The executive seems to melt before me, leaving only the man. Albeit one insanely sexy man in a tailored business suit that probably cost more than Jamie’s condo.
“What a wonderful surprise,” he says as he crosses the room, his long strides bringing him right in front of me. He looks so cool, so fucking innocent that the anger that had been fading spews back up like hot lava out of a volcano.
“Goddamn you,” I snap as I lash out and slap him hard across the cheek, shocking myself as much as him.
The way his expression shifts from pleasure to shock to anger and then, finally, to confusion would be amusing if I didn’t feel so sick to my stomach.
“Oh, God,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I’m speaking from behind my hand, which I’ve pressed to my mouth. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“What the fucking hell?” he asks. His body is rigid and his eyes are burning. The amber one seems to hold some compassion, but the dark black one looks like it could suck me down, down, down. Dangerous, I think. Ollie’s right. That temper is dangerous.
“Carl fired me. Don’t even pretend like you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t,” he says. The tension leaves his body. “Fuck, Nikki, I swear that I didn’t, though I probably should have expected it.” He reaches for my hand, and I’m numb enough that I let him take it. He presses his lips to my fingertips, and the contact is so gentle and sweet it makes me want to cry. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why did you say no? The proposal was amazing. The product is amazing. You were impressed—I know you were. And now Carl thinks that I snubbed you or fucked you or otherwise got under your skin enough that you want to get back at me through him.”
“He told you that?”
“He hasn’t told me shit. He didn’t even have the balls to fire me himself. But I’m not an idiot. I know what it looks like and what he must think.”
“You have gotten under my skin,” he says. “But that’s not why I said no.”
“Then why did you? I mean, come on, Damien. It’s a damn good product.”
“It is.” He pulls a small device out of his pocket. It takes me a second to realize it’s a remote control. He pushes a button and the room grows dark as the lights dim and the windows shift from clear to opaque.
“What are you—” But I don’t bother to finish the question. A menu appears on a drop-down screen. Damien scrolls down to select one entitled Israeli Imaging 3IYK1108-DX.
A moment later, a grainy image appears. It’s difficult to see everything, but it’s clear that what Damien’s showing me is a product similar to the one Carl pitched.
“An Israeli company called Primo-Tech has already received a patent on a similar product. They have a marketing plan in place, and they’re deep into beta testing. They expect to roll out the full product next month.”
I shake my head. “Carl doesn’t know anything about this.”
“No? Well, maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he was hoping that I would invest so that there would be enough capital behind his product to beat Primo-Tech in the marketplace.”
I look at him. Carl can be a shit, but surely he wouldn’t do that. Would he?
“I don’t play those kinds of games, Nikki. When I invest, it’s because I have a clear path in the market. I said no to C-Squared because of the Primo-Tech product. It has nothing to do with you.”
I nod. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Would you like me to explain that to Carl?”
“Hell no. I don’t want to work for a man who jumps to those kinds of conclusions.”
“Good.” He looks me up and down, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“What?”
“Nice suit.”
It’s an innocent compliment, but it doesn’t sound innocent at all. I notice that the lights in the room are still dim and bite my lip in nervous anticipation.
“Not that I like to see you unemployed, but this works out well. Your day job was interfering with my plans for you.”
