Unwrap Me (5 page)

“We really are going to be late if I don't go shower,” I say as I stand up. “Deodorant's on the rack inside the closet,” I add, then hurry out of the room. Because, honestly, I can't get out of there fast enough.

“It's a great opportunity if you can swing it,” Lisa Reynolds says as she digs into her waffle. We've met at Du-par's in Studio City, just down the street from the office condo that she's suggesting I buy. “And we already know you like the place.”

“I love it,” I agree. I'd met Lisa over a year ago when I'd lost my job at C-Squared and decided to try and make my own web and app design business a reality. I'd answered an ad for office space, and met Lisa, a business consultant who was trying to sublet a property for a client. She's about as native as Angelenos get, having moved from China when her parents adopted her at the age of three. She's funny and energetic and even though I couldn't afford the space, she and I and Jamie became friends, and we've been doing regular Wednesday happy hours for months now.

“But you know I can't afford it,” I remind her.

“I have a thought about that, too,” she says. “I think we should pitch your web-based note taking app to Stark Applied Technology.”

I gape at her. “Seriously?”

Lisa's fiancé, Preston Rhodes, is the head of acquisition at the lucrative company, a division of Stark International, which is one of the most profitable corporate conglomerates in the world, headed by one of the wealthiest men in the world, Damien Stark.

I'm not a follower of high finance, but since I haven't lived in a cave my entire life, I know who Stark is—a man who made a fortune as a professional tennis player, then parlayed his winnings and his talent into business. He's exceptionally easy on the eyes and has a reputation as both a brilliant businessman and something of a bad boy, with the tabloids often doing Stark-watch, a pictorial account of whatever woman happens to be on his arm that particular week.

I'd actually considered applying for a job at Stark Applied Technology after I'd gotten laid off. But I'd talked myself out of it, deciding to give working for myself a try instead. I'm glad I did, too. I like the freedom and the challenge. And even though I'm not exactly raking in the big bucks, I'm doing well enough.

Not, however, well enough to buy an office condo.

“Do you really think Preston would go for it?”

“Why wouldn't he? It's brilliant. And it's the kind of thing the company could really use. Hell, you could license it to all of the Stark companies. That kind of a deal would give you enough income to get the condo.”

“You think?”

Lisa slides a piece of paper toward me, and my eyes go wide. “You drew up a spec licensing agreement? And a P&L?”

“Which is mostly on the P-for-profit side,” she says, “since you've already got the product and your overhead is fixed.”

I glance at Jamie, who gives me a tiny, excited nod. “Okay, then,” I say. “What have I got to lose?”

“Not a thing,” Lisa says. “And, actually, I didn't really tell you everything.”

I was about to take another bite of my omelet, but now I lean back in the booth. “Oh?”

She clears her throat. “As your business advisor, I sometimes have to strike when the iron is hot, and with the condo on the market now I figured there was no time to waste, and so—well, I already pitched it to Preston.”

“Lisa!”

“And he loves it.”

“Seriously?” I'm not sure if I should be thrilled by the news or irritated that she went behind my back. Since I'm ultimately pragmatic—and since pragmatic small business owners do not scoff at possible licensing agreements with major international companies—I settle on thrilled. “He really likes it?”

“Yup. But it's the kind of license that has to get approval from the CEO. So it has to be approved by Damien Stark.”

“Oh.” My euphoria starts to wane.

“Don't worry,” Lisa says. “It's an amazing product. And Preston actually had dinner with Mr. Stark last night and told him all about it. So you may even know before the new year.”

Jamie picks up her orange juice and lifts it as if in a toast. “Well, merry freaking Christmas,” she says. “This one may turn out to be spectacular.”

It really might,
I think as we head back to the condo. Then I think some more as I try to work on a commissioned app that's supposed to launch mid-January. And later, when I'm doing the dishes that Jamie habitually ignores, I actually fantasize about having my very own office space.

The possibility makes me giddy, but I also know that it could be a huge, massive disappointment. And I'm trying really hard not to get my hopes up.

“If you're that worried,” Jamie says as we are driving to Malibu that evening, “maybe you should just ask Stark directly.”

I glance at her sideways. “What do you mean?”

“Evelyn said he's coming tonight.”

“Really?” From what I've heard, Damien Stark is exceptionally particular when it comes to accepting invitations.

“Apparently they go way back. She's repped him on and off since his tennis days.” Jamie glances at me as she waits for a light to change. “It's weird, though, isn't it? Stark's the reason you don't have a job at C-Squared. And now here you are trying to get him to license your stuff.”

“Small world,” I say, but it is a little weird. I'd just started at C-Squared when my boss pitched a new software product to Stark Applied Technology. Stark had turned it down—too similar to another product that was just about to hit the market. Unfortunately, although I didn't know it at the time, I'd been hired to work on that account. When the anticipated deal went away, so did I.

“I'm not going to worry about it,” I decide. “It's Christmas Eve. I doubt he's even decided what he's going to do, and he's certainly not coming to talk business.”

“Maybe not, but I bet he'll want to talk to you, anyway. You look hot, as always.”

I roll my eyes, although the truth is that I know I look good. I'd splurged on a new red holiday dress with a fitted bodice and flared skirt. It has a retro Marilyn Monroe thing going, and I paired it with exceptionally uncomfortable but sexy shoes that truly make the outfit.

Since I work out of my bedroom, I rarely have the chance to dress up. And even though I got more than my fill when my mother was forcing me to do pageant after pageant, when it's for my own pleasure, I enjoy the whole makeup and hair and pretty outfit routine.

Next to Jamie, however, I'm a slacker. She's in a skintight black dress that accentuates every one of her many curves. If there are directors at the party, I bet each and every one of them will want to sign her to their next movie.

“This is it,” Jamie says, pulling up in front of a stunning Malibu house. “I've been here once before. Her view of the beach is awesome. And her boyfriend is way younger and paints really erotic stuff. She'll probably have his pictures on the walls, so fair notice. It's good—really good—but a little over the top.”

“No problem,” I say, and now I'm more than a little curious.

A hired valet takes the car, and I follow Jamie to the door and am delighted when Evelyn herself greets us. She envelops Jamie in a hug, then turns and does the same thing to me. “So good to see you again. Let's get you inside and put a drink in your hand.”

Since that sounds like a good plan to me, I happily follow her—only to stumble just inside the door.

Evelyn catches my arm and looks at me with concern, but I barely notice her. Instead, my eyes are glued on a man who is halfway across the open area, just one of many guests and yet he commands the entire room.

His face consists of hard lines and angles that seem sculpted by light and shadows, making him appear both classically gorgeous and undeniably unique. His dark hair absorbs the light as completely as a raven's wing, but it is not nearly as smooth. Instead, it looks wind-tossed, as if he's spent the day at sea.

That hair in contrast with his black tailored trousers and starched white shirt give him a casual elegance, and it's easy to believe that this man is just as comfortable on a tennis court as he is in a boardroom. His famous dual-colored eyes capture my attention. They seem edgy and dangerous and full of dark promises.

I know that I am staring, but I'm struck with the oddest sense of déjà vu. As if all of this has happened before, but not in this reality. In a dream. In another life. In—

“Sorry about that step, Texas,” Evelyn says, holding me steady after my near fall. “I should have warned you.”

“No, it's okay.” I tilt my head up and see that she is frowning at me with maternal concern. “That man—that's Damien Stark, right?”

“Hard to miss, isn't he?” she asks, and I nod, just a little dumbstruck.

Jamie takes my other arm. “Nik? Are you okay? Did you twist your ankle?”

“I'm okay,” I say, but that's a lie.

Because I'm not okay—not anymore.

I'm not okay at all.

I order a double Scotch from the bar near the door and toss it back as Jamie looks at me, bemused.

“What is up with you?”

I just shake my head and ask the bartender for another. I'm amazed by how much the mere sight of Damien Stark has affected me. I've never had such a visceral reaction to a man in my life, and it's unsettled me so much that I'm deliberately not looking in his direction. I'm too afraid that my knees will go weak and I'll fall on my face.

“You're worrying me today,” Jamie says.

“I'm fine. I swear, I'm fine.” I draw a breath and tell myself to shake it off. I can do this. Haven't I lived my entire life wearing various versions of myself? I just need to get steady. To put on my Social Nikki mask, carry myself with the poise and confidence that my mother drilled into my head—and try my damnedest not to look in that man's direction again.

“I tripped. That's all.” I look at Jamie, who clearly doesn't believe my pronouncement. “It's been a strange day, I'm feeling light-headed, and I tripped. That's all. Go mingle. This is a Hollywood party. You should be out charming people who can get you work. Not babysitting me.”

I watch the debate play over her face. The potential for a gig—or a hot guy—weighed against best friend karma.

“Seriously,” I assure her. “I'm fine.” I tug my phone out of my tiny purse. “I'll text if I need you. Promise.”

Jamie points a finger at me. “You better.” She gives me a quick hug, takes a glass of wine from the bartender, and heads out.

I consider finishing my Scotch and going for another, but decide to just nurse the one that I have. Better to stay at least a little sober.

I hold on to the glass as if it were a life raft, then wade out into the stormy social seas.

I don't see Stark, although I tell myself that I'm not looking for him. Because it's really best not to do that until I'm sure that I've got my shit together. Instead, I'm looking for any friendly or familiar face. A port in the storm. And when I see Charles Maynard, Ollie's boss, I breathe a sigh of relief. I don't know him well, but I've met him at a few of Ollie's firm functions. And I certainly know him well enough to pop over and say hi at a party.

I'm heading that direction, when a group standing behind him parts like the Red Sea, and there's Damien Stark again, striding through the gap to make his way to Charles.

I freeze, mission aborted.

They chat for a minute, and it's clear from where I'm standing that these men know each other. Ollie doesn't talk about his work much, but I think he mentioned that the firm represents Stark International, and for a moment I idly wonder if Ollie has met Stark.

The thought makes me frown—something about the two of them knowing each other rubs me the wrong way—and it's then that Stark shifts his attention from Charles to me. The moment his gaze hits me, I gasp, then take an unexpected step toward him, compelled by nothing more than the force of his will.

One step, then another, and then I recover my senses and force myself to stop. I'm standing beside a Queen Anne–style chair, and I reach for the back and hold on, as if that will keep me from walking farther toward this man who has thrown me so off balance.

I see a frown touch his lips, and then he says something to Charles. A moment later, Damien Stark is walking toward me, and my stomach lurches. His eyes are on me, full of heat and awareness, and once again I feel as though this has happened before. That I know him—really know him. And that, somehow, I have lost him.

My fingertips tingle as I imagine the feel of his skin beneath my hand. And my own body heats from the memory—no, not a memory, the
fantasy
—of his lips dancing over me, making me crazy. Making me wet.

I have absolutely no idea what is wrong with me, and I want to turn around and run, but I can't. I'm stuck where I am, transfixed by the heat in his expression. By the dark promise of his onyx-colored eye. By the wild passion in the amber one.

I think that I will stand here forever if that's how long it takes him to come to me, and even as I think it, I want to kick myself, because that isn't how I think. I am not prone to lust. I do not throw myself at men. On the contrary, I'm careful. I'm private.

And yet despite all of that I find myself taking a step toward him. As I do, I see the welcome and the relief on his face—and then, just moments later, I watch as his expression closes and his face goes hard. Unreadable. Inscrutable.

I stop, confused, and then gasp with shock and disappointment as a tall, thin, utterly gorgeous woman swoops up to him, hooks her arm through his, and kisses his cheek.

“Carmela D'Amato,” Jamie says, making me jump when she appears behind me. “She's a runway model—pretty hot these days, actually. According to gossip, they've been dating on and off for years.”

I had shifted to look at Jamie, and now I shift back. Stark is no longer looking at me. Instead, he's turned away and is leading Carmela toward the balcony door.
Bitch
.

“Were you working up the courage to ask about the license?”

“Yeah,” I lie. My business was the furthest thing from my mind, and, frankly, that simple truth pisses me off. What the hell has happened to me? Does the man emit some sort of Nikki-attracting pheromones?

“We could follow them out to the balcony. Want me to go with you?”

I shake my head. “It's okay. Let the man have his Christmas party.”
And let me get myself together again
.

I follow her around for the next hour or so, and we chat with various Hollywood types I've never heard of while Jamie gushes and quotes lines and talks about her favorite movie scenes or television episodes. After a while, I can feign interest no longer and excuse myself to go look at some of the artwork that is, as Jamie had warned, placed throughout the house.

I'm gazing at a particularly stunning portrait of a nude woman standing so that her hands extend out of the top of the canvas. Though we can't see it, her wrists must be bound with the red ribbon that dangles between her breasts, covering just enough of her crotch to be more modest than revealing, and all the more sensual because of that.

The portrait shows her bare feet on a hardwood floor, and there is a shadow on the ground, as if someone is standing just out of the frame, watching her. Her eyes are open, her back slightly arched and her nipples are erect.

The title of the portrait is
Anticipation,
and though I've never been tied up and naked and on display, there's something about this image that excites me, enough so that when Evelyn comes up to me, I actually blush.

“Stunning, isn't it?” she says. “Have you met Blaine? He's lost in the crowd somewhere.” She lifts an unlit cigarette and takes a long drag. “Damn things will kill you. And if that's not bad enough, nowadays you're vilified if you want to light up.”

I make an effort to look sympathetic.

“Jamie said you're pitching a project to Damien.”

“Sort of,” I admit. “A friend submitted a proposal to Preston Rhodes for me. I guess it's on Mr. Stark's desk now.”

“Have you asked him if he's seen it?”

“No.” I lick my lips. “I was going to, actually. But he was with that model. Are they serious?” I ask the question casually, and hope that Evelyn can't tell that the answer matters to me. Stupidly, ridiculously, I actually seem to care.

“Honestly, Texas, I've known that boy for years, and I don't think he's ever been serious about a woman.” She takes another fake puff on her cigarette. “Damien's…well, the truth is that I adore the boy, but he keeps himself locked away. As for that one, I think it's gone on longer than most.”

“So they are serious,” I say, and she guffaws.

“I didn't say that,” Evelyn says as Jamie wanders over. “To tell you the truth, I think he's with the ice princess because with her it's so easy to keep that chill around his heart.”

“Oh.” I'm not sure what to say to that, but I'm surprised how sad her words make me feel. Not because I want him and Carmela to be serious, but because I hate the thought that this man is keeping the heart of himself locked up behind walls. I know something about that, after all, and for a brief moment, I can't help but feel that Stark and I are kindred spirits.

Someone waves Evelyn over, and as soon as she slips off, Jamie leans in close to me. “What's with you? You're still all about Stark tonight.”

“I am,” I admit. “It's so weird. I feel like I know him. No,” I add, correcting myself, “I feel like he knows me. It's the strangest thing.”

“No shit,” Jamie says. “Just be careful, okay? Damien Stark goes through women like water. You don't want to end up being one of many. And you don't want to screw up the good thing you're finally getting going with Ollie.”

“I won't,” I say, because she's right. Ollie is a good thing. Hell, he's perfect for me, and it's about time we acted on it. He's a man who loves me. Who already knows all my secrets. Who takes care of me. And that's not something I want to lose. “I promise,” I add. “I'm just—”

“Off-kilter,” she finishes. “I know. That's my point. Don't do anything stupid.”

I assure her again that I won't, and she leaves when Evelyn waves us over to join a group singing Christmas carols around the piano. I hang back, not in the mood to sing, and instead am taking one last look at the painting before I go check out the view from the balcony when I feel a shift in the air.

I stand perfectly straight, the hairs on the back of my neck tingling, my entire body suddenly hyperaware.

“Nikki Fairchild.” His voice is as soft as a caress, and has about the same effect on me, sending a sensual trill racing up my spine. He steps up beside me so that we are both facing Blaine's painting.

“Damien Stark,” I say in return, then shift so that I am looking at him more directly. I immediately regret that. The man truly takes my breath away. “How do you know my name?”

“I asked Evelyn,” he says. “I wanted to know the name of the woman who was so eager to talk to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You've been looking for me all night,” he says. “You'd search the crowd, then stop when your eyes found me, then repeat the process again whenever you lost track of me.”

I consider denying it, but what would be the point? “You must have been paying attention yourself.”

Very slowly, his gaze rakes over me, and it's all I can do not to reach for him simply to steady myself.

“Yes,” he says. “I was.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

I blink, confused. “Why?”

“Why were you looking for me?”

“Oh. Right.” I clear my throat, then tell him that I have a proposal on his desk.

“I know. I recognized your name the moment Evelyn told me. It's an interesting concept. Elegant. Brilliantly coded from what I've seen.”

“Then you're interested?” I'm not sure if the tingle of excitement I feel is because of the man or the work.

He is looking directly into my eyes when he says, “I'm very interested.” And, damn me, I feel the reverberation of his voice all through me, settling ultimately between my thighs.

I swallow. “I think maybe we should stick to business, Mr. Stark.”

“I'm off the clock, Ms. Fairchild. If it's just business you want to talk about, I'll head over to the piano now and we can make an appointment for after the holidays. Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Absolutely, totally not
. “It's a free country, Mr. Stark.” I turn back to the painting as I speak.

He stays. And I know damn well that he sees right through my feigned disinterest.

For a moment, we both look at the image in front of us, and the longer I look at the woman, naked and bound, the more I think that I need to get out of here before I do something stupid, like go home with this man. Because just his presence alone is messing with my head.

Add in vibrant erotic art, and I'm about to explode.

“She wants something more,” Stark finally says. “Something deeper.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's her first time. See the expression on her face? She's excited, but there's a hesitancy. She's not sure what to expect, but whatever is coming, she knows that she wants it. Wants him,” he adds, pointing to the shadow. “And he's teasing her. Holding out. Making her wait so that the first time is as much about her expectations as her reality.”

He bends his head toward me. “That's the best sex,” he says. “It's not enough to fuck a woman's body. You have to touch her mind, too.”

I raise a brow, trying to be cavalier even though his words are burning through me. “A mind fuck, Mr. Stark?” I ask, and he laughs.

“That's one way of putting it. My point is that she's primed for something new. Something different. She's searching, trying to find what she needs.
Who
she needs. And she's finding it in the shadows. In the unexpected. I can understand that.” He turns his head to look at me. “I wonder if you can, too.”

He's looking at me intently now. So much so that I take a step back, uncomfortable under the weight of his inspection.

“Can you, Ms. Fairchild? Can you understand what she's feeling?”

I can—dear god, I can. But I shake my head anyway, denying more than the answer. Denying the very question. “I barely know you, Mr. Stark.”

“No. That's not true, and we both know it.”

A million butterflies start to flutter in my stomach, but I stay perfectly still, mesmerized by his words.

“I don't understand it,” he continues. “And, honestly, I'm not comfortable with enigmas. But I can't deny reality when it's staring me in the face. You do know me, Nikki. And I know you. Don't tell me you haven't felt it, too.”