“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.
Then he leaned closer, and my breath hitched as his proximity increased. “I think we’re kindred spirits, Miss Fairchild.”
“I’m sorry?” Was he talking about the cheesecake? Good God, I hadn’t actually looked jealous when he’d eaten them, had I? The idea was appalling.
“Neither of us wants to be here,” he explained. He tilted his head slightly toward a nearby emergency exit, and I was overcome by the sudden image of him grabbing my hand and taking off running. The clarity of the thought alarmed me. But the certainty that I’d go with him didn’t scare me at all.
“I—oh,” I mumbled.
His eyes crinkled with his smile, and he opened his mouth to speak. I didn’t learn what he had to say, though, because Carmela D’Amato swept over to join us, then linked her arm with his. “Damie, darling.” Her Italian accent was as thick as her dark wavy hair. “Come. We should go, yes?” I’ve never been a big tabloid reader, but it’s hard to avoid celebrity gossip when you’re doing the pageant thing. So I’d seen the headlines and articles that paired the big-shot tennis star with the Italian supermodel.
“Miss Fairchild,” he said with a parting nod, then turned to escort Carmela into the crowd and out of the building. I watched them leave, consoling myself with the thought that there was regret in his eyes as we parted ways. Regret and resignation.
There wasn’t, of course. Why would there be? But that nice little fantasy got me through the rest of the pageant.
And I didn’t say one word about the encounter to Carl. Some things are best played close to the vest. Including how much I’m looking forward to meeting Damien Stark again.
“Come on, Texas,” Evelyn says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Let’s go say howdy.”
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find Carl behind me. He sports the kind of grin that suggests he just got laid. I know better. He’s just giddy with the anticipation of getting close to Damien Stark.
Well, me, too.
The crowd has shifted again, blocking my view of the man. I still haven’t seen his face, just his profile, and now I can’t even see that. Evelyn’s leading the way, making forward progress through the crowd despite a few stops and starts to chat with her guests. We’re on the move again when a barrel-chested man in a plaid sport coat shifts to the left, once again revealing Damien Stark.
He is even more magnificent now than he was six years ago. The brashness of youth has been replaced by a mature confidence. He is Jason and Hercules and Perseus—a figure so strong and beautiful and heroic that the blood of the gods must flow through him, because how else could a being so fine exist in this world? 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 eyes capture my attention. They seem edgy and dangerous and full of dark promises. More important, they are watching me. Following me as I move toward him.
I feel an odd sense of déjà vu as I move steadily across the floor, hyperaware of my body, my posture, the placement of my feet. Foolishly, I feel as if I’m a contestant all over again.
I keep my eyes forward, not looking at his face. I don’t like the nervousness that has crept into my manner. The sense that he can see beneath the armor I wear along with my little black dress.
One step, then another.
I can’t help it; I look straight at him. Our eyes lock, and I swear all the air is sucked from the room. It is my old fantasy come to life, and I am completely lost. The sense of déjà vu vanishes and there’s nothing but this moment, electric and powerful. Sensual.
For all I know, I’ve gone spinning off into space. But no, I’m right there, floor beneath me, walls around me, and Damien Stark’s eyes on mine. I see heat and purpose. And then I see nothing but raw, primal desire so intense I fear that I’ll shatter under the force of it.
Carl takes my elbow, steadying me, and only then do I realize I’d started to stumble. “Are you okay?”
“New shoes. Thanks.” I glance back at Stark, but his eyes have gone flat. His mouth is a thin line. Whatever that was—and what the hell was it?—the moment has passed.