by J. Kenner
“So how did you get started?”
For a moment, the question lingers between us. Then she releases a nervous laugh. “I mean, how did you decide to get into the business. I don’t think there’s any point in going into the story about the painting.” Her lips curve into a smile that’s probably meant to be sweet but only makes me cringe. “I mean, everybody knows about that.”
“Yes,” I say, vividly recalling the day I was accosted by reporters all shouting invasive, tacky, horrible questions about Damien paying me a million dollars to pose nude. “Yes, they do.”
“Do you ever regret that decision?”
“I really don’t,” I admit. I draw a breath and turn away from her, ostensibly rinsing out the coffee carafe, but really giving myself a chance to think. “It was an arms-length transaction,” I say as I turn back around, then pour water into the machine. “And the actual portrait is very tasteful. At the end of the day, I was able to properly launch Fairchild Development years before I would have been able to if I hadn’t posed.”
She nods slowly, considering. “What if you hadn’t ended up married to Mr. Stark? Do you think you would have regretted that painting then?”
It’s such an odd question that I almost decline to answer, but she seems so earnest, and I think she’s simply fallen into conversation rather than focusing on her pre-planned interview questions.
Besides, it’s not as if my answer is any different. “No,” I say. “Still no regrets. Like I said, the painting is tasteful and our negotiation was clear. And at the time I had absolutely no reason to believe I’d ever be Mrs. Damien Stark.”
“Well, you definitely had a unique path,” she says airily. “But I’m here for the rest of the story,” she says. “How you grew your business. How you honed your skills. And,” she adds as she pushes her chair back and stands, “I’d really love to hear why you think that paying for a child from China and giving birth to a baby you hand off to a nanny qualifies you to sell an app that’s supposed to help mothers. Mommy’s Helper? Please. What the hell do you know about being a mother?”
My mouth has gone completely dry, and my heart is pounding so hard in my chest that I’m afraid I’ll crack a rib. Surely she can hear the pounding. I can barely think for the pounding.
Determined, I force myself to keep my expression calm. I focus on that. On hiding my emotions. On keeping my face perfectly blank, just as my mother always taught me. Because God forbid anyone should see your pain, because they’ll surely kick you when you’re down.
“It’s time for you to leave.” I can hear the tremor in my voice, and my legs feel like noodles. “Now,” I add as I slide my finger under the quartz countertop and press the panic button Damien insisted we install.
“Oh, is our time already up?” She smirks, then pushes her lips together in an exaggerated pout. “I guess I got everything I need. And don’t you worry. I’ll be sure to send you a copy of my article. Hot off the presses.”
I stay behind the island, my muscles tense and ready to flee if she comes toward me. She doesn’t. Instead she puts her hand on the door and pushes it open. She steps out onto the wooden deck as the guard’s cart squeals to a halt on the concrete service road.
“Stay right there,” I hear him bellow, and though I can’t see him from my position inside the kitchen, I’m certain he has a weapon trained firmly on her. “Mrs. Stark. Do you need assistance?”
“I’m fine,” I call as her eyes cut toward me through the open door. “Please escort Ms. Lee off the property.”
“Nice to have a little entourage at your beck and call. Just like all the average moms out there.”
“Who are you?” Anger is rising in me, beating back the fear, and I walk toward her and onto the patio as she responds.
“The most dangerous person on the planet,” she says. “A reporter with an agenda.”
“What agenda?”
Her eyes widen. “Why, Mrs. Stark. Isn’t it obvious? You.”
And then she trots down the steps and wiggles her fingers at the guard. “No need for the ride, handsome. I can walk.”
The guard—Peter—looks at me, and I nod in silent acquiescence as I hug myself and try to stop the quaking inside me. She can walk back the way she came, and good riddance to her. After all, it’s a public beach, and she didn’t actually do anything to me. She made no overt threats, didn’t even hint at violence.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Bottom line, she was simply rude. But she pushed buttons that I thought would no longer affect me.
And that’s what scares me most of all.
4
“I so sorry, Nikki.” Rachel flashes me a sympathetic smile from behind the polished oak desk in the fifty-seventh floor reception area of Stark Tower. “He’s not here.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose in frustration as I glance toward the closed double doors that lead to Damien’s penthouse office. I managed to pull myself together in the time it took to drive from Malibu to downtown, but I’m still shaky. I’d been counting on the feel of Damien’s arms around me, his body pressed close to mine. I wanted his kisses to bring me back to myself, and now that my plans have been foiled, I’m at loose ends.
With forced nonchalance, I lift a shoulder and sigh. “I wanted to surprise him.”
“Honestly, I’m surprised to see you.” She tilts her head, the ends of her neat ponytail brushing her shoulder as her chestnut-colored eyes nail me. “Didn’t you have an interview today? You can’t possibly be done.”
“Oh, I’m very done. Believe me.”
Rachel’s brow furrows, and I backtrack, realizing suddenly that I don’t want to get into it. Not with her. Maybe not even with Damien. A reporter was bitchy to me. Bitchy with a side of evil, true, but the sum total of it was attitude. And, honestly, if I can’t handle obnoxious reporters after all this time, then I have no business being married to a man like Damien.
“It was just one of those interviews,” I say with a casual wave of my hand. “A clunky reporter with a list of questions she doesn’t deviate from. Painful because you can’t ever get a conversation going.” Not that I would have wanted one with Mary Lee, but it’s a little white lie that keeps me from having to reveal what’s truly upset me.
“Since it finished early, I have extra time before I meet Jamie for lunch, so I thought I’d come by and lay eyes on my husband. It’s been so long, I’ve started to forget what he looks like.”
“Like anyone could forget that man. Sorry.” She holds up a hand. “I know he’s your husband and my boss, but seriously. We both know I’m right.”
“We do,” I say, happy that she’s coaxed a laugh out of me.
“You were looking to surprise him, which totally sucks because unless your lunch is downtown, that’s a hefty detour.”
“Santa Monica,” I admit, confirming her assumption.
She sighs, as if I’ve placed a heavy weight on her shoulders. “Honestly, Nikki. How many surprises have I helped you plan?”
“More than a few,” I admit. Rachel is Damien’s Executive Assistant, and over the years, she’s become a good friend. More than that, she’s been my co-conspirator on several surprise getaways, including a birthday party for Damien that turned out to be more than anybody involved bargained for.
“Exactly. You should have called me. I would have told you he was out.”
“Last minute decision,” I say. “When will he be back?” I try to keep my voice casual, but I’m afraid I sound a little desperate. I’m calmer now, but my desire to see Damien isn’t any less.
“It’ll be a while, I think. Trouble at The Domino.”
That sobers me up. “That’s not good.” The Domino is a business complex that Damien and Jackson are working on together. Or, technically, that Stark Real Estate Development and Steele Development are working on together. The office complex will cover three city blocks in Santa Monica, with space available for both sale and lease. And although tenants won’t be lim
ited to the tech and entertainment industries, the news has been touting the complex as the most high-profile addition to Silicon Beach.
“What’s happened?” I ask Rachel.
“Not sure. But it’s a massive site, so it could be anything. Hopefully nothing so serious it pushes back the Phase One opening.”
“No kidding.” The first phase is supposed to be ready for occupancy within the next sixty days, and I make a mental note to ask Sylvia. As Jackson Steele’s wife and a Project Manager with Stark Real Estate Development, she’ll have the scoop.
I tilt my head, considering. Most likely, Syl is downstairs in her office. I could ask her to come up to the apartment. The Stark Tower penthouse is divided into two halves, with Damien’s office on one side and a luxurious apartment on the other. Before the kids, we spent a lot of time in the apartment, and it really was a second home. Now, it’s become a convenient place for Damien to grab a meal and a nap if he’s working late. Something else he rarely does anymore since he’s almost always home by the girls’ bedtime, and if he has work to do, it comes home with him.
At the moment, I just want to use it as a place to have a casual coffee with my sister-in-law. A good plan, I think. After all, I haven’t seen Syl in weeks, I’m dying to know what’s going on at The Domino, and the conversation will distract me from my encounter with the bitch from hell.
“You look like you’re scheming,” Rachel says.
“Maybe a little. Could you call down and see if Sylvia’s around?”
“I could, but I don’t need to. She’s on-site with Mr. Stark and Mr. Steele.”
I make a face.
“You could wait a little while. They might not be too long,” Rachel says, obviously trying to be helpful. “He assured me he’d be back before heading home. He’s got a few things to take care of here that are time-sensitive.”
The idea is tempting, but I don’t want to blow off Jamie. And after our lunch, I have errands to run.
I cock my head toward Damien’s office. “I’m going to leave him a note, then I’ll get out of here and let you get back to work.”
As Rachel turns her attention to an incoming phone call, I head into Damien’s lair. The space is huge, but over the years, I’ve become so familiar with the layout that I barely notice. I pass the wet bar and the informal seating area, smiling at the girls’ framed finger paintings on the walls and the photos of me and the kids that cover a chrome and glass table near the window, bathed in natural light.
I go immediately to his massive desk, and settle into the supple leather of his desk chair. Then I stare at the desktop, uncertain of what I want to write. I’d come wanting to pour everything out to Damien, knowing that he’d fold me into his arms and make me feel better.
But now I’m not even sure if I should tell him what happened. Not in a note, anyway. Yes, Mary Lee’s rant disturbed me, but that’s all it was. A rant. Pour my heart out now to Damien in a note, and I’ll only worry him.
I roll the chair back and open his middle drawer, thinking I’ll just scribble love you, sorry I missed you on a sticky note. But when I see the stack of notecards embossed with D.J.S., inspiration strikes.
I’ve left my purse on the floor beside the chair, and now I reach down, retrieving my lipstick. I brush color on my lips, pick up the card, and plant a lipstick kiss right in the middle.
I push back the chair and stand up, then position the card exactly in the middle of the blotter that tops Damien’s desk. Not that he could miss it. The space is neat and clutter free, and the kiss from me definitely stands out.
It’s not, however, enough. Not to underscore why I was compelled to drive here today. How much I craved his understanding and his touch. His strength and his kisses.
For a moment, I just stand there, thinking. Then it hits me. A deliciously wicked idea that will both cheer me up and, I hope, put a smile on Damien’s face after whatever crisis has had him running all over town. I hurry across the room to the credenza, hoping that what I need is still there. I bend down, pull open the doors, and exhale with relief at the sight of the small brown paper shopping bag.
I take the bag back to his desk, then take out a folded bundle of white tissue paper and a spool of red ribbon. I need scissors, too, but Damien has a pair in his drawer.
The tissue and ribbon are from February, when I’d popped in while he was at a meeting and left a picture of me and the kids as a Valentine’s Day surprise. I’d grabbed the supplies in the lobby gift store before heading up, and since it doesn’t take much to wrap a small, silver frame, I’d tucked the leftover into the credenza, figuring it might come in handy someday. Guess I was right.
I take a sheet of his stationery, then write a quick note:
Sorry I missed you. I can’t stop thinking about you.
Then again, I can’t ever seem to stop thinking about you.
XOXO
Your wife
I fold the note into a square, then lift my skirt and wriggle out of my panties, white and silk with a delicate lace band. I place them neatly on top of the note. Next, I wrap the small bundle in several layers of white tissue paper and tie the whole thing with red ribbon, underneath which I tuck the lipstick kiss notecard.
I stand back and examine my work, feeling so much better. And, yes, feeling both devious and frustratingly turned on. But then again, that’s part of the point. Anticipation.
I start to leave, then realize that Damien will have a million things on his mind when he returns. Odds are that he’ll bring Rachel into the office, and he might open the present while they’re talking. I doubt it … but I could be wrong.
I backtrack to the desk, pick up his fountain pen, and add a neatly printed note to the bottom of the lipstick card: Personal & Confidential.
Satisfied, I hitch my purse onto my shoulder, put away the wrapping paraphernalia, and head out. Rachel’s speaking to someone on the headset, but she mouths, All good?
I give her a thumbs-up and head to the elevator. I may not have seen Damien, but as I imagine his reaction when he finds that package, I can’t deny that everything is good indeed.
5
I slide into the line for Java B’s, the lobby coffee shop, figuring I’ll grab a latte for the road. I have my head down as I wait, my eyes on my phone as I check my emails. I’ve missed a phone call, but I don’t recognize the 917 number. That’s New York, and I don’t have any active clients there, nor is it Ollie’s number. And since the caller didn’t leave a voicemail, I chalk it up to a wrong number or a robocall and move on to my emails.
There’s nothing urgent there, either, but as I’m skimming subject lines, a text from Abby pops up, saying she and Travis are running forty-five minutes late. Not a problem, except that we were supposed to meet early so that we can pull together a punch list for Luis Garza, the project supervisor. Now I have a gap to fill, and while I could go early to the new offices, there’s no furniture yet, and I don’t really want to camp out on the floor while I wait for my team.
Then again, this is LA, and since I’m already heading to Love Bites next, a high-end bakery in Beverly Hills, I probably shouldn’t worry about how to fill less than an hour. Odds are, traffic will take care of that for me, and this way I don’t have to worry about rushing out of the bakery if Sally wants to spend some time talking about the details of the girls’ birthday cakes for next weekend’s party.
I’ve reached the counter, so I stop worrying about it and order, then step to the side as I wait for my latte. I’m about to occupy myself by reviewing more emails when something catches my eye. I’m not even sure what, but I find myself looking across the lobby and out through the glass walls that reveal the pavilion.
There’s nothing out there of any particular note, and I don’t see anybody who looks familiar. Even so, I can’t shake the unpleasant sensation that someone is watching me. And when the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle, I almost abandon my coffee and head for the elevator to the parking garage.
&n
bsp; You’re being foolish.
The voice in my head is not only firm, it’s right. I push aside my paranoia, even as I wonder what on earth triggered it. By the time the barista hands me my latte, I’m over it.
Or I am until I hit the midpoint of the lobby. The part with the broadest view of the pavilion. And now I know what caught my eye. A lean body. Short blond hair. Broad shoulders.
Eric?
I cock my head, wondering why my former client development manager would be here. The answer, of course, is that he wouldn’t. And since I don’t see him again on a second glance, I tell myself I’m imagining things. Which of course I am. Which sort of makes sense because I need to hire a new person to fill that slot, and so far I’ve been unimpressed by all the resumes that have crossed my desk.
Eric was great at his job, and both Abby and I had been blindsided when he’d accepted an offer from a company in New York. Granted, there was amazing potential for a serious upside, so I understand why he did it. But I was still devastated. Not to mention irritated since his departure left Abby and me in a lurch during a key project.
I know from industry gossip that the potential didn’t pan out. The opposite, in fact, and Eric ended up leaving and going to Austin, another tech hub like Silicon Valley near San Francisco and Silicon Beach, right here in Southern California.
All of which is to say that Eric isn’t in LA, and I push thoughts of him out of my mind as I take the elevator down to the parking level. The garage is divided into sections, with several levels for employees of the various Stark divisions housed in the Tower. With the exception of the executives, there’s no assigned parking. Damien, of course, has dedicated parking near the elevator. And although I told him it was ridiculous and wasteful since I don’t work in the Tower, he insisted that I have a space, too. I argued, but ultimately conceded the point, especially when he pointed out that the Tower Apartment is one of my homes.