“It’s all yours,” he says.
“Easiest deal I’ve made all day,” she says with a wide grin. “But seriously, what do you need from me, Nikki?”
I hand her the tiny piece of paper and watch as she squints at the words. When she looks up at me, I see both interest and confusion on her face. “This is from where?”
“From him,” I say, pointing toward Damien.
“Oh, really?” There is laughter in her voice, as if the very thought of Damien Stark writing silly poetry and organizing a scavenger hunt is beyond the realm of possibility. She looks so perplexed, in fact, that I’m about to tell her that I must have made a mistake.
That’s when I see the tiniest smile touch her mouth.
“Oh, you are so playing me,” I accuse. “Both of you.”
She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “Sweetie, I swear I have nothing in the store you’d want tonight. But if you’d like to special-order something for delivery to your office tomorrow … well, I’m sure I can come up with a treat that will intrigue you.”
I keep my own expression businesslike, but inside I’m jumping with glee. I knew I’d figured out the clue. I’d just done it faster than she or Damien had expected. “That sounds great. I always need a sugar boost by the afternoon. Why don’t I let it be chef’s choice?” I add, smiling innocently.
She holds my gaze, then nods. “I think that’ll work out just fine.”
Damien and I spend a few more minutes chatting with her, and when we leave, I have a chocolate cupcake in hand—one that she said was leftover from the catering job she was preparing in the back.
“It’s delicious,” I say to Damien, who has taken my wrist and is starting to lift the confection to his mouth for a bite. “And it’s all mine.” I tug my arm very firmly out of his grasp.
“Oh, really?” The humor is plain in his voice. “And why is that?”
“We both know I got it right. You’re just keeping your mouth shut to torment me.”
“Tormenting you is one of my favorite activities, Mrs. Stark.”
“I know that very well, Mr. Stark,” I retort, keeping my voice and my expression prim despite the heat that his sultry tone has sent coursing through me. “But this time it’s my turn to torment you. No sharing unless you play nice.” As if to illustrate my point, I take another bite of the cupcake.
With a laugh, he tugs me close. “You can withhold chocolate,” he says, dipping me. “Just don’t withhold anything else.”
And then—as the well-heeled Rodeo Drive crowd looks on and applauds—my husband licks the chocolate from the corner of my mouth before kissing me long and deep and very thoroughly.
Chapter 3
Despite having weeks of work stacked up on my desk and an email inbox that is full to overflowing, I am having a terrible time concentrating at my desk on Monday. I manage to spend the morning getting some work done, then eat lunch at my desk as I plow through emails. But by mid-afternoon, I’ve lost my focus. Instead of computers, I’m thinking about cupcakes. Not to mention the present that I have planned for Damien—and yet haven’t had nearly enough time to work on.
The problem with buying presents for a man like Damien Stark is that if he doesn’t already own something, then it’s probably not something he’d want anyway. I considered naming a star for him, or stealing him away for a romantic weekend, or even donating in both our names to one of his favorite charities.
But while I have no problem with any of those ideas in theory, none are intimate or original enough for our very first Valentine’s Day.
No, I’m going with handmade—more or less—and personal.
Unfortunately, the “handmade” part has been giving me some trouble, and I’ve realized that I’m going to have to break down and ask for help.
Since that is at least some distraction from wondering about Damien’s present to me, I pick up the phone and call Sylvia, Damien’s personal assistant.
“Nikki! Hey, welcome back. He’s spending all day on nineteen with Preston,” she says, referring to the head of acquisitions for Stark Applied Technology. “But if you hold on, I’ll call down and let him know you’re on the line.”
“No, that’s okay,” I say. “I called to talk to you.” Sylvia was one of the first people to learn that not only was I the model for the life-size nude portrait that hangs in the Malibu house, but that Damien paid me a cool million dollars as a fee. When she told me that Damien had gotten off cheap, I knew she and I would get along fine.
And after she attended my bachelorette party at Raven—a local male strip club—any lingering wife-of-the-boss awkwardness was soundly swept away. Once you’ve shared the experience of having a half-naked cowboy’s package gyrating in your face, it’s hard not to be friends.
“What’s up?”
“You know the photographs that hang in the thirty-fifth floor reception area? The redwood and the bicycle and all the others?”