This time when I open my eyes, all I see is myself. Nikki Fairchild, back in control.
I wrap my restored confidence around me like a blanket and return to the party. Both men look at me as I approach. Stark’s face is unreadable, but Carl isn’t even trying to hide his joy. He looks like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. “Say your goodbyes, Nikki. We’re heading out. Lots to do. Lots to do.”
“What? Now?” I don’t bother to hide my confusion.
“Turns out Mr. Stark’s going to be out of town on Tuesday, so we’re pushing the meeting to tomorrow.”
“Saturday?”
“Is that a problem?” Stark asks me.
“No, of course not, but—”
“He’s attending personally,” Carl says. “Personally,” he repeats, as if I could have missed it the first time.
“Right. I’ll just find Evelyn and say goodnight.” I start to move away, but Stark’s voice draws me back.
“I’d like Ms. Fairchild to stay.”
“What?” Carl speaks, expressing my thought.
“The house I’m building is almost complete. I came here to find a painting for a particular room. I’d like a feminine perspective. I’ll see her home safely, of course.”
“Oh.” Carl looks like he’s going to protest, then thinks better of it. “She’ll be happy to help.”
The hell she will. It’s one thing to wear the dress. It’s another to completely skip the presentation rehearsal because a self-absorbed bazillionaire snaps his fingers and says jump. No matter how hot said bazillionaire might be.
But Carl cuts me off before I can form a coherent reply. “We’ll speak tomorrow morning,” he tells me. “The meeting’s at two.”
And then he’s gone and I’m left seething beside a very smug Damien Stark.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I know exactly who I am, Ms. Fairchild. Do you?”
“Maybe the better question is, who the hell do you think I am?”
“Are you attracted to me?”
“I—what?” I say, verbally stumbling. His words have knocked me off center, and I struggle to regain my balance. “That is so not the issue.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize I’ve revealed too much.
“I’m Carl’s assistant,” I say firmly and slowly. “Not yours. And my job description does not include decorating your goddamn house.” I’m not shouting, but my voice is as taut as a wire and my body even more so.
Stark, damn him, appears not only perfectly at ease, but also completely amused. “If your job duties include helping your boss find capital, then you may want to reconsider how you play the game. Insulting potential investors is probably not the best approach.”
A cold stab of fear that I’ve screwed this up cuts through me. “Maybe not,” I say. “But if you’re going to withhold your money because I didn’t roll over and flounce my skirts for you, then you’re not the man the press makes you out to be. The Damien Stark I’ve read about invests in quality. Not in friendships or relationships or because he thinks some poor little inventor needs the deal. The Damien Stark I admire focuses on talent and talent alone. Or is that just public relations?”
I stand straight, ready to endure whatever verbal lashes he’ll whip back at me. I’m not prepared for the response I get.
Stark laughs.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m not going to invest in C-Squared because I met Carl at a party any more than I’d invest in it because you’re in my bed.”
“Oh.” Once again, my cheeks heat. Once again, he’s knocked me off balance.
“I do, however, want you.”
My mouth is dry. I have to swallow before I can speak. “To help you pick a painting?”
“Yes,” he confirms. “For now.”
I force myself not to wonder about later. “Why?”