I’m completely bummed when I get his voice mail.
Undaunted, I send a text: Got it! Start next week! XXOO
His reply is immediate: Knew you would. Congrats. XXXOOO. P.S. Did you break any rules? Ps or Bs?
It takes me a second to translate, but when I get it, my cheeks heat: No panties, and I thought of you. No bra, and I kept my jacket buttoned.
He comes back right away with: Perfect on all counts.
I type back another one: But now I’m all wound up. Lack of Ps and adrenaline rush. Are you free?
This time the reply takes a full minute to come through: Wish I was. I know how to unwind you.
I grin and type: You could call me right now. You do some pretty good unwinding by phone.
His reply makes me smile even wider: I could, but in a meeting in Century City with some execs from Tokyo. Not sure they would understand. Back in office soon. Will see you later. All of you, baby. In the meantime, imagine me, touching you.…
No problem there—imagining Damien’s touch has become one of my favorite pastimes. Right behind actually experiencing his touch.
When I get home and find Jamie in the apartment, I feel less cheated that Damien is unavailable. Jamie is, of course, sufficiently enthusiastic, and I get to hang on to my new job high.
“So what should we do to celebrate?” she asks.
“A movie?”
“No way. I want the dirt on you and Mr. Moneybags. Sushi?”
“Perfect.”
Since I am fed up with heels and skirts and tailored blouses, I head into my room to change into jeans while Jamie does the same. I hesitate before pulling them on, then toss them aside. I put on a denim skirt and sandals—and no underwear. Even when Damien isn’t around, rules are rules.
The bra’s easy. I pair my skirt with a backless halter and call it a fashion choice. “You almost ready?” I call to Jamie.
“Five minutes,” she promises, then, “Hey, did you see today’s paper?”
“Why?”
“It’s on the coffee table. The Life and Style section. Check it out.”
I shrug, then settle onto the couch and pick up the paper. I flip through, but nothing much catches my attention until I get close to the end. And then what catches my attention is me.
Or a picture of me. Me with Damien to be precise.
It’s an article on the Stark Educational Foundation and the charity event. A double-page spread with candid shots of the guests. I smile as I scan the photos, looking for Blaine or Evelyn or Ollie.
I don’t find them, but I do see Giselle. And my fingers stiffen when I see the man she’s standing next to—Bruce Tolley.
What the—?
Damien didn’t tell me he knew my new boss. But maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that Bruce is standing with Giselle.
My attempt at self-delusion is quickly foiled when I glance at the caption. Turns out Bruce is Giselle’s husband. The husband that Damien had cocktails with the very first night we met. And Damien hadn’t said a word when I told him I was interviewing with Innovative, or just now for that matter.
What the bloody hell does that mean?
Nothing good, that’s for damn sure, and I feel a little queasy as this oddity roils around inside me, mixing with Ollie’s fears.
Shit.
I grab my cell phone and start to call him, but I end the call before I finish dialing. This isn’t a phone call kind of conversation. For better or worse, I’m heading to him.
“James,” I shout. Now that my mind’s made up, I’m not going to hesitate. “I’ve got to go. Sorry about the sushi.”
I don’t wait for her to answer, and as the door’s slamming behind me, I hear her surprised, “What? What?” echoing behind me.
My mind is either too blank or too full during the drive to Stark’s office. All I know is that there’s not a coherent thought in my head. When I get to Stark Tower, I ask Joe if Stark’s back, and am told he’s not.