“He knows,” I say, firmly and without further explanation. “Dammit, Stark, you can’t just waltz into the lobby and pluck me up like a flower.”
“Speaking of, I hope you liked the flowers. I had considered something more exotic, but you remind me of daisies and wildflowers.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What?” His brows lift in mocking amusement. “Ms. Fairchild, I’m surprised. Such a well-bred young lady, and you don’t even say a simple thank-you?”
“Thank you,” I say coldly.
“And for the record, I didn’t pluck you. Though I would be more than happy to remedy that oversight anytime you wish.”
I fight to keep my ire up even though he has begun to amuse me. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a puppy who’s been told to heel,” I snap.
Some of the amusement fades from his eyes. “Is that what you think?”
“I—” Shit. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. I don’t like being ordered around, but at the same time, Stark isn’t my mother, and maybe I’m not being fair. “No,” I say. Then, “I don’t know. But dammit, Damien,” I continue, as I try to shift myself back to solid ground, “think about how it looks. He knows.”
“So you said. Carl, you mean? And what exactly does your boss know? I assure you that I didn’t tell him anything.” He eyes me, the amber one alight with amusement, the dark one firm and steady. “Did you say something?”
“Don’t be obtuse,” I say. “He knows that something is going on between us.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that something is.”
“Went,” I correct quickly. “That something went on between us.”
He says nothing. It’s a good plan, that silence. I, however, am not so strong.
I clear my throat. “It, um, was fun,” I begin, but close my mouth tight at his burst of laughter.
“Fun?”
I can feel my cheeks heat. He has me blushing again, and I don’t like it. “Yes,” I say primly. “Fun. A lot of fun, actually. A rollicking good time that I will probably replay over and over again as I lay in my bed alone and touch myself until I come.” I’m staring hard at him, my voice matter-of-fact, my words like a lashing.
The amusement fades from his face, replaced by heat and desire. I suddenly want to take it back. My temper has made me take it one step too far.
“Fun,” I repeat and square my shoulders. “But it’s not happening again.”
“Isn’t it?” He takes a single step toward me—and the elevator chimes as the car glides to a stop.
“No,” I say, then draw in a sharp breath as he leans closer. I anticipate his touch, and then find myself disappointed when it doesn’t come. All he’s done is press a button on the control panel. Behind us, the opposite set of doors slides open. I turn and find myself looking into the foyer of Damien Stark’s Tower Apartment.
“No,” I repeat, not sure if I mean the apartment or a repeat performance or everything all mixed up together. Considering my senses and emotions are all in a tumble, I think the latter is the best guess.
“Why not?” He straightens, but now he’s standing even closer than he was before. I’m having a little trouble breathing and I’m suddenly so warm that little beads of sweat have gathered at the nape of my neck. Honestly, it’s a little hard to think.
“This isn’t a good idea,” I say as he takes my hand and leads me into the apartment. The entry hall is elegantly furnished, but inviting and comfortable, much like the offices on the other side of the elevator. A wall directly opposite the elevator blocks my view of most of the apartment.
A massive flower arrangement on a low, glass table dominates the foyer. Curved benches surround the table, and I imagine Stark’s dates sitting there to adjust shoes, check purses. It’s not an image I like.
The wall itself is almost completely covered by a huge painting, this one of a field of flowers so exquisitely rendered that I almost believe I could step into the canvas and lose myself in that world.
“Your home is beautiful,” I say. “It tells a lot about the man who lives here.”
“Does it?”