Something in his voice makes me feel exposed. He has me on edge again, and I look away, not liking the way he seems to be shining a spotlight on me.
It takes me a moment to gather myself, and when I do, I tilt my head just enough to look up at him. “We’re not taking this further, Mr. Stark. Absolutely not.”
“I don’t accept that.” His voice is a low growl that rumbles through me, weakening my resolve.
I don’t say a word. I can’t seem to form one.
“I liked it,” he continues, as he traces his fingertips down the sleeve of my jacket. “You liked it. I’m not seeing a sound basis for cessation, Ms. Fairchild.”
I force myself to make a coherent sound. “I like cheesecake, but I only have it rarely. And I know it’s bad for me.”
“Sometimes bad is good.”
“Bullshit. That’s what people say to alleviate their own guilt or justify their own weakness. Bad is bad. A is A.”
“I didn’t realize we were discussing philosophy. Shall I counter with the teachings of Aristippus? He held that pleasure is the highest good.” His fingertip traces my collarbone. “And I want to be very, very good with you.”
I shiver from his touch, allowing myself one brief moment to savor the pleasure of basking in the glow of Damien Stark. Then I turn away, so that I’m speaking to the air, not to the man. “This isn’t going anywhere.” My voice is a whisper. My voice is the sound of regret. “It can’t.”
“Why not?” I hear the gentleness in his voice and wonder how much of myself I’ve inadvertently revealed.
I don’t say a word.
He exhales, and I can feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. “Ultimately, your free will is your own, Ms. Fairchild. As is mine.”
“Yours?”
“I’m free to try to convince you otherwise.”
The space between us is so thick that it’s a wonder I can breathe the air. “You won’t convince me,” I say, but not as forcefully as I want. “I have a job with someone you’re going to invest with. I’ve already gone further than I should.” I suck in a fortifying breath. “But it has to stop now. I’m not risking my professional reputation any more than I already have.”
“Why not work for me?”
The retort is so quick that I can’t help but wonder if he’s already considered the possibility. “Not happening,” I say.
“Give me one reason why not.”
“Um, gee, let me see. Maybe because I don’t want to be the poster child for sexual harassment?”
The change in his face is instant and disturbing, and I am left with no doubt that I’ve angered him. My immediate instinct is to slip off the stool and scoot away, but I remain rooted to the spot. No way am I giving him the satisfaction of backing down.
“Did you feel harassed last night?”
“No,” I admit. As much as I’d like to take the easy way out, I can’t lie to him.
I see the relief wash over his face, banishing the anger. Or was it fear? I’m not sure, and it doesn’t matter. Right now, I see only desire.
“I thought about you last night,” he says. “Giselle and Bruce will probably never have me out for drinks again. I was terrible company.”
“I’m so sorry to have ruined your evening.”
“Hardly,” he said. “And the ride home—I think that was the first time in my life I wanted a drive to be longer. Me, alone in the back of the limo, surrounded by the scent of you.”
He doesn’t mention the panties. I wonder if he’s found them. And if he hasn’t …
Oh, dear. Who else does he let use that limo?
I feel my cheeks warm, and from the way his eyes crinkle with amusement, I know that he’s noticed.
“I imagined undressing you,” he says, reaching for the top button on my blouse. He pops it open effortlessly. “I pictured you naked.” Pop, another button. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers.
With the side of his thumb, he gently strokes the swell of my breast and the lace of my white satin bra.