“I—what? Oh …” I am a stuttering mess. This isn’t what I’d scripted when I rode up. I’d intended to demand to see him, refusing to leave reception until he spoke to me and explained himself. And for that matter, how does this woman know who I am?
I would ask her, but she’s already leading me through a set of frosted glass doors. We’ve entered yet another reception area, this one done in a contemporary style. There are photographs on the wall featuring waves, mountains, tall redwood trees. There’s even a close-up of a bicycle tire, a winding road visible through the spokes. Each is artistically composed, with such precise and startling perspectives, that I’m certain they were all taken by the same photographer. I shove my irritation aside long enough to wonder who took them. Damien, perhaps?
Another girl sits behind another desk. This one is a brunette, with a short pixie cut. She also smiles at me. “Ms. Fairchild,” she says as she pushes a button on her desk. “You can go on in.”
The woman who escorted me leads us forward as a set of beautifully polished wooden doors swing open in front of me revealing the impressive form of Damien Stark. Today, there’s nothing casual about his outfit. He speaks into a headset as he paces behind his desk in a perfectly tailored double-breasted suit in a dark pewter over a crisp white shirt. The outfit is pulled together with a red tie and onyx cuff links. The sheen from the material reflects some of the light coming in from the window behind him, making Stark look like he’s radiating heat and power. It’s an outfit meant to intimidate and impress, and I have to admit that it works.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” my escort says. “He’ll be with you in a moment.” Then she’s gone, the doors swinging shut behind her.
I don’t sit, but stand right in front of his desk, my arms crossed over my chest. I want to hold on to my anger, but it’s hard, because Stark is right there, and I’ve already learned that just being in the same room with him makes my head go all fuzzy. I think it’s because when I’m close to him, all the air seems to vanish.
“I’m looking at the quarterlies right now,” Stark says, snatching a sheaf of papers from his desk. It’s huge, and every inch of desktop is covered with papers. From where I stand, I see neat stacks of magazines—Scientific American, Physics Today, Air & Space, even the French La Recherche. Charts and graphs are spread out in the middle, both marked up with handwritten notes made with red and blue pencil. A stack of correspondence rests on the far side of the desk, the corner of the pile held down with a battered copy of Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot.
“I’m not interested in excuses,” Stark continues. “I’m interested in hard, cold numbers. Yes, well, tell him that the time to ply me with projections was when he pitched the project in the first place. And the time for excuses is never. If he can’t live up to the schedule we agreed to, then I’ll put in my own team. Hell yes, I have that right. No? Well, have him read the contract again. Then we’ll talk. Fine. No, I think this conversation is over. All right, then.”
He clicks off, and turns to me, and it’s as if I’m watching a computer graphic of a man shifting into the form of another. The executive seems to melt before me, leaving only the man. Albeit one insanely sexy man in a tailored business suit that probably cost more than Jamie’s condo.
“What a wonderful surprise,” he says as he crosses the room, his long strides bringing him right in front of me. He looks so cool, so fucking innocent that the anger that had been fading spews back up like hot lava out of a volcano.
“Goddamn you,” I snap as I lash out and slap him hard across the cheek, shocking myself as much as him.
The way his expression shifts from pleasure to shock to anger and then, finally, to confusion would be amusing if I didn’t feel so sick to my stomach.