I pause, take a deep breath, and reach for the doorknob.
I tug the door open expecting to see Damien, and am surprised to find Edward. “Oh,” I say. “I thought—”
“Mr. Stark apologizes,” Edward says. “He got held up.”
“I see.” I follow him to the car, each of my steps weighed down with disappointment—and with a rising anger. Not at Damien, but at myself. I’ve been letting myself get lost in girlish fantasies, and I’ve lost sight of the larger picture. I’m something Damien bought, like his hotel or his jet or his car. I’m not his girlfriend or his lover. Not really. I’m simply his, and that’s okay because I agreed to it and I’m getting paid for it. But I can’t start thinking that a tantalizing arrangement has some semblance to reality. This is a game to him, and I came in as a willing player, negotiating hard for the terms I wanted.
I got them, too. And I remind myself of that important fact. It may feel as though Damien has all the power, but he doesn’t. I kept a little bit of control—and I’ll walk away with a million.
The grounds are dotted with workmen when we arrive. They’re hauling dirt, planting flowers, clearing rocks. Another crew works on the stone facade on the eastern-facing wall. At least I assume it faces the east. As far as I’m concerned, anything that looks out on the California ocean is west and the opposite is east.
For a moment I fear that there are workmen inside, too, because I never added privacy to my conditions. I assumed that only Damien and the artist would be there. But now, seeing these men …
Surely Damien wouldn’t ask me to stand naked in front of the world?
Don’t be so sure.
But when Edward opens the door for me and leads me in, I see that my fears are unfounded. The place is silent except for the soft strains of music coming from somewhere in the back.
The house is not yet finished, but the shell is firmly in place. The walls still need painting, the wood needs to be finished. Light fixtures are missing, with only a few dangling wires indicating where they will go. But the grandeur of the home is obvious. The ceilings soar. The floors are stunning, even though I can see only bits and pieces under the protective brown paper. And the marble staircase and twisted iron handrail look like something out of a five-star hotel.
I follow Edward up that staircase, and the change when we step onto the third floor landing is astonishing. There is nothing raw or half-complete about this area. The wood floors are polished to a shine, and accented by thick, expensive area rugs. The walls are painted in a pale rose, and I imagine that the space glows at sunset.
The entire room is stunning and inviting. It’s obviously meant for entertaining, despite the fact that the focal point is a giant bed. It’s been put there for my benefit, I’m certain, and I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to stall the blood that is rushing to my sex.
The room appears to be missing a wall, but I quickly realize that the wall is made of glass partitions that have been pushed aside and hidden, like pocket doors taken to the extreme. I step outside and find myself on a stone balcony that looks out over the ocean. It’s closer than I expected considering how twisting and turning our drive was, and I can actually hear the crash of the waves.
“Mr. Stark will be right with you,” Edward says, and then he bows and leaves, and I’m left to explore on my own.
Part of me wants to stay outside and feel the sea breeze on my hair and listen to the ocean crashing beneath me. But I want to see the room. I go back inside and stand by the bed. It is positioned at an angle to the wide-open wall, and in that area sheer drapes have been hung from the ceiling. They flutter now in the breeze. An easel stands a few feet away, and I know that this area has been staged. For me. I tremble at the thought and run my hand over one of the bedposts. It’s old-fashioned, iron polished to a reflective sheen. Sturdy and yet sensual. Like Damien. Strong. As if this bed has demands of its own.