“So how did you get started?”
For a moment, the question lingers between us. Then she releases a nervous laugh. “I mean, how did you decide to get into the business. I don’t think there’s any point in going into the story about the painting.” Her lips curve into a smile that’s probably meant to be sweet but only makes me cringe. “I mean, everybody knows about that.”
“Yes,” I say, vividly recalling the day I was accosted by reporters all shouting invasive, tacky, horrible questions about Damien paying me a million dollars to pose nude. “Yes, they do.”
“Do you ever regret that decision?”
“I really don’t,” I admit. I draw a breath and turn away from her, ostensibly rinsing out the coffee carafe, but really giving myself a chance to think. “It was an arms-length transaction,” I say as I turn back around, then pour water into the machine. “And the actual portrait is very tasteful. At the end of the day, I was able to properly launch Fairchild Development years before I would have been able to if I hadn’t posed.”
She nods slowly, considering. “What if you hadn’t ended up married to Mr. Stark? Do you think you would have regretted that painting then?”
It’s such an odd question that I almost decline to answer, but she seems so earnest, and I think she’s simply fallen into conversation rather than focusing on her pre-planned interview questions.
Besides, it’s not as if my answer is any different. “No,” I say. “Still no regrets. Like I said, the painting is tasteful and our negotiation was clear. And at the time I had absolutely no reason to believe I’d ever be Mrs. Damien Stark.”
“Well, you definitely had a unique path,” she says airily. “But I’m here for the rest of the story,” she says. “How you grew your business. How you honed your skills. And,” she adds as she pushes her chair back and stands, “I’d really love to hear why you think that paying for a child from China and giving birth to a baby you hand off to a nanny qualifies you to sell an app that’s supposed to help mothers. Mommy’s Helper? Please. What the hell do you know about being a mother?”
My mouth has gone completely dry, and my heart is pounding so hard in my chest that I’m afraid I’ll crack a rib. Surely she can hear the pounding. I can barely think for the pounding.
Determined, I force myself to keep my expression calm. I focus on that. On hiding my emotions. On keeping my face perfectly blank, just as my mother always taught me. Because God forbid anyone should see your pain, because they’ll surely kick you when you’re down.
“It’s time for you to leave.” I can hear the tremor in my voice, and my legs feel like noodles. “Now,” I add as I slide my finger under the quartz countertop and press the panic button Damien insisted we install.
“Oh, is our time already up?” She smirks, then pushes her lips together in an exaggerated pout. “I guess I got everything I need. And don’t you worry. I’ll be sure to send you a copy of my article. Hot off the presses.”
I stay behind the island, my muscles tense and ready to flee if she comes toward me. She doesn’t. Instead she puts her hand on the door and pushes it open. She steps out onto the wooden deck as the guard’s cart squeals to a halt on the concrete service road.
“Stay right there,” I hear him bellow, and though I can’t see him from my position inside the kitchen, I’m certain he has a weapon trained firmly on her. “Mrs. Stark. Do you need assistance?”
“I’m fine,” I call as her eyes cut toward me through the open door. “Please escort Ms. Lee off the property.”
“Nice to have a little entourage at your beck and call. Just like all the average moms out there.”
“Who are you?” Anger is rising in me, beating back the fear, and I walk toward her and onto the patio as she responds.
“The most dangerous person on the planet,” she says. “A reporter with an agenda.”
“What agenda?”
Her eyes widen. “Why, Mrs. Stark. Isn’t it obvious? You.”
And then she trots down the steps and wiggles her fingers at the guard. “No need for the ride, handsome. I can walk.”
The guard—Peter—looks at me, and I nod in silent acquiescence as I hug myself and try to stop the quaking inside me. She can walk back the way she came, and good riddance to her. After all, it’s a public beach, and she didn’t actually do anything to me. She made no overt threats, didn’t even hint at violence.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Bottom line, she was simply rude. But she pushed buttons that I thought would no longer affect me.
And that’s what scares me most of all.
4
“I so sorry, Nikki.” Rachel flashes me a sympathetic smile from behind the polished oak desk in the fifty-seventh floor reception area of Stark Tower. “He’s not here.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose in frustration as I glance toward the closed double doors that lead to Damien’s penthouse office. I managed to pull myself together in the time it took to drive from Malibu to downtown, but I’m still shaky. I’d been counting on the feel of Damien’s arms around me, his body pressed close to mine. I wanted his kisses to bring me back to myself, and now that my plans have been foiled, I’m at loose ends.
With forced nonchalance, I lift a shoulder and sigh. “I wanted to surprise him.”
“Honestly, I’m surprised to see you.” She tilts her head, the ends of her neat ponytail brushing her shoulder as her chestnut-colored eyes nail me. “Didn’t you have an interview today? You can’t possibly be done.”
“Oh, I’m very done. Believe me.”
Rachel’s brow furrows, and I backtrack, realizing suddenly that I don’t want to get into it. Not with her. Maybe not even with Damien. A reporter was bitchy to me. Bitchy with a side of evil, true, but the sum total of it was attitude. And, honestly, if I can’t handle obnoxious reporters after all this time, then I have no business being married to a man like Damien.
“It was just one of those interviews,” I say with a casual wave of my hand. “A clunky reporter with a list of questions she doesn’t deviate from. Painful because you can’t ever get a conversation going.” Not that I would have wanted one with Mary Lee, but it’s a little white lie that keeps me from having to reveal what’s truly upset me.
“Since it finished early, I have extra time before I meet Jamie for lunch, so I thought I’d come by and lay eyes on my husband. It’s been so long, I’ve started to forget what he looks like.”
“Like anyone could forget that man. Sorry.” She holds up a hand. “I know he’s your husband and my boss, but seriously. We both know I’m right.”
“We do,” I say, happy that she’s coaxed a laugh out of me.
“You were looking to surprise him, which totally sucks because unless your lunch is downtown, that’s a hefty detour.”
“Santa Monica,” I admit, confirming her assumption.
She sighs, as if I’ve placed a heavy weight on her shoulders. “Honestly, Nikki. How many surprises have I helped you plan?”
“More than a few,” I admit. Rachel is Damien’s Executive Assistant, and over the years, she’s become a good friend. More than that, she’s been my co-conspirator on several surprise getaways, including a birthday party for Damien that turned out to be more than anybody involved bargained for.
“Exactly. You should have called me. I would have told you he was out.”
“Last minute decision,” I say. “When will he be back?” I try to keep my voice casual, but I’m afraid I sound a little desperate. I’m calmer now, but my desire to see Damien isn’t any less.
“It’ll be a while, I think. Trouble at The Domino.”
That sobers me up. “That’s not good.” The Domino is a business complex that Damien and Jackson are working on together. Or, technically, that Stark Real Estate Development and Steele Development are working on together. The office complex will cover three city blocks in Santa Monica, with space available for both sale and lease. And although tenants won’t be lim
ited to the tech and entertainment industries, the news has been touting the complex as the most high-profile addition to Silicon Beach.
“What’s happened?” I ask Rachel.
“Not sure. But it’s a massive site, so it could be anything. Hopefully nothing so serious it pushes back the Phase One opening.”