Deepest Kiss (Stark Trilogy #3.10/Stark Ever After #6) (6 page)

The blush that rises on her cheeks lets me know that they have. “Don’t you have someone coming to your office pretty soon?”

With a laugh, I point my finger at her. “Turnabout is fair play. Remember that the next time you bug me about babies.”

“Fine, yeah, whatever.” She motions to the salad. “Hurry up and eat so you can go meet your client. Lunch is on me. My new job comes with a new salary.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I say, which makes her start beaming again.

“It’s cool, I know. And I’m proud of me, too.”

Despite staying and talking for another ten minutes, I still manage to get back to my office with five minutes to spare. I give a quick wave to Marge, the new receptionist for the office suites on my floor, then hurry inside to clean off my nightmare of a desk before Mr. Frank Dunlop arrives.

My timing is perfect, actually. I’m shoving the last of the clutter on my desktop into a file drawer when Marge’s voice wafts over the intercom announcing the man.

“Send him in,” I say, then walk around to greet him at the door. He’s older, probably in his sixties, with an attractive but weathered face and hair that’s gone gray at the temples. He looks to be in good shape, though, and I guess that this is a man who spends a lot of time outside, probably doing something physical. I have absolutely no idea what type of app he wants, but already I’m curious.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending my hand.

He hesitates before taking it, but when he does, his grip is firm and he holds on to me for what feels like a second too long, then smiles and shakes his head, as if he’s a little befuddled.

He must realize, because he laughs awkwardly, then heads to one of the guest chairs on the other side of my desk to take a seat. “Sorry. My mind’s already on how I’m going to explain my project to you. I actually drew up some notes, but this, ah, app is so important to me that I still don’t feel prepared.”

I take a seat behind my desk and offer him what I hope is an indulgent smile. I’ve never had such a nervous client, and I have to admit I find it oddly endearing. He cares, obviously, and he’s handing me the reins to a project that means the world to him, and I make up my mind right then to prove to him that I’m worthy of the job.

“Why don’t you show me the notes?” I suggest. “You don’t need to worry about a formal presentation. We’ll figure it out together.”

He nods with approval. “You have a good bedside manner, Mrs. Stark. And from what I’ve read about you, you know your stuff.”

“I try.”

His chair swivels as he looks around, taking in the whole room. “Nice office.”

“Thanks. I could work from home, but I like getting up and going to an office. Keeps the workday separated from my home life better.”

“That must be difficult, what with a husband like Damien Stark. I imagine a man like that works almost twenty-four/seven.”

I cock my head, considering. “He works a lot, and all hours. But I’ve never felt slighted. Just the opposite,” I admit, though I don’t go so far as to tell this virtual stranger that I know without a shadow of a doubt that I will always come before work for Damien.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” he says, and I’m surprised by the genuine sincerity in his voice.

He must see that on my face, because he chuckles. “So many young couples now put work first and don’t make time for themselves. It’s an epidemic, I think. And a shame. Family matters.” He sighs. “It’s a lesson I learned too late in life.”

“I’m sorry.” I’m not exactly sure what to say, and I shift in my seat a bit. The truth is, I like Mr. Frank Dunlop. But I’m not entirely sure why he’s telling me these things.

He must be having similar thoughts, because he waves his hand over his head, as if brushing the conversation aside. “Anyway, my notes.” He reaches into a battered leather messenger bag and pulls out a yellow pad, which he puts on my desk. He scoots his chair forward and starts to flip through the pages, showing me the sketches he’s made of various sample pages for his app.

“I’m a travel photographer, you see. I’ve traveled the world for years—seen a lot of things—but I’m ready to settle down in one place.”

“Los Angeles?”

“Exactly. I’m looking for a studio space. Someplace I can work out of—use it as a gallery and retail front to sell my landscape and travel prints, and also as a studio for portraiture. I haven’t found the place yet, but even when I do, I know it’s going to be a slow start. And that’s where the app comes in. At least, I hope so. Here, let me show you.”

He bends over the paper again and starts to discuss his vision in more detail. Basically, he wants his collection of images on the app and for sale as digital postcards into which people can insert themselves. But on top of the fun factor, he’s envisioned a little store. With mouse pads and mugs and T-shirts made from the various images. It’s not a bad idea, actually, and the kicker is that when he shows me some of the photographs, they’re stunning.

“These are amazing,” I say. “You have an incredible eye.”

He beams. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“I love photography,” I admit. “I’m nowhere near as talented as you, but it’s been my hobby since my sister gave me a camera when I was in high school.”

“Your sister,” he says, and I’m sure I’m projecting, because to me he actually sounds a little sad, as if he knows that she’s gone from me forever.

I clear my throat. “At any rate, I think we can make this work, Mr. Dunlop.”

“Please, call me Frank.”

“Only if you call me Nikki.” I press my hand to his tablet. “Can I keep your notes for a day or two? And maybe we could plan to meet again on Friday? I should have something rough for you to take a look at by then.”

“That would be great,” he says. “I’ll spend the time between now and then looking for a space.”

“Are you familiar with Los Angeles?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. But I know I want to be near the beach.”

“You and everyone else in the city. That’s going to be significantly more expensive. I could probably hook you up with a commercial real estate agent who might know of a sublet or—
oh,
I have a brilliant idea.”

I hold up a finger as I reach for my phone with my other hand. “I have a friend who’s looking for someone to share space with. He’s in Santa Monica, and just a few blocks off the beach. Shall I call?”

“Well, I—yes. Yes, why not?”

“Great.” I dial Wyatt Royce, a photographer Damien has known and worked with for years, and from whom I’ve taken a few photography classes myself. He answers on the first ring, and when he picks up I explain the situation, and he assures me that he’d love to meet Frank.

“I haven’t seen you or Damien in a while,” he adds. “Why don’t we all meet for drinks. That’ll give Frank and I a chance to see if we feel like we could share a space.”

I check with Frank, and since he’s enthusiastic about the plan, I ask Wyatt where we should meet.

“I’d love to check out Q,” he says, referring to a trendy bar and restaurant in Santa Monica that’s just a block from his studio. “But it’s a bitch to get into.”

“Damien can manage,” I say with certainty. I smile at Frank as I add, “Damien can manage pretty much anything.”

Q is jam-packed when we arrive, and it’s clear that this is the current place to see and be seen in Los Angeles. Wyatt and Frank show up within minutes of us, and as we wait, the two of them immediately start talking about composition, contrast, and various editing tools. They’re so deep into their conversation that I have to tap Wyatt’s elbow when the hostess arrives to show us to our table in a quiet corner of the bar.

I recognize at least two television stars as we navigate the room, and since I rarely watch television, that’s saying something. As usual, camera phones surreptitiously snap Damien and me as we navigate the maze of tables and decor, finally ending up at what is clearly one of the best locations in the bar.

This, of course, instigates another flurry of people turning to look and whisper and point. I’ve actually gotten used to the attention, but when Frank leans over and asks if it bothers me, I’m suddenly aware of being in the spotlight all over again.

“It used to,” I admit. “But I’ve made peace with it.” Damien takes my hand, and I smile at our joined fingers. “It’s worth it.”

“You two seem to be a good match,” Franks says.

“They are,” Wyatt agrees. “About as perfect a couple as you’ll find.”

Since I can’t argue with that, I raise my water glass in a silent toast of agreement, then clink it with Damien’s as he leans in to steal a quick kiss.

Q has become famous for its triple martini flights, and Damien had ordered one for each of us as we arrived. Now two waiters arrive and put a small tray with three different martinis in front of each of us—a classic gin martini, a dirty vodka martini, and a Mexican martini.

I start with the olive from the dirty martini, enjoying the mix of flavors, then take a long, slow sip. I have to admit, it’s pretty perfect.

Across from me, Frank tries the Mexican martini, then nods in approval. “You know, I should probably confess that I read up a bit on you both—I wanted to have a sense of who I was meeting with before this afternoon, and then I read some more before dinner—and everything I’ve seen suggests that you two have a strong marriage. That’s good.”

“Are you married?” I ask.

“I was once, but…” He trails off with a shake of his head, then looks pointedly at Damien. “How about you? You must be used to the media attention by now. You’ve spent your life in the spotlight.”

“Used to it and liking it are two different things,” Damien says. “And believe me, if I could shut it down, I would. For my sake and for Nikki’s. Neither one of us enjoys the attention. Unlike some people I can think of.” He nods toward a secluded two-top on the far side of the room. I hadn’t noticed it as we’d entered, but now I see that Dallas is there, and across from him is a woman who looks familiar but I can’t quite place.

“Isn’t that Francesca Muratti?” Wyatt asks. “Holy shit, it is.”

I crane my neck to look over Damien’s shoulder and see that Wyatt is right. Dallas is sharing a bottle of wine with Hollywood’s hottest star, a woman who won the Academy Award just a few weeks ago for her first serious drama following a string of action flicks. She also has a reputation for being a wild child, which being with Dallas seems to corroborate.

When I tell as much to the table, Damien’s brow rises with amusement.

“What?” I ask innocently.

“Let me guess—Jamie’s been coaching you?”

“Maybe some,” I admit, then laugh. “She says I can’t live in this town and not know at least a little about Hollywood.”

“Are they dating?” Frank asks.

“From everything I’ve read about Dallas Sykes,” Wyatt puts in, “he’s not the dating kind.”

I’m about to point out that we’ve all fallen into the kind of gossip trap that Damien and I were just complaining about when the story playing out at Dallas’s table grows juicier with the approach of a leggy blonde. She rockets toward them from across the room, scoops a glass of water from a nearby table, and without even breaking her stride, throws it into Francesca Muratti’s face.

Francesca leaps to her feet—and half the people in the room pull out their phones and start taking photos.

“You fucking bitch,” the leggy blonde shouts. “He’s mine. Tell her, Dallas. Tell her you’re mine.”

I can’t hear Dallas’s response, but I can see by the way that she pouts, it’s not the answer she wanted.

“Just go, bitch,” Francesca says. “I’m really not in the mood to share.”

“Bitch? Who are you calling a bitch?”

Francesca’s beautifully arched brows rise and so does Dallas, his expression conciliatory as he tugs the blonde toward him. He kisses her gently, and this time I catch his words as he says, “Not your turn, baby,” while he squeezes her ass.

He says it with such command and authority—and the girl seems so completely entranced—that I expect that to be the end of it. But then Francesca makes a satisfied little snorting noise and the blonde completely loses her shit.

As two waiters hurry over, the blonde leaps across the table, knocking over the wine as she lunges for Francesca’s throat.

I leap to my feet out of pure shock, and when I tear my eyes away, I see that Damien is tapping a text into his phone.

“What are you—”

“This is going to get ugly fast. I’m having Edward pull the limo around.”

“We’re leaving?”

He meets the eyes of the other men. “If you two don’t mind, I think it would be a good idea to get out of here. And to take Dallas and his date with us.”

Oh
.

Wyatt and Frank both nod agreement, and I have to concede that it’s not only a good plan, but one that Dallas will surely appreciate. Especially since as I watch, Francesca loses the battle to control her temper and slaps the blonde hard across the face.

Immediately, Dallas starts to hustle her toward the exit as the two harried-looking waiters try to urge the blonde to leave through the kitchen. Damien stands to flank Francesca’s other side as Dallas passes, keeping me beside him the whole time.

He tells Dallas that we have a car waiting, then murmurs something to the flustered owner as we pass, the man nods sympathetically and then smiles broadly when Dallas assures him that he’ll come by in the morning to cover any damages.

I fully believe him, but the owner and I both know that Dallas has brought more cache to Q than the most expensive publicity and marketing campaign could ever hope to rally. Frankly, the owner should be paying Dallas.

Wyatt and Frank follow, and I can’t help but be a little mortified. None of this was my or Damien’s fault—and it really wasn’t Dallas’s, either—but I still feel like a terrible hostess.

One of Q’s young valets is holding the limo door open, and Damien ushers Dallas and Francesca inside, then motions to Wyatt, who shakes his head.

“You go ahead. I only live a block away, and you have plenty on your hands. But we should talk more,” he adds, turning to Frank. “Can you come by my studio tomorrow around ten-thirty? Nikki has the address.”

“Of course,” Frank says.

As Wyatt walks off, Damien and I follow Frank into the limo, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the valet closes the door after us and Edward pulls out into traffic.

“Wow,” I say.

Damien twines his fingers with mine. “At least it sounds like Frank’s found a studio space,” he says, looking between me and Frank. “So I say we count the evening as a success.”

“For you, maybe,” Francesca says with a little sniff. “My dress is ruined. Not to mention my evening.”

Dallas has been watching Frank, but now he turns his attention back to Francesca and slides his hand along her thigh. “Baby, I was going to ruin this dress anyway. And as for your evening, just think of how much press you’re going to get out of tonight.”

Her mouth curves into a pretty pout. “My managers will be furious.”

“The hell they will. I predict you’re going to be the top trending story on Facebook and Twitter within the hour.”

The thought clearly pleases her. “Really?”

“Hell yes.”

She presses her hand over his, then slides it higher up her leg before she turns to smile at Damien. “Will you take us to Dallas’s hotel?”

I lower my head to hide my grin as Damien assures her we will.

“How about you, Frank?” he asks. “Where are you staying?”

“The Beverly Terrace,” he says. “It’s on Doheny. Is that out of your way?”

“Not at all,” Damien says. In fact, Frank’s hotel is only about ten minutes from the Stark Century Hotel, the newly acquired and remodeled hotel where Dallas is staying.

Traffic is light, and it doesn’t take long to get from Santa Monica to Century City, which is a good thing, because Francesca seems so thrilled by the possibility of press coverage of her cat fight that she clearly can’t wait to get Dallas into bed. And while I’m actually a fan of limo sex, I’m really only partial to it if I’m a participant and not a spectator. And only if Damien is the only other participant with me.

It’s a relief when the limo pulls into the circular drive and the valet opens the door.

“Thanks for the lift,” Dallas says, then grins. “You saved my ass. Or Francesca’s, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes. “I could have totally taken the bitch.”

“Come on, baby,” Dallas says, and helps her out of the limo. As the door closes behind them and Edward pulls out again, I glance at Damien, amused.

Just a few minutes later, we’re at Frank’s hotel in West Hollywood.

“I’ll say thanks, too,” he says. “For the evening and the, um, entertainment. I haven’t seen that much excitement since I photographed the running of the bulls in Pamplona.”

I laugh, then make Frank promise to call me tomorrow after he sees the studio; I want to know what he thinks.

And then, finally, I’m alone with Damien, and it feels as though the weight of the world has just lifted from my shoulders.

“Wow,” I say. “That was crazy town even by our standards. How do you think he stands it?”

“I think Dallas embraces the philosophy that there’s no such thing as too much publicity. Or bad publicity for that matter.”

I shudder. That is
so
not my philosophy

“Come here.” From the heat in his voice, I know exactly what he wants. Hell, I want it, too. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to play a little first.

“Here?” I ask innocently. “I’m already sitting right next to you.”

“So you are.” As he speaks, he runs his hand up my leg. I’m wearing a silk dress that skims my legs just above the knees, and I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensation of soft silk and his gentle hands stroking my skin as he slowly edges the skirt higher and higher.

Lightly, he grazes his fingertip over the scars that mar my inner thighs. Once upon a time, I would have clamped my legs shut or run screaming from any man who got close to my secrets. Who caught even the slightest glimpse into my pain.

But Damien’s not just any man, and it’s not regret or fear or hesitation I’m feeling now. It’s desire, pure and simple. And not just sexual desire. No, I long for
him
. For the core of the man—a man who knows me as well as I know myself, and loves all of me, both my strengths and my weaknesses. A man who cherishes and protects me. Who understands me. And who I know without a shadow of a doubt will always stand beside me.

“Damien,” I murmur, both wanting and needing his touch.

“I know, baby.” He’s breathing hard, too, and when I open my eyes and glance over, I can see his erection straining against his trousers. I move my hand, intending to stroke him, but he shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “Just this.”

We’re sitting close together, but our hips are barely touching. The only real contact is his fingertip on my skin, and it is as if I only exist right there in the spot he’s stroking. All my pleasure, all my desire, all my
need
is contained in that tiny patch of skin, and it’s too much. Too intense.
Too incredible.

Slowly, he draws closer to the juncture of my thighs—closer to my core—and I know that when he finally touches my clit I won’t be able to hold back. I’m going to explode, to shatter, to lose myself completely.

I’m gasping now, trying to draw in breath as my body burns with need beneath his finger. As he strokes lightly along the edge of my panties, then slips under, just a little.

I bite my lip, determined not to beg for more no matter how much I want to. And he’s close—so close—and any second now he’s going to stroke my clit.

Any moment I’m going to explode. I’m going to—

What the fuck?

A sharp knock on the limo’s window startles both Damien and me, and he pulls his hand back as I reflexively yank my skirt down.

Damien catches my eye for a millisecond before jamming his hand onto the intercom button. “Edward, what the hell is going on?”

There’s no response, and Damien curses. Then curses again when he realizes that the volume is turned all the way down. “Say again?”

“I said, we’ve arrived, Mr. Stark.”

“Arrived?” He glances out the window, and I follow his gaze.
We’re back at the Stark Century Hotel.

I meet Damien’s eyes and shrug with confusion.

I can tell he’s about to demand an explanation when Edward says, “Shall I open the door for Mr. Sykes?”

It clearly takes a supreme effort for Damien to maintain control, but he does. “No. I’ll open it.” He shuts down the intercom, then looks at me. “He must have told us he was turning around, and neither one of us heard the intercom beep.”

“My head was elsewhere,” I admit, then scowl. “Dallas owes me. Big-time.”

Damien laughs. “He owes us both. Shall I tell him as much?”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

Damien opens the door, and Dallas climbs in, and from the way he looks at both of us, I’m certain he knows exactly what he’s interrupted. I feel the blush rising on my cheeks and force myself to ignore it as Damien demands, “What the hell, Dallas?”

“Sorry,” he says. “I couldn’t say any of this with the others around so I called Edward back.”

For an instant, I wonder how he managed that, then realize that he’s worked enough with Damien and Stark International that he was surely given access to the limo—and to Edward’s cell number so that he can contact the driver.