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“I’m jealous of the way he touches you,” Damien says, so softly I can barely hear him.

I look questioningly at him. “Blaine’s never touched me.”

“No,” Damien says. “But he’s bringing you to life.” He pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my hair. “That’s my job,” he murmurs.

“And you do it very, very well.”

He nuzzles my hair. “We can send Blaine out for doughnuts and I’ll forget the bike ride.”

“No way, dude.” I laugh and push him playfully away. “I’m on a schedule today, remember. I need time to get dressed, read some of the research on the company. All those girl-looking-for-gainful-employment kinds of things.”

“I’ll hire you right now. Gainful-employment conundrum solved.”

“No. A million times no.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying. Go.” He pulls me in for a long, slow kiss. “I’ll see you on the flip side.”

“Yes,” I say. “You will.”

I spend three solid hours at Innovative Resources, and I’m pretty sure I meet every person who works there from the janitor on up to the owner of the company, Bruce Tolley.

I’m a wreck at first, nervous and fumbling. But I slide into a groove pretty quickly, and Mr. Tolley and I get into a conversational rhythm. He seems sharp—and everything I’ve read about the company suggests that my impression is correct. More important, he doesn’t display any of Carl’s egotistical and bizarre management traits.

In other words, Bruce is interested in the work, not my tits or my ass.

I really can’t help but like the guy.

As we talk, he takes me through the offices, pointing out the cafeteria, the employee gym, the break rooms, and even a supply closet. Honestly, it seems like overkill for a first interview. Or it does until we wrap it up at the front conference room and he extends an offer.

I, of course, tell him that I’ll have to think about it, which I do for a grand total of three seconds before enthusiastically accepting.

I manage not to break into a song and dance routine while I’m still in the building, but once I’m outside, I swing my way around a signpost, then pull out my iPhone and call Damien.

I’m completely bummed when I get his voice mail.

Undaunted, I send a text: Got it! Start next week! XXOO

His reply is immediate: Knew you would. Congrats. XXXOOO. P.S. Did you break any rules? Ps or Bs?

It takes me a second to translate, but when I get it, my cheeks heat: No panties, and I thought of you. No bra, and I kept my jacket buttoned.

He comes back right away with: Perfect on all counts.

I type back another one: But now I’m all wound up. Lack of Ps and adrenaline rush. Are you free?

This time the reply takes a full minute to come through: Wish I was. I know how to unwind you.

I grin and type: You could call me right now. You do some pretty good unwinding by phone.

His reply makes me smile even wider: I could, but in a meeting in Century City with some execs from Tokyo. Not sure they would understand. Back in office soon. Will see you later. All of you, baby. In the meantime, imagine me, touching you.…

No problem there—imagining Damien’s touch has become one of my favorite pastimes. Right behind actually experiencing his touch.

When I get home and find Jamie in the apartment, I feel less cheated that Damien is unavailable. Jamie is, of course, sufficiently enthusiastic, and I get to hang on to my new job high.

“So what should we do to celebrate?” she asks.

“A movie?”

“No way. I want the dirt on you and Mr. Moneybags. Sushi?”

“Perfect.”

Since I am fed up with heels and skirts and tailored blouses, I head into my room to change into jeans while Jamie does the same. I hesitate before pulling them on, then toss them aside. I put on a denim skirt and sandals—and no underwear. Even when Damien isn’t around, rules are rules.

The bra’s easy. I pair my skirt with a backless halter and call it a fashion choice. “You almost ready?” I call to Jamie.

“Five minutes,” she promises, then, “Hey, did you see today’s paper?”

“Why?”

“It’s on the coffee table. The Life and Style section. Check it out.”

I shrug, then settle onto the couch and pick up the paper. I flip through, but nothing much catches my attention until I get close to the end. And then what catches my attention is me.

Or a picture of me. Me with Damien to be precise.

It’s an article on the Stark Educational Foundation and the charity event. A double-page spread with candid shots of the guests. I smile as I scan the photos, looking for Blaine or Evelyn or Ollie.

I don’t find them, but I do see Giselle. And my fingers stiffen when I see the man she’s standing next to—Bruce Tolley.

What the—?

Damien didn’t tell me he knew my new boss. But maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that Bruce is standing with Giselle.

My attempt at self-delusion is quickly foiled when I glance at the caption. Turns out Bruce is Giselle’s husband. The husband that Damien had cocktails with the very first night we met. And Damien hadn’t said a word when I told him I was interviewing with Innovative, or just now for that matter.

What the bloody hell does that mean?

Nothing good, that’s for damn sure, and I feel a little queasy as this oddity roils around inside me, mixing with Ollie’s fears.

Shit.

I grab my cell phone and start to call him, but I end the call before I finish dialing. This isn’t a phone call kind of conversation. For better or worse, I’m heading to him.

“James,” I shout. Now that my mind’s made up, I’m not going to hesitate. “I’ve got to go. Sorry about the sushi.”

I don’t wait for her to answer, and as the door’s slamming behind me, I hear her surprised, “What? What?” echoing behind me.

My mind is either too blank or too full during the drive to Stark’s office. All I know is that there’s not a coherent thought in my head. When I get to Stark Tower, I ask Joe if Stark’s back, and am told he’s not.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m going to wait for him in the penthouse. Tell him Ms. Fairchild wants to see him the minute he returns.”

Joe looks a little taken aback, but I just march to the elevator, leaving him to call up and relay my demands to Stark’s overly efficient staff.

The elevator that opens isn’t the one I rode up in with Carl and the boys. It’s Stark’s private elevator. I assume that Sylvia has sent it down for me and step on, feeling powerful and in control. Yes, indeed, Stark is about to get a piece of my mind.