Part 31 (1/2)
”I realize a honeymoon is no place for a toddler,” Jackson says as we stroll hand in hand toward our bungalow. ”But I've gotten so used to having her around, that it's a little weird now that she's gone.”
The sun has begun to set, and the sky is a brilliant glow of orange and purple. ”Good,” he adds. ”But weird.”
”Maybe I can make it a little less strange for you.” I pull him to a stop beside me on the path. Then I take our joined hands and place them gently on my lower abdomen.
I hesitate only a moment, then tilt my head back to look at him. ”There's still a child with us on the island, Jackson.”
The look of surprise and wonder andthank goodnesshappiness that I see in his eyes almost knocks me off my feet.
”You're pregnant?” he asks, but I don't get to answer because my ”yes” is swallowed up by my squeal when he scoops me into his arms and holds me close to his chest. ”I love you,” he says simply, and I feel a quiet glow spread through me. The warmth of antic.i.p.ation and wonder and excitement. Because for Jackson and mefor our familyour life together is just beginning. And it will be spectacular.
s.e.xy. Confident. Commanding. Have you met Damien Stark?
Read on for an extract of A powerful man who's never heard 'no',
a fiery woman who says 'yes' on her own terms,
and an unforgettable indecent proposal . . .
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1.
A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I s.h.i.+ver, wis.h.i.+ng I'd taken my roommate's advice and brought a shawl with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four days ago, and I haven't yet adjusted to the concept of summer temperatures changing with the setting of the sun. In Dallas, June is hot, July is hotter, and August is h.e.l.l.
Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA Lesson Number One: Always carry a sweater if you'll be out after dark.
Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to the party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the celebrities. Gaze dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala art opening, after all, and my boss brought me here to meet and greet and charm and chat. Not to l.u.s.t over the panorama that is coming alive in front of me. Bloodred clouds bursting against the pale orange sky. Blue-gray waves s.h.i.+mmering with dappled gold.
I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward, drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun. I regret that I didn't bring the battered Nikon I've had since high school. Not that it would have fit in my itty-bitty beaded purse. And a bulky camera bag paired with a little black dress is a big, fat fas.h.i.+on no-no.
But this is my very first Pacific Ocean sunset, and I'm determined to doc.u.ment the moment. I pull out my iPhone and snap a picture.
”Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn't it?” I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to face Evelyn Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned patron of the artsand my hostess for the evening.
”I'm so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but we don't have sunsets like this in Dallas.”
”Don't apologize,” she says. ”I pay for that view every month when I write the mortgage check. It d.a.m.n well better be spectacular.”
I laugh, immediately more at ease.
”Hiding out?”
”Excuse me?”
”You're Carl's new a.s.sistant, right?” she asks, referring to my boss of three days.
”Nikki Fairchild.”
”I remember now. Nikki from Texas.” She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she's disappointed that I don't have big hair and cowboy boots. ”So who does he want you to charm?”
”Charm?” I repeat, as if I don't know exactly what she means.
She c.o.c.ks a single brow. ”Honey, the man would rather walk on burning coals than come to an art show. He's fis.h.i.+ng for investors and you're the bait.” She makes a rough noise in the back of her throat. ”Don't worry. I won't press you to tell me who. And I don't blame you for hiding out. Carl's brilliant, but he's a bit of a p.r.i.c.k.”
”It's the brilliant part I signed on for,” I say, and she barks out a laugh.
The truth is that she's right about me being the bait. ”Wear a c.o.c.ktail dress,” Carl had said. ”Something flirty.”
Seriously? I mean, Seriously?
I should have told him to wear his own d.a.m.n c.o.c.ktail dress. But I didn't. Because I want this job. I fought to get this job. Carl's company, C-Squared Technologies, successfully launched three web-based products in the last eighteen months. That track record had caught the industry's eye, and Carl had been hailed as a man to watch.
More important from my perspective, that meant he was a man to learn from, and I'd prepared for the job interview with an intensity bordering on obsession. Landing the position had been a huge coup for me. So what if he wanted me to wear something flirty? It was a small price to pay.
s.h.i.+t.
”I need to get back to being the bait,” I say.
”Oh, h.e.l.l. Now I've gone and made you feel either guilty or self-conscious. Don't be. Let them get liquored up in there first. You catch more flies with alcohol anyway. Trust me. I know.”
She's holding a pack of cigarettes, and now she taps one out, then extends the pack to me. I shake my head. I love the smell of tobaccoit reminds me of my grandfatherbut actually inhaling the smoke does nothing for me.
”I'm too old and set in my ways to quit,” she says. ”But G.o.d forbid I smoke in my own d.a.m.n house. I swear, the mob would burn me in effigy. You're not going to start lecturing me on the dangers of secondhand smoke, are you?”
”No,” I promise.
”Then how about a light?”
I hold up the itty-bitty purse. ”One lipstick, a credit card, my driver's license, and my phone.”
”No condom?”
”I didn't think it was that kind of party,” I say dryly.
”I knew I liked you.” She glances around the balcony. ”What the h.e.l.l kind of party am I throwing if I don't even have one G.o.d-d.a.m.n candle on one G.o.dd.a.m.n table? Well, f.u.c.k it.” She puts the unlit cigarette to her mouth and inhales, her eyes closed and her expression rapturous. I can't help but like her. She wears hardly any makeup, in stark contrast to all the other women here tonight, myself included, and her dress is more of a caftan, the batik pattern as interesting as the woman herself.
She's what my mother would call a bra.s.sy broadloud, large, opinionated, and self-confident. My mother would hate her. I think she's awesome.
She drops the unlit cigarette onto the tile and grinds it with the toe of her shoe. Then she signals to one of the catering staff, a girl dressed all in black and carrying a tray of champagne gla.s.ses.