Stark After Dark (19 page)

“From him,” I say, pointing toward Damien.

“Oh, really?” There is laughter in her voice, as if the very thought of Damien Stark writing silly poetry and organizing a scavenger hunt is beyond the realm of possibility. She looks so perplexed, in fact, that I'm about to tell her that I must have made a mistake.

That's when I see the tiniest smile touch her mouth.

“Oh, you are
so
playing me,” I accuse. “Both of you.”

She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “Sweetie, I swear I have nothing in the store you'd want tonight. But if you'd like to special-order something for delivery to your office tomorrow…well, I'm sure I can come up with a treat that will intrigue you.”

I keep my own expression businesslike, but inside I'm jumping with glee. I
knew
I'd figured out the clue. I'd just done it faster than she or Damien had expected. “That sounds great. I always need a sugar boost by the afternoon. Why don't I let it be chef's choice?” I add, smiling innocently.

She holds my gaze, then nods. “I think that'll work out just fine.”

Damien and I spend a few more minutes chatting with her, and when we leave, I have a chocolate cupcake in hand—one that she said was leftover from the catering job she was preparing in the back.

“It's delicious,” I say to Damien, who has taken my wrist and is starting to lift the confection to his mouth for a bite. “And it's all mine.” I tug my arm very firmly out of his grasp.

“Oh, really?” The humor is plain in his voice. “And why is that?”

“We both know I got it right. You're just keeping your mouth shut to torment me.”

“Tormenting you is one of my favorite activities, Mrs. Stark.”

“I know that very well, Mr. Stark,” I retort, keeping my voice and my expression prim despite the heat that his sultry tone has sent coursing through me. “But this time it's my turn to torment you. No sharing unless you play nice.” As if to illustrate my point, I take another bite of the cupcake.

With a laugh, he tugs me close. “You can withhold chocolate,” he says, dipping me. “Just don't withhold anything else.”

And then—as the well-heeled Rodeo Drive crowd looks on and applauds—my husband licks the chocolate from the corner of my mouth before kissing me long and deep and very thoroughly.

Despite having weeks of work stacked up on my desk and an email inbox that is full to overflowing, I am having a terrible time concentrating at my desk on Monday. I manage to spend the morning getting some work done, then eat lunch at my desk as I plow through emails. But by mid-afternoon, I've lost my focus. Instead of computers, I'm thinking about cupcakes. Not to mention the present that I have planned for Damien—and yet haven't had nearly enough time to work on.

The problem with buying presents for a man like Damien Stark is that if he doesn't already own something, then it's probably not something he'd want anyway. I considered naming a star for him, or stealing him away for a romantic weekend, or even donating in both our names to one of his favorite charities.

But while I have no problem with any of those ideas in theory, none are intimate or original enough for our very first Valentine's Day.

No, I'm going with handmade—more or less—and personal.

Unfortunately, the “handmade” part has been giving me some trouble, and I've realized that I'm going to have to break down and ask for help.

Since that is at least some distraction from wondering about Damien's present to me, I pick up the phone and call Sylvia, Damien's personal assistant.

“Nikki! Hey, welcome back. He's spending all day on nineteen with Preston,” she says, referring to the head of acquisitions for Stark Applied Technology. “But if you hold on, I'll call down and let him know you're on the line.”

“No, that's okay,” I say. “I called to talk to you.” Sylvia was one of the first people to learn that not only was I the model for the life-size nude portrait that hangs in the Malibu house, but that Damien paid me a cool million dollars as a fee. When she told me that Damien had gotten off cheap, I knew she and I would get along fine.

And after she attended my bachelorette party at Raven—a local male strip club—any lingering wife-of-the-boss awkwardness was soundly swept away. Once you've shared the experience of having a half-naked cowboy's package gyrating in your face, it's hard not to be friends.

“What's up?”

“You know the photographs that hang in the thirty-fifth floor reception area? The redwood and the bicycle and all the others?”

“Of course.”

“Damien told me they were done by a local photographer. Out of Santa Monica, I think. Do you know his name?”

“Sure, but can I ask what's up?”

“Valentine's Day,” I admit. “I've got this idea to do a photograph of me. Kind of artsy—I have a pose in mind. And then I'll adjust the color on Photoshop and add a caption. I know I've waited till the last minute, but I've set up the self-timer a dozen times, and I just can't get the composition right without me being behind the lens.”

“He'll love it,” Sylvia says. “Perfect for the man who just acquired the very last thing on earth that he wanted.”

“What's that?” I ask, completely confused.

Sylvia laughs. “Duh. You.”

“Oh.” I feel a blush of pleasure rising up my neck because the truth is, I know that she's right.

“His name is Wyatt Reed, and I'm happy to give you his number. But I happen to know that he's out of town. He's on a shoot in Australia until March.”

“Oh. Well, damn.” I consider my options. “Do you know any other photographers? Someone in the PR department or—”

“I could do it.”

“Really?”

“I don't take a lot of shots of people, but I've been into photography for years. Architecture, mostly. But if you show me what you're going for, I'm sure I can make it work.”

“That would be amazing,” I say. And not only because she would be solving my problem. How cool that she is into photography, too.

“Listen, I've got a call coming in. Shoot me an email and let me know when you want to do this thing, okay?”

I agree and end the call just as Mrs. Crane—the receptionist for my shared office suite—buzzes me. “Ms. Archer is here.”

“Really?” I'm not expecting Jamie, but I can't deny that I'm glad to see her. I'd called her last night to schedule lunch and gossip for later in the week, and then, of course, I'd given her the quick-and-dirty rundown on Damien's scavenger hunt, the first clue, and my frustration.

“So?” Jamie asks as she bursts into my tiny office. She looks around—as if shocked that the decor hasn't changed in the few weeks since she's been by—then flops down on the little sofa. “Has the cupcake come yet?”

I shake my head. “Why are you here?” Her condo is just a few miles away, but she's been staying in Venice Beach, and that's way the hell and gone from Sherman Oaks.

“One, I am loving this scavenger hunt thing—I'm totally stealing the idea.”

“You can love it without driving to the Valley,” I point out.

“Which brings me to reason number two. Audition,” she says, then holds her hand up for a high five, which I happily supply.

“Seriously? What for?”

“Pilot for a new drama. I've actually got a really good shot according to Evelyn,” she adds, referring to Evelyn Dodge, one of my absolute favorite people who is now also Jamie's agent. Jamie makes a face. “Of course with my luck that means I'll get the job, I'll kick serious ass, and the network won't pick the damn thing up.”

“Sorry,” I say. “This is a no-pessimism zone. Only positive thoughts once you walk through that door.”

She rolls her eyes, then curls her feet under her, tilts her head back, and starts to chant.

“Jamie, what the hell?”

“I'm visualizing. Shut up for a second. I'm about to give my speech at the Golden Globes.”

I snort back a laugh, but I'm saved from having to think of a snarky comeback by the sharp buzz of the intercom again. This time, Mrs. Crane announces a delivery for me, and Jamie and I both spring for the door.

“It's okay, Mrs. Crane,” I say. “I've been expecting it.”

I yank open the door, probably terrifying the skinny guy standing there in a delivery uniform. Once I have the package and have sent the guy on his way with a tip, Jamie and I take the box back to my desk. I sit in my chair and she perches on the wooden desktop beside me.

“Well?” she says. “Open it.”

Since I'm not sure what I'm waiting for, I nod, then use a letter opener to slice through the tape that is holding the decorative pastry box closed. It's only slightly bigger than a cupcake, and when I open it, I'm surprised to see that it holds exactly that—a cupcake.

Specifically, a lovely cupcake with green fondant icing and the numeral “4” printed perfectly across the top in blue icing.

I glance at Jamie, who looks just as baffled as I feel.

“That can't be all of it.” I reach for the cupcake. “There must be a message underneath.”

But if there is more to the message, it's not on the box beneath the cupcake where I expect it. So when Jamie very reasonably suggests that the clue might be baked into the cupcake, I use my iPhone to snap a picture of the treat—just in case—and then I use the letter opener as a knife and carefully cut the cake in half. There's nothing hidden inside. No secret message baked in the cake.

But as soon as we've both picked up our halves to feast upon, I see the carefully printed website written on the bottom of the paper muffin cup.

“I
knew
it.” I am feeling so smug and triumphant that I have to battle the urge to call Damien and gloat. I don't, though. I'm not home free just because I've found a website.

“Well?” Jamie sounds impatient.

“I'm on it.” I pull my laptop closer to me, then type in the URL as she comes around my desk to look over my shoulder, then mutters, “Well,
fuck,
” when all that pops up is an input box for a username.

I echo her sentiments as I lean back in my chair, thinking. “This has to be it,” I say. “Somehow, this leads to the next clue.”

“I adore Damien,” Jamie says, “but couldn't he have just taken you out for dinner and a movie like a normal guy?”

“I thought you loved the scavenger hunt idea.”

“Well, sure. Until it got hard.”

I laugh and shake my head. Not only is Damien a far cry from your average guy, but I'm so delighted by this game—which plays to both my romantic and geek sides—that if I weren't already full-up with love for my husband, I would fall even further.

“Four,” I say, even as I type the numeral into the box. I glance at Jamie, hit
enter,
and cross my fingers.

A moment later, the screen changes, and I feel a little tug of glee:

Welcome, Nikki Stark

Please Enter Password

My glee fades when I realize there is yet another hurdle.

Once again, I meet Jamie's eyes, but she's already on it. She's snatched the box and is examining every last inch of it and the muffin cup. “Nothing,” she says. “Do you think we ate it?”

I don't answer. I'm too busy typing a four into the box. I hold my breath, hit
enter,
then both laugh and curse when I hear Damien's voice saying, “Try again, sweetheart.”

“Oh my god,” Jamie says. “You
so
have to figure this out. Like right now.”

I agree. I can picture Damien at work today, doing whatever master-of-the-universe thing is on his agenda. But even while he's buying Argentina, he's secretly smirking about the fact that he has befuddled his wife.

The image only makes me more determined to figure this out. And fast.

“Paris?” Jamie suggests.

I try. Nothing.

I try “Stark,” “Wife,” and “Malibu.”

And then, I realize.

“I know what it is,” I say, then type in “Sunset,” the safe word that I picked my first night with Damien. That's sort of like a key, after all.

I hold my breath—and then smile with satisfaction when the log-in screen disappears and text fills the screen.

Congratulations, Nikki, you solved clue number two,

Interpreted the hint just right.

Now that you know what to do,

I'll tell you that this clue,

Is only available at night.

Are you enjoying this game, please say that you do,

And know that I'm exceptionally fond of you.

“Fond of you?” Jamie wiggles her eyebrows at me. “That's got to be the key. Because that man is so beyond ‘fond' it isn't even funny.”

I don't disagree, but neither have I got an inkling about where this clue leads. And a solid minute spent staring at the screen isn't helping any.

I'm about to close my laptop and offer to walk Jamie to Starbucks for a good-luck-at-the-audition latte, when my email pings.

“I bet he knows you got in,” Jamie says, looking over my shoulder at the name of the sender: Damien J. Stark.

I realize it must be a new account, because Damien has never used his middle initial on his emails, and I assume it's one he set up for this game.

I open the email—and immediately go cold.

The subject line reads
Mine
.

And under that, filling the body of the email, is a grainy photograph of my husband with his mouth on Italian supermodel Carmela D'Amato's breast. They are both naked, and the look of ecstasy on Carmela's face is one that I have seen and felt on my own.

I clap my hand over my mouth, certain I'm going to be sick.

“Hey,” Jamie says. “
Hey.
He didn't send this. You know he didn't send this.”

I nod, numb, as Jamie closes my laptop.

“She's that supermodel, right? The one Damien screwed around with back in the day?”

I nod. “I saw her again not too long ago.”

“Really?” Surprise laces Jamie's voice. “Where?”

“Damien's hotel room in Munich.”

“Wait. What?”

I shrug, going for nonchalant. In truth, just the memory makes me edgy. “We came back to the room and she was waiting there. All ready to get down and dirty with Damien again. Apparently, she was on a standby list when he traveled to Europe.”

“Nikki…” Her voice trails off into sympathy.

“I know. I'm fine.” And I am. I'm not even jealous. Not really. Except I am. I'm jealous of every woman who had time with Damien. Not because I think he still wants them, but because I covet those lost hours that could have been mine.

I mutter a curse and reach to open the laptop again, but Jamie stops me. “Dammit, Nikki, don't do this to yourself.”

“I'm not.” My voice is shaky, and I take a deep breath to steel myself. “You're right—Damien didn't send this. I want to know who did.”

“And looking at that fucking picture is going to tell you?”

I shake my head, then open the lid and maneuver my finger on the trackpad to click on the sender. “There,” I say, when the full email address pops up. It's his name, all right. But it's not from Stark International or any of Damien's companies.

No, the domain that this email came from is WiseApps.

Jamie lets out a low whistle, and I nod my head in agreement. WiseApps Development is the name of a company that threatened me with litigation just a few weeks ago, effectively putting a nasty gray cloud over my honeymoon. As it turned out, the company—and the lawsuit—were bullshit. A stunt pulled by Damien's batshit crazy childhood friend, Sofia.

“I thought she lost internet privileges,” Jamie says.

“I thought so, too.” When I say “batshit crazy,” I mean it in the literal sense. Sofia is currently locked away in an institution outside of London, and after the fiasco with the threatened lawsuit, the security around her was amped up and her privileges were knocked down. But Sofia is as brilliant as she is crazy, and if anyone could figure a way around an internet ban, she'd be the girl.