Stark After Dark (23 page)

“You're sure that you aren't going to get in trouble?” I ask Sylvia. “And there's no chance he'll walk in and see what we're up to?”

We're in the living room of the Tower apartment, and Sylvia is parked behind the tripod on which I've mounted the Leica that Damien gave me.

“I told you, he's in meetings all morning.”

That much I know. Those meetings—including some video conferences that started before dawn—are the reason that we stayed in the apartment last night. “What if he forgot something?”

“It's my job to make sure he didn't,” she says. “And I promise, he's booked solid. He's doing nothing but meetings until the chopper gets here. But if you're that worried, shut up and let me take the picture. Then I can get out of here and you can be sure we're safe.”

“Sorry,” I say, genuinely contrite. “I just want it to be a surprise. And I really do appreciate you helping out.”

“I'm glad to. The picture taking and the rest of it, too.”

We've arranged that Syl will take several shots of me, which I'll download to my laptop from the memory disk while I'm on the plane to the resort. It's not a working trip, but I think it's a safe bet that Damien will have at least one or two business things to take care of. And when he does, I'll do a bit of work, too.

My plan is to manipulate the photo to the way I want it, add a caption, and then email the whole thing back to Sylvia. For her part, she's promised to have it printed, framed, wrapped, and delivered to the Malibu house. When we get back on Valentine's Day, it'll be right there for Damien to open.

Just thinking about it makes me grin. There's something about having to jump through all these hoops that makes the gift feel even more special. Hopefully Damien will enjoy the photo as much as I'm enjoying creating it.

Right now, though, I need to get on that whole “creating it” thing.

“Okay,” I say. “Let's do it.”

She nods and adjusts the focus. We've already checked the lights and filters, because I'm trying to minimize reflections and glare. The image I want is me in front of the window, the city spread out behind me. I'm wearing my most form-fitting dress, and one hand is flat against the glass as I stand at an angle so as to accentuate all my curves.

If the picture turns out like it is in my mind, it will be stunning. Unfortunately, things don't always work out that way.

I stay still as Sylvia clicks and adjusts, then has me move to various similar poses so that I will have others to choose from if I hate the original idea.

About the time that I think my arm is going to fall off from being extended so long, she calls it a wrap.

“Well?” I ask, and her answering grin is all I need to know.

“You're going to have a hell of a time choosing the best one,” she says. “And Damien is going to love it.”

I think about what she says as I pack a small suitcase. I hope she's right. Considering the game that Damien put together for me, I feel a little bit like a slacker. Then again, there's no reason I can't step up to the plate next year. Or even for his birthday. After all, surely I could come up with some sort of personalized iPhone app.

The possibility amuses me, and I'm so lost in thinking about apps for lovers and scavenger hunts that I don't hear Damien come in. I am sitting on the bed, my laptop bag beside me and my suitcase propped up in front of me like a desk, and I'm busily scribbling notes when he knocks lightly on the doorframe.

I look up, confused for a second, then leap off the bed and rush into his arms. He kisses me with equal enthusiasm, then nods at the notebook that has fallen to the floor. “What did I interrupt?”

“I'll tell you when I work out the details. Right now, I'll just say that you have inspired another app.” I grin mischievously. “I'm certain it will be a best seller.”

He looks at me, amused. “How could it not, with you designing it? Are you ready?”

I am, and we gather our things, then take the elevator to the roof. The helicopter takes us to the airport where the now familiar jet waits for us, along with Grayson, the pilot, and Katie, the Stark fleet's senior flight attendant.

We get settled in, and Katie brings us both champagne before she returns to the crew area and leaves us alone.

“I didn't have the chance to thank you yesterday,” I say after we're airborne. “First, you distracted me—”

“I believe you started the distracting, Mrs. Stark.”

“Maybe.” I am unrepentant. “But after that we were distracted by less enjoyable things. At any rate, a spa getaway sounds like the perfect Valentine's Day present.”

“I'm very glad you think so.”

I lean over to kiss him. “So tell me about the Serafina Spa.”

“Remember when I told you that I'd been looking at islands to acquire in the Bahamas with the goal of opening a resort?”

“Sure. Did you decide to just buy this one?”

He laughs. “No. It's an excellent resort with a fine reputation, but it caters to everyone. We're staying in the private section, which has its own spa, bungalows, and the like. But the main areas are available to anyone. Singles, spring breakers, couples, families.”

“Sounds to me like my husband is trying to sneak in some business during our romantic getaway,” I tease.

He chuckles. “I assure you that wasn't part of the plan. I've done enough research on Serafina already to know that not only is there plenty of room for a competitive couples-only resort to move in and still have both resorts flourish, but that Serafina is an exceptional spa and resort. And until I've built a Stark couples' resort in the area, Serafina is the one resort to which I will take my wife.”

“Very nice save, Mr. Stark.”

He shoots me a stern look, but it's clear that he's amused.

“You gave yourself away, though.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You said it
wasn't
part of the plan. Does that mean business is part of the plan now?”

“You, Mrs. Stark, are too smart for your own good.”

I smirk.

“Something unexpected came up. Would you mind? Just one short meeting if I can arrange it?”

I take his hand and squeeze. “Are you kidding? Of course I don't mind.” I don't tell him that I pretty much expected it. “What came up?”

“I'll show you.” He turns on his iPad and pulls up an image of a skyscraper. “The Winn Building in New York,” he says, then taps the screen and pulls up another image, this one of a lovely building still partially under construction. “The Amsterdam Art and Science Museum.”

“They're amazing.”

“They are,” he says. “The architect is Jackson Steele.” Another tap and I see a still photo from what looks to be a television interview outside at a construction site.

I have to admit the man is exceptional. It's hard to tell from the grainy image, but I'm guessing that he's in his thirties. He stands straight, looking as if he owns the world, with a strong jawline and wind-tossed hair that appears to be as thick and dark as Damien's. But it's his eyes that are the most striking—a vivid blue that seems to burst off the screen, even despite the very poor quality of the image.

“I've had my eye on him for a while,” Damien says, “specifically for the Bahamas resort.”

“Really?”

“I think he'll jump at the opportunity.” He passes me the iPad, and I scroll through the images. “He's done a number of projects, but nothing like I'm envisioning. An entire island redesigned. A blank slate. I think it will intrigue him.”

“No kidding.” I mean it, too. Steele's buildings are spectacular, but Damien's right. What he's describing is unlike anything that Damien has included in Steele's portfolio. “So you invited him to Serafina?”

Damien shakes his head. “Aiden called this morning,” he says, referring to Aiden Ward, the vice president of Stark Real Estate Development. “Turns out Steele is vacationing on Serafina this week. I'm hoping to steal an hour or so of his time.” He squeezes my hand. “Unfortunately, that means I'll be taking time away from you, too.”

“Are you under the impression that I resent your work?”

His smile is slow and wide. “No.” He kisses me, then puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “No, I have never been under that impression.”

I bump his shoulder lightly. “Of course, you will have to make it up to me.”

He trails his finger up my thigh, sending little shocks of awareness through me. “Trust me, sweetheart. I fully intend to do just that.”

A private jet makes traveling much more comfortable, but even my husband cannot change the speed at which the earth rotates and jets fly. Which means that even though we flew from Los Angeles to the Bahamas in fabulous comfort, it is so late by the time we get to Nassau and then to Serafina that we barely even look at our bungalow before we peel off our clothes and fall into the soft warm bed that dominates the master suite.

Morning, however, is a completely different story. I am awakened by the sun streaming in through the open windows. The ocean is just steps away, and even though I know that this is a resort, with the exception of Damien's voice filtering in from the next room, I can hear nothing that even hints at other people on this island.

Nothing except Jamie's voice, that is.

Jamie?

I frown and pull on one of the robes that hangs on a hook by my side of the bed, then head out of the bedroom to figure out why my best friend is inside my romantic getaway bungalow.

I realize soon enough that she's not, of course. Just her voice over a speaker and her face on Damien's computer screen.

I stand in the doorway, out of view of both of them, and listen as my best friend tells my husband that he's being an idiot.

“You can't pay, Damien. You never do that shit.”

“I have my reasons, Jamie.”

“What, you mean Nikki? No way does she want you to pay.”

“Nikki is part of it, yes. But so are you. Have you considered that I don't want to see that footage of you spread all over the internet?”

I can see her face and the screen, and for a moment she looks touched. But the expression fades quickly. “I can deal,” she says. “Seriously, you think I want that on me, knowing that you're caving—
why
you're caving? Trust me, I can handle it. I mean, dealing with shit like this is practically my hobby.”

“My mind's made up.”

“You're an idiot, Damien. I'm allowed to say that now because Nikki's like my sister, so that makes you like my brother.”

“Fine. As your brother, I'm allowed to hang up on you. And that's what I'm doing now, Jamie.”

She starts to protest, but he closes the screen. He sits for a moment, and though he doesn't turn in my direction, he reaches back and holds out his hand to me.

I walk to him and twine my fingers with his. “She's right, you know,” I say quietly. “You pay to keep the tape from being released, and it's never going to end.”

“It will end when I find whoever's behind this,” he says darkly. “And I promise it won't end well. In the meantime, I will take care of the people I love.” He turns to look at me. “Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” I say. “But that doesn't mean I like it. And I hate that it hurts you.”

He stands, then kisses me. “In that case, you know how I feel. Let's leave it aside for now. I want to enjoy this time with my wife. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Despite the fact that staying in our own private bungalow on our own private beach sounds deliciously romantic, we both want to explore. After all, Damien and I did the private island thing recently. Now we want to check out the spa, the bar, possibly even the tennis court.

“This section of the island is limited to couples and spa guests,” Damien says as we walk down a path that runs along the beach. “It has its own shops, bars, sporting activities. There's a reef not far offshore. We can go snorkeling later if you'd like.”

“That sounds fun,” I say. “So long as snorkeling doesn't trump spa'ing.”

“Never,” he promises.

“And that's why I love you,” I trill.

We spend the rest of the walk making a list of the things we want to do for the rest of the day, and I've just added
long bubble bath in the Jacuzzi tub
when we arrive at the restaurant.

It's buffet style, and as the hostess leads us to our table, I think of one thing we didn't factor into our plans. “By the way, when are you meeting the architect?”

“Not sure. I left a message for him this morning, but he hasn't called back.”

“Probably out snorkeling,” I quip. “Or maybe he's just having a late breakfast,” I amend, then nod across the room toward the omelet station where a dark-haired man waits in line. “That's him, isn't it? That's Jackson Steele?”

His back is to me, but the commanding presence I'd seen in the photograph is more apparent in real life. It's a presence I'm intimately familiar with, as Damien has the same air about him.

“That's him,” Damien confirms. “Come on.”

He's still in line as we approach, and Damien steps in next to him. “Jackson Steele,” he says, extending his hand. “I'm Damien Stark.”

Steele looks Damien up and down, then his eyes cut to me before returning to Damien. For a moment, I think he's going to ignore Damien's offered hand, but then he reaches out and the two men shake. “I know who you are, Stark. I got your message this morning.”

“I was hoping to find some time to talk to you today or tomorrow,” Damien says, and though I can tell that he can't quite figure this guy out, I'm certain that no one else observing the conversation would be able to tell that he is currently reassessing his approach. “I've been a fan of your work for a very long time and I'd like to discuss working with you on a project that I think you'll find intriguing.”