I realize that I'm gasping, and my cries dissolve into little whimpers of pleasure mixed with loss. It's over, and I'm alone in the back of a limo and the man who made me come is on the other end of a phone line somewhere.

A loose strand of hair sticks to my face and I push it off. I'm covered in a sheen of sweat. I'm spent. Taken.

I feel good.

I feel reckless.

"We're here," Damien says, and I turn to glance through the dark tinted windows. Sure enough, the limo is pulling to a stop outside my condo. I realize that when he'd said that we were close, he didn't mean my o.r.g.a.s.m. He meant my home.

I frown, realizing I never told the driver my address. Had Damien? He must have, but how did he know where I live?

I push myself up and fix my skirt and bodice in some sort of bizarrely placed attempt at modesty. I start to ask him about my address, but he speaks first.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild," he says formally, but I think I can hear a smile in his voice.

"I look forward to it, Mr. Stark," I say, equally formal, though my pulse is pounding in my ears.

There is silence, but I know he's still there. After a moment, I hear him laugh. "Hang up, Ms. Fairchild," he orders.

"Yes, sir," I say, then press the b.u.t.ton to disconnect the call.

Tomorrow.

Reality slams against me with the force of a tidal wave. What the h.e.l.l was I thinking having phone s.e.x with a guy I'm going to be seeing up close and personal in just a matter of hours? And not just seeing, but actually pitching to. Putting on a business presentation.

Am I entirely insane?

Yes, I think, I am.

Insane. Foolish. Idiotic.

Reckless.

I shiver.

Yes, but reckless felt so d.a.m.n good.

The limo has come to a complete stop, and I see the driver approaching to open my door. I reach for my panties, intending to shove them into my purse, but then I have a better idea.

If I'm going to be reckless anyway ...

I slip the panties under the armrest, letting the white satin and lace peek out just a little. Then I quickly zip up my dress, check that it's covering all the appropriate places, and slide to the door just as the driver pulls it open.

I step out of the limo and look up at the sky. I imagine a billion stars twinkling down at me. I grin back at them. By morning, I'll probably be wallowing in mortification, but right now, I'm going to bask. It has, after all, been an exceptionally good night.

9.

I turn the key in the lock as quietly as possible, then slowly twist the k.n.o.b and push the door open. I just want to get to my room and go to sleep, but Jamie is the world's lightest sleeper, so I'm not confident that I'll make it.

The condo is silent and mostly dark, the only light coming from the small nightlight I insist we keep plugged in by the bathroom. It provides minimal illumination, just enough to provide some guidance and keep the apartment from falling into pitch-black.

I consider the quiet darkness a good sign. Maybe Jamie walked down to the divey little bar on the corner next to the Stop 'n' Shop. Both the bar and the shop smell faintly of sewage and sweat, but that doesn't stop Jamie when she's in a mood for either alcohol or chocolate. I've lived here less than a week, and we've already visited the store twice (for supplies of Diet c.o.ke and Chips Ahoy) and the bar once (for bourbon, straight up, because it's not the kind of place you trust to make a martini).

I close the door carefully and set the dead bolt, but I leave the chain dangling in the hope that my guess as to Jamie's whereabouts is right. Then I start to tiptoe to my room, just in case my guess is wrong.

Even dimly lit, the condo is easily navigable. A traditional apartment before the owners decided to go condo, it's small at only about eight hundred square feet. The main room serves a triple purpose as entrance hall, living room, and dining area. There's also a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. The living area is on the left, and is furnished comfortably with a chair and a sofa. One long wall boasts a never-used fireplace and a mounted flat-screen television.

Just in front of the door-past the four feet or so that can be considered the foyer-is the dining area, which has a truly ugly orange Formica table and four mismatched wooden chairs. Jamie may have bought the condo when prices were down, but that didn't mean she'd been rolling in extra cash. She'd furnished it with an eye to cost, not appeal. I don't mind, but I've already told Jamie that when I can afford it, I want to paint the interior and try to make the place a little more Ikea. Home and Garden is completely out of the question.

The kitchen is to the left of the dining area, and is separated from the living area by a solid wall that one day I'd love to knock down and turn into a pa.s.s-through. Until then, whoever's cooking not only can't see the television, but is trapped in the claustrophobic galley-style kitchen. Between the dining area and kitchen are two stairs that seem to serve no purpose. They lead to the bedrooms-one on either side-and the bathroom, which takes up the s.p.a.ce between.

I've gone about three feet and am transitioning from entrance to dining area when a light snaps on to my left. I turn and see Jamie in the far side of the room, curled up in the battered armchair that Lady Meow-Meow uses as a scratching post.

"You okay?" I ask, because Jamie brooding in the dark is never a good thing.

She stretches her arms and yawns, disrupting Lady Meow-Meow who is a big blob of white fur in her lap. "I'm good. Must've fallen asleep." She shifts in the chair, then rolls her head, getting the kinks out. I eye her for signs that she's bulls.h.i.tting me, but she seems genuinely fine. I'm relieved. Call me selfish, but I'm not in the mood to micromanage anyone's drama but my own.

"So?" she demands as the cat leaps down and pads to the kitchen for kibble.

I shrug, still standing there in my little dress with my shoes dangling from my fingertips and my naked tush catching a breeze under the flouncy skirt. "Tired," I say, because I need to collect my thoughts. Jamie always sees more than I want her to, and I don't want to dive into the conversation unprepared. "Wanna grab breakfast at Du-par's in the morning? I'll give you the full scoop then. But it'll have to be early." I hook my thumb toward my bedroom. "I need to go crash."

"You're really not going to tell me s.h.i.t? Why the h.e.l.l did I wait up?"

"You didn't wait up. You were asleep."

She waves a hand, sweeping my logic away as irrelevant.

"In the morning," I say, and before she can argue I turn and head to my room. I wait a second in case she decides to burst in after me, and when she doesn't, I peel off the dress. I stand naked for a moment, feeling the cool breeze from the air conditioner caress my still-hot skin. My favorite pajama bottoms are folded on my pillow, and I slip them on. I don't bother with underwear, and the sensation of the threadbare material against my still-sensitive s.e.x is fantastic. I think of Damien and rub my palms lightly over my bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. My nipples peak, and I'm tempted to pull out my phone and call him back.

Jesus, Nikki. Get a grip.

I don't know what Damien Stark wants from me, but the truth is that I don't care. Because it's not going anywhere. I'm not getting naked with Damien Stark. That's simply a given. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the fantasy he's given me, all wrapped up in silver paper with a bright, shiny o.r.g.a.s.m.

I slide onto the bed and slip one hand down into the pajama bottoms. I'm no longer drunk, just nicely buzzed, and I can't think of a better way to drift off to sleep.

The sharp chime of the doorbell nips that plan in the bud, and I leap to my feet, yanking my hand out of my pants as I move like a guilty teenager caught by her parents.

"Is that Douglas?" I shout to Jamie.

"h.e.l.l no," she says. "I train them better than that."

"Then who-"

"Oh, f.u.c.k," she says, not in anger or fear, but in amazement. "Nik, honey, get your a.s.s out here."

I yank on a tank top and hurry into the living room, not even willing to venture a guess as to who could be out there at this time of night.

As it turns out, it's no one. Instead, it's a huge flower arrangement parked on the doorstep. A ma.s.s of wildflowers-daisies and sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes and other flowers I don't recognize. They are beautiful and cheerful and warm and wild.

They are perfect.

Damien, I think, and it feels like my whole body is smiling. It has to be Damien.

Jamie bends down to snag the card and has it out of the envelope before I can reach her. I silently seethe until she looks up at me, a grin tugging at the side of her mouth.

I hold out my hand for the card, which she hands over with a gleam in her eye.

There is one word printed on it: Delicious. Beneath that are the initials D.S.

And me, the girl who never blushes, does so for about the millionth time that night.

Jamie picks up the arrangement, then carts it over to the dining table. I poke my head out the door, but there's no one there.

"Just how good a time did you have at that party?" Jamie asks.

"Not the party," I say, because we've reached the point where I either fill Jamie in or find a new best friend. "The ride home." I drop down onto the sofa that backs up to the wall separating the living area from the kitchen. I pull my feet up and tug my favorite purple afghan over me. I'm suddenly very tired. It's been a long and interesting day.

"No, you don't," Jamie says, plonking down on the antique cherrywood coffee table I'd brought with me from Texas. That puts her right in front of me. She leans forward, getting even more in my face. "Don't even think of claiming you're sleepy. You can't drop a bombsh.e.l.l like that and not explain. The ride home? So, what? You guys went up and parked on Mulholland for some late night delight?"

"He sent me home in a limo," I say bluntly, because I want to watch her reaction. "Alone."

"You are such a liar. Seriously?" she adds when she sees my face.

I nod, and then-d.a.m.n me-I giggle. "It was one h.e.l.l of a ride."

"Oh. My. G.o.d." Her eyes are wide. "Okay, spill. And don't give me any of that bulls.h.i.t about privacy or being discreet or a lady doesn't tell. You're not your mother. I want the dirt. All of it."

I comply. Well, not all of it, but I share the high points, starting with our bizarrely cold introduction at Evelyn's and moving on to the testosterone-laden interchange between Stark and Ollie.

"I haven't seen Ollie in ages," Jamie interrupts. "The little s.h.i.t. Why hasn't he called?"

She's not really interested in the answer, though, and urges me to keep going with my tale. I do. My exhaustion has faded along with my reticence. Jamie is my best friend, and it feels good to share, even if I do find myself mumbling and talking in euphemisms once I get to the part of the story that features me, my phone, Stark's commanding voice, and the backseat of a limo.

"Holy f.u.c.k," she says when I finish. It's the third time she's said it during my rundown.

"And I left the panties in the car," I add. I feel devilish admitting it, even more so when Jamie's eyes widen and she rocks with laughter.

"Holy f.u.c.k," she repeats, this time with even more enthusiasm. "So he was really in a restaurant the whole time? G.o.d, he must have some serious blue b.a.l.l.s."

I experience a little trill of feminine satisfaction at the thought, then frown as another thought occurs to me. "How did he get flowers to me so fast? I was probably home less than ten minutes before they arrived." It's weird, the same way him already knowing my home address is odd.

"Who cares?"

It's a fair point, but I shift around on the couch so that I can see the kitchen table and the flowers. My smile blooms wide again.

"You need to toss some condoms in your purse," Jamie says.

"I what?"

"I've got a box in the bathroom. Take a few. Phone s.e.x is the only safe s.e.x there is, girlfriend, and he may be hot, but you don't know where that boy's been." Her mouth twitches with suppressed laughter. "Or who he's been in."

The thought is disturbing on multiple levels, not the least of which is the unpleasant tw.a.n.g I feel at the thought of Damien Stark in bed with another woman. I push that aside and focus on the practical. "I don't need condoms," I say, "because I'm not sleeping with him."

"Nikki," she says, and even though she's my best friend, I can't tell if that's a plea in her voice or pity.

"Don't start," I say. "I'm not you."

"Which is good, as the world can only take so much awesomeness." She grins at me, but I'm not in the mood. After a moment, her grin fades and her shoulders drop a little. "Look, you know I love you, and I'll always be on your side, no matter what."

"But?"

"But think about why you came to Los Angeles."

"I came for business." I say it because it's true. I want to learn from Carl. I want to find investors for the web-based app I've been developing. And then, once I'm confident I have the chops to actually run a business, I want to dive into the deep end of the pool.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm talking about Damien Stark. You could do a lot worse than him if you're looking for a fresh start."

I shake my head. That whole new life, new Nikki thing doesn't apply where getting naked with Damien Stark is concerned. "Not going there," I say firmly. "The limo was amazing, but it was on my terms. In person, all I'd be is a notch on his bedpost, and that's your gig, not mine."

"Ha! Well, you nailed me. But the rest of it is total bulls.h.i.t."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't want him putting his hands all over you, fine." I wince at the way she's zeroed in on my personal neurosis. "But own up to it, Nik. Because I wasn't even at that party and I can tell that he thinks of you as more than a piece of a.s.s." She waves at the flowers. "Exhibit A."

"So he's a polite bazillionaire. It's not like delivering flowers took more than a phone call. They probably came fast because he has a standing order for flower delivery after all his phone s.e.x encounters." I'm being snarky, but as I speak I realize I'm probably right. The thought is not a happy one.

"No way. He wants you. Your snark. Your att.i.tude. I mean, he flat out told you that you're not like the usual women on his arm. I Googled him, you know."

I blink at the non sequitur. "You did not. When?"

"After you told me he was bringing you home. He's pretty private-I didn't find a lot and to be honest I didn't try very hard. But it doesn't look like he dates that much. Lots of women, sure, but n.o.body serious except for this one socialite a few months ago, but she's dead."

"Dead? s.h.i.t. How?"

"I know. Sad, right? Some sort of accident. But that's not the point."

My head is spinning. "What is the point?"

"You," she says. "I mean, even if you are just a notch on his bedpost, so what? You're not a nun."