Then he leaned closer, and my breath hitched as his proximity increased. “I think we’re kindred spirits, Miss Fairchild.”

“I’m sorry?” Was he talking about the cheesecake? Good God, I hadn’t actually looked jealous when he’d eaten them, had I? The idea was appalling.

“Neither of us wants to be here,” he explained. He tilted his head slightly toward a nearby emergency exit, and I was overcome by the sudden image of him grabbing my hand and taking off running. The clarity of the thought alarmed me. But the certainty that I’d go with him didn’t scare me at all.

“I—oh,” I mumbled.

His eyes crinkled with his smile, and he opened his mouth to speak. I didn’t learn what he had to say, though, because Carmela D’Amato swept over to join us, then linked her arm with his. “Damie, darling.” Her Italian accent was as thick as her dark wavy hair. “Come. We should go, yes?” I’ve never been a big tabloid reader, but it’s hard to avoid celebrity gossip when you’re doing the pageant thing. So I’d seen the headlines and articles that paired the big-shot tennis star with the Italian supermodel.

“Miss Fairchild,” he said with a parting nod, then turned to escort Carmela into the crowd and out of the building. I watched them leave, consoling myself with the thought that there was regret in his eyes as we parted ways. Regret and resignation.

There wasn’t, of course. Why would there be? But that nice little fantasy got me through the rest of the pageant.

And I didn’t say one word about the encounter to Carl. Some things are best played close to the vest. Including how much I’m looking forward to meeting Damien Stark again.

“Come on, Texas,” Evelyn says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Let’s go say howdy.”

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find Carl behind me. He sports the kind of grin that suggests he just got laid. I know better. He’s just giddy with the anticipation of getting close to Damien Stark.

Well, me, too.

The crowd has shifted again, blocking my view of the man. I still haven’t seen his face, just his profile, and now I can’t even see that. Evelyn’s leading the way, making forward progress through the crowd despite a few stops and starts to chat with her guests. We’re on the move again when a barrel-chested man in a plaid sport coat shifts to the left, once again revealing Damien Stark.

He is even more magnificent now than he was six years ago. The brashness of youth has been replaced by a mature confidence. He is Jason and Hercules and Perseus—a figure so strong and beautiful and heroic that the blood of the gods must flow through him, because how else could a being so fine exist in this world? His face consists of hard lines and angles that seem sculpted by light and shadows, making him appear both classically gorgeous and undeniably unique. His dark hair absorbs the light as completely as a raven’s wing, but it is not nearly as smooth. Instead, it looks wind-tossed, as if he’s spent the day at sea.

That hair in contrast with his black tailored trousers and starched white shirt give him a casual elegance, and it’s easy to believe that this man is just as comfortable on a tennis court as he is in a boardroom.

His famous eyes capture my attention. They seem edgy and dangerous and full of dark promises. More important, they are watching me. Following me as I move toward him.

I feel an odd sense of déjà vu as I move steadily across the floor, hyperaware of my body, my posture, the placement of my feet. Foolishly, I feel as if I’m a contestant all over again.

I keep my eyes forward, not looking at his face. I don’t like the nervousness that has crept into my manner. The sense that he can see beneath the armor I wear along with my little black dress.

One step, then another.

I can’t help it; I look straight at him. Our eyes lock, and I swear all the air is sucked from the room. It is my old fantasy come to life, and I am completely lost. The sense of déjà vu vanishes and there’s nothing but this moment, electric and powerful. Sensual.

For all I know, I’ve gone spinning off into space. But no, I’m right there, floor beneath me, walls around me, and Damien Stark’s eyes on mine. I see heat and purpose. And then I see nothing but raw, primal desire so intense I fear that I’ll shatter under the force of it.

Carl takes my elbow, steadying me, and only then do I realize I’d started to stumble. “Are you okay?”

“New shoes. Thanks.” I glance back at Stark, but his eyes have gone flat. His mouth is a thin line. Whatever that was—and what the hell was it?—the moment has passed.

By the time we reach Stark, I’ve almost convinced myself it was my imagination.

I barely process the words as Evelyn introduces Carl. My turn is next, and Carl presses his hand to my shoulder, pushing me subtly forward. His palm is sweating, and it feels clammy against my bare skin. I force myself not to shrug it off.

“Nikki is Carl’s new assistant,” Evelyn says.

I extend my hand. “Nikki Fairchild. It’s a pleasure.” I don’t mention that we’ve met before. Now hardly seems the time to remind him that I once paraded before him in a bathing suit.

“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, ignoring my hand. My stomach twists, but I’m not sure if it’s from nerves, disappointment, or anger. He looks from Carl to Evelyn, pointedly avoiding my eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me. There’s something I need to attend to right away.” And then he’s gone, swallowed up into the crowd as effectively as a magician disappearing in a puff of smoke.

“What the fuck?” Carl says, summing up my sentiments exactly.

Uncharacteristically quiet, Evelyn simply gapes at me, her expressive mouth turned down into a frown.

But I don’t need words to know what she’s thinking. I can easily see that she’s wondering the same thing I am: What just happened?

More important, what the hell did I do wrong?

3

My moment of mortification hangs over the three of us for what feels like an eternity. Then Carl takes my arm and begins to steer me away from Evelyn.

“Nikki?” Concern blooms in her eyes.

“I—it’s okay,” I say. I feel strangely numb and very confused. This is what I’d been looking forward to?

“I mean it, Nikki,” Carl says, as soon as he’s put some distance between us and our hostess. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Have you met before? Did you piss him off? Did you apply for a job with him before me? What the hell did you do, Nichole?”

I cringe against the use of my given name. “It’s not me,” I say, because I want that to be the truth. “He’s famous. He’s eccentric. He was rude, but it wasn’t personal. How the hell could it have been?” I can hear my voice rising, and I force myself to tamp it down. To breathe.

I squeeze my left hand into a fist so tight my fingernails cut into my palm. I focus on the pain, on the simple process of breathing. I need to be cool. I need to be calm. I can’t let the Social Nikki facade slip away.

Beside me, Carl runs his fingers through his hair and sucks in a noisy breath. “I need a drink. Come on.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I am a long way from fine, but what I want right then is to be alone. Or as alone as I can be in a room full of people.