“I see.” I square my shoulders. “You never answered my question. Is he in?” I am not going to cry or lose my temper in front of Jennifer. But I am damn well going to talk to Carl.

She nods, then shakes her head. “No. I mean, yes, he’s here. But he said he wouldn’t see you. I’m sorry, Nikki, but he was really, really clear on that. He said that if you didn’t just take your stuff and go, that I’m supposed to call security.”

I feel numb. This is shock. I’m in shock. “But why?”

“I don’t know. Honest.” Jennifer looks like she’s in physical pain, and even though I want to melt into the carpet, I feel sorry for her. And pissed at Carl. What a fucking coward to make the receptionist fire me.

“He didn’t say anything?”

“Not to me. But I think it has something to do with the pitch.”

“The pitch?” My voice is a squeak. “But it went great.”

“Really? Because Stark called first thing this morning and told Carl he wasn’t going to invest.”

My stomach roils. “You’re serious?”

“You really didn’t know?”

“I really didn’t.” But I think I know why I was fired.

I’m in a weird kind of fog as I take my stuff down to my car. I drop the box in the trunk, but I don’t get in the car. It’s only when I’m halfway across the parking level that I realize I’m on my way to Stark Tower.

Since it’s not the weekend, I don’t need to sign in with Joe. But I stop by the security desk anyway since I have no idea what floor the reception area for Stark International is on.

“Thirty-five,” Joe says.

“Thanks. Do you happen to know if Mr. Stark is in today?” I am amazed at how calm my voice sounds.

“I believe so, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Great,” I say, surprised he remembers my name.

I hurry to the proper elevator bank and drum my fingers on my leg as I wait for the car to arrive. Finally, it comes and I pile on with a half dozen other people. The car seems to stop at every floor, until I’m the only one left for the final leg of the journey. The car stops on thirty-five, the doors glide open, and I step out into another well-appointed reception area, my heart pounding so hard I’m surprised I haven’t cracked a rib.

A young woman with curly red hair smiles at me from behind a polished desk. “Ms. Fairchild? Welcome to Stark International. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Mr. Stark’s office.”

“I—what? Oh …” I am a stuttering mess. This isn’t what I’d scripted when I rode up. I’d intended to demand to see him, refusing to leave reception until he spoke to me and explained himself. And for that matter, how does this woman know who I am?

I would ask her, but she’s already leading me through a set of frosted glass doors. We’ve entered yet another reception area, this one done in a contemporary style. There are photographs on the wall featuring waves, mountains, tall redwood trees. There’s even a close-up of a bicycle tire, a winding road visible through the spokes. Each is artistically composed, with such precise and startling perspectives, that I’m certain they were all taken by the same photographer. I shove my irritation aside long enough to wonder who took them. Damien, perhaps?

Another girl sits behind another desk. This one is a brunette, with a short pixie cut. She also smiles at me. “Ms. Fairchild,” she says as she pushes a button on her desk. “You can go on in.”

The woman who escorted me leads us forward as a set of beautifully polished wooden doors swing open in front of me revealing the impressive form of Damien Stark. Today, there’s nothing casual about his outfit. He speaks into a headset as he paces behind his desk in a perfectly tailored double-breasted suit in a dark pewter over a crisp white shirt. The outfit is pulled together with a red tie and onyx cuff links. The sheen from the material reflects some of the light coming in from the window behind him, making Stark look like he’s radiating heat and power. It’s an outfit meant to intimidate and impress, and I have to admit that it works.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” my escort says. “He’ll be with you in a moment.” Then she’s gone, the doors swinging shut behind her.

I don’t sit, but stand right in front of his desk, my arms crossed over my chest. I want to hold on to my anger, but it’s hard, because Stark is right there, and I’ve already learned that just being in the same room with him makes my head go all fuzzy. I think it’s because when I’m close to him, all the air seems to vanish.

“I’m looking at the quarterlies right now,” Stark says, snatching a sheaf of papers from his desk. It’s huge, and every inch of desktop is covered with papers. From where I stand, I see neat stacks of magazines—Scientific American, Physics Today, Air & Space, even the French La Recherche. Charts and graphs are spread out in the middle, both marked up with handwritten notes made with red and blue pencil. A stack of correspondence rests on the far side of the desk, the corner of the pile held down with a battered copy of Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot.

“I’m not interested in excuses,” Stark continues. “I’m interested in hard, cold numbers. Yes, well, tell him that the time to ply me with projections was when he pitched the project in the first place. And the time for excuses is never. If he can’t live up to the schedule we agreed to, then I’ll put in my own team. Hell yes, I have that right. No? Well, have him read the contract again. Then we’ll talk. Fine. No, I think this conversation is over. All right, then.”

He clicks off, and turns to me, and it’s as if I’m watching a computer graphic of a man shifting into the form of another. The executive seems to melt before me, leaving only the man. Albeit one insanely sexy man in a tailored business suit that probably cost more than Jamie’s condo.

“What a wonderful surprise,” he says as he crosses the room, his long strides bringing him right in front of me. He looks so cool, so fucking innocent that the anger that had been fading spews back up like hot lava out of a volcano.

“Goddamn you,” I snap as I lash out and slap him hard across the cheek, shocking myself as much as him.

The way his expression shifts from pleasure to shock to anger and then, finally, to confusion would be amusing if I didn’t feel so sick to my stomach.

“Oh, God,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I’m speaking from behind my hand, which I’ve pressed to my mouth. “I’m so, so sorry.”