Release Me (18 page)

“Just stay away from him, okay? The guy’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?”

Ollie shrugs. “You know. He has a temper, for one thing.”

“That’s hardly news,” I say. “He was famous for it during his tennis days. That’s how he messed up his eye.” During a fight with another player, Damien had been hit in the face with a racquet. According to the stuff I’d read, he’d been incredibly lucky that he’d suffered no permanent or debilitating injury, but the pupil of his left eye is now permanently enlarged. “But that was a long time ago, and he’s not a competitive athlete anymore. Is that seriously what you’re concerned about?”

But Ollie just shakes his head as Jamie bounces up to the bar and grabs his arm. “I’m taking him back,” she says.

I watch them slide back onto the dance floor.
Dangerous
.

He’s dangerous, all right. But somehow I don’t think Ollie means it the same way that I do.

“Seriously, Jamie,” I say, as she turns down yet another twisting, winding, darkened Malibu street. “Can’t we just go home?” We are completely lost. The street signs have apparently been hidden by elves. I’m sure it’s to keep the riff-raff out. And we, of course, are firmly among the riff.

We parted ways with Ollie over an hour ago after having eggs and toast and an ocean of coffee at Dukes on Sunset. Only after he’d gone did Jamie tell me that we were going on a mission to find Stark’s new Malibu house. “One of the articles I read said it had beach access. And I used to hang with this guy from Malibu, so I got to know the roads pretty well.”

I, of course, protested that she was insane. But I didn’t protest too loudly. I admit I was curious. And even though I doubted
we could find the place, driving around Malibu in the middle of the night seemed just crazy enough to be fun.

Now, however, I am getting tired and a little bit carsick.

“We might as well go home,” I say. “We’re never going to find it.”

“We will,” she insists, pulling over long enough to squint at the map she’s pulled up on her phone. “If it has beach access there aren’t that many streets it can be on. And it’s not like there’s a lot of construction going on right now, especially not for the square footage that a guy like Damien Stark will want. When we get close, we’ll see it.”

“Yeah, but that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? I mean, this isn’t some two-thousand-square-foot house in suburban Texas where you can just wander through the framing and drywall. Even if you find it, there’s going to be a fence and probably security.”

“I just want to see,” she says, edging back out onto the road. “Don’t you? I mean, you can learn a lot about a guy from his taste in buildings, right?”

I don’t answer. She and Ollie have made me think, and the truth is that I don’t know a lot about Damien Stark. I know what the public knows. And I know a few truly intimate details. But the man himself? How much have I seen of the real Damien Stark?

I glance sideways at Jamie, and then the words are out without me even making a conscious decision. “Ollie says Stark is dangerous.”

“Yeah,” she says, surprising me. “He told me. He’s worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I say, sliding down in the seat and putting my bare feet up on the dash. I’m not going to pursue this. Ollie is just being overprotective. “Dangerous how?” I ask, ignoring all my wise counsel. “I’m not buying his line that it’s all about Stark’s temper.”

“Temper? I don’t think so. He wouldn’t say exactly. I figure he knows something from work. Bender, Twain & McGuire reps Stark, you know. Their corporate department handles all his business stuff, and I guess the rest of the firm handles, you know, everything else.”

“Oh.” I consider that. “Attorney-client privilege?”

“I guess,” Jamie concedes. “I mean, I don’t think Ollie has worked on any of Stark’s stuff directly, he’s too junior. But he’s probably seen files and heard the partners talking.”

“But he didn’t give you any idea what it’s about?”

“Well, no. But it’s pretty obvious, right?”

Not to me. “Obvious?”

“That girl. The one who died.” She pauses at a stop sign and shifts in her seat long enough to glance at me.

“The one you said he dated? What about her?”

“I read a little bit more about it.” She shrugs as I gape at her. “I was bored and I was curious. Anyway, she was asphyxiated. The coroner officially ruled it an accident, but I guess her brother’s been hinting around that Stark was involved.…” She trails off with another shrug.

I feel cold. “He’s saying that Damien killed her?” I try to process the thought, but it won’t fit into my head. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.

“I don’t think he’s gone that far,” Jamie says. “I mean, if Damien Stark’s a murder suspect, that would be all over the news, right? And it really isn’t. I just found a few comments on some crap-ass gossip sites. Honestly, I didn’t think anything of it. A powerful guy like Stark must field all sorts of nutcase rumors.” She drives in silence for a moment, and I watch as a frown creeps onto her face.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Dammit, Jamie, what?”

“I was just thinking about Ollie. If it is just Internet bullshit,
then why would he know any of this? But if there’s really something to it, then Stark’s lawyers must be all over the brother, you know? Threatening libel or slander or whatever the hell you call it. And a guy like Stark is probably pretty good at controlling the press, right?”

I remember that Evelyn said almost exactly the same thing and feel a little queasy. “I guess. Is that what Ollie told you?”

“No, no. He didn’t say anything specific.” She shrugs. “He’s just worried about you. But honestly, Nik, it’s probably nothing. Just the crap uber-rich guys have to deal with.”

“So who’s the girl?”

“Some socialite type. Sara Padgett.”

Padgett
. I remember Ms. Peters coming into the conference room during the meeting and mentioning that name.

Without warning, Jamie slams on the brakes and I lurch forward against my seat belt. “What the hell?”

“Sorry. I think I saw something on that street we just passed.” She thrusts the car into reverse and careens backward on the winding canyon road.

I swivel in my seat, terrified that I’ll see headlights approaching. But the road is dark, and we make the turn safely. By the time I’m facing forward again and ready to chew Jamie out for being so damn reckless, my anger is forgotten, pushed out of my mind by the sight of the incredible structure rising in front of me.

“Wow. Do you think that’s his?”

“I don’t know. It’s not as big as I thought it would be,” Jamie says. She pulls the car over to the side of the road, and we both get out and walk to the temporary chain-link fence that has been put up around the structure. A small metal plate identifies Nathan Dean as the architect. “It’s his,” Jamie says. “I remember that name from one of the articles. But shit, Stark is rolling in money. Shouldn’t this be a mansion?”

“No,” I say. “It’s perfect.”

As bazillionaire houses go, it probably is small. I’m guessing
it’s about ten thousand square feet. But it seems to rise from the hills as opposed to being plunked down on them. Any larger and it would overwhelm. Smaller, and it would be lost. Though still unpainted and raw, the stonework only half-finished, the overall essence of the home is clear. It suggests power and control, but there’s also warmth and comfort. It’s inviting. It’s Damien.

And I think it’s spectacular.

From our spot on the road, we stand slightly above the building. Guests will enter by a driveway that slopes down, giving the illusion of entering a private valley. There are other houses nearby, but none will be visible from the property itself.

All that is visible, in fact, is the ocean. The house is finished enough that I can tell there are no windows on the side facing inland. I can’t see the side facing the ocean, but after seeing Damien’s apartment and his office—and after hearing his description of the portrait he wants painted—I have no doubt that the west wall is made entirely of windows.

“A million dollars,” Jamie says, and then whistles. “It’s like winning the lottery.”

She’s right. A million dollars is everything to me. A million dollars is start-up capital. A million dollars changes my entire life.

Yeah, but there’s that little problem
.…

I slide my hand down the inner seam of the jeans I’d pulled on for our night on the town. Through the denim, I can barely feel them, but if I close my eyes I can easily picture the thick, brutal scars that mar both my inner thighs and my hips. “He wouldn’t be getting what he thinks he’s getting.”

Her grin is wicked. “
Caveat emptor
, baby. Buyer beware.”

And that’s why I love Jamie.

I turn back to the house and try to imagine myself standing in front of those windows. The curtains. The bed. Everything as he described it—and Damien Stark with his eyes on me.

My whole body quickens at the thought, and I can no longer
deny how much I want this. Damien Stark has thrown me off-kilter, and part of me wants to punish him for it. At the very least, I want to regain the upper hand. Although perhaps “regain” is the wrong word. Where Damien is concerned, I’m not sure I ever had it.

“
Caveat emptor
,” I repeat. And then I squeeze Jamie’s hand and smile.

On Sunday, I am forced to face the most basic truth of my life: If I don’t spend a few hours washing clothes, I’ll be going to work naked.

“Carl would like it,” Jamie says, when I tell her why laundry is my plan for the day.

“I’d rather not test that theory. You coming?” I have a laundry basket tucked under my arm and am leaning against her bedroom door. She looks around at the mishmash of clothing strewn across her floor and says cautiously, “I think most of this stuff is actually clean.”

I shudder. “How is it that we’re friends?”

“Yin and yang.”

“Do you have any auditions next week?”

“Two, actually.”

“Then rewash all that stuff, and I’ll help you fold and iron. Because you are not going to an audition covered in cat fur.” As if she can tell that I’m talking about her, Lady Meow-Meow lifts her head. She’s curled up on a pile of black material that looks suspiciously familiar. “Is that my dress?”

Jamie flashes a guilty smile. “One of the auditions is for Sexy Girl in Bar and there’s three lines of dialogue. I was going to have it dry-cleaned.”

“Yang,” I say wryly. “Come on. Let’s go see if the machines are free.”

The laundry room is connected to the pool deck, and once both our loads are going, we snag two lounge chairs. As I’m settling in, Jamie runs back upstairs without explanation. A few minutes later she returns with a tote bag slung over her shoulder and a bottle of champagne in her hand.

“We have champagne?”

She shrugs. “Got some at the store yesterday.” She lifts her shoulder and glances down at the tote. “And orange juice.” She untangles the metal cage, then places her thumbs and deftly wiggles the cork. A moment later, I’m jumping at the sound of the
pop
and then the
twang
of the cork slamming into the metal sign prohibiting glass in the pool area.

“Awesome,” I say. “Did you think about cups?”

“I thought of everything,” she says proudly, and proceeds to unpack the juice, the cups, a bag of chips, a jar of salsa, and a small plastic bowl.

“I love Sunday,” I say, taking the mimosa that Jamie hands me and holding it up in a toast.

“No shit.”

We settle down on our lounge chairs, sipping and talking about nothing in particular. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve finished my drink, Jamie’s finished three, and we’ve made a blood pact to go to Target that very afternoon and buy a coffeemaker that brews coffee instead of swill.

That’s apparently all the conversation Jamie can stand, because she closes her eyes, tilts back her head, and starts to soak up the sun.

I, however, am antsy.

I shift around on the lounge for a few minutes, trying to get comfortable. Then I give it up and go upstairs to fetch my laptop. I’ve been fiddling with a pretty simple iPhone app, and I run what I’ve coded so far through the simulator before settling into the fun part. But in the end I spend only a half hour or so with coding, declaring objects, synthesizing properties, and creating various subclasses. The day is just too lazy for even easy programming work. Besides, the glare from the sun makes it hard to see the screen. I shut down my computer and head back into the apartment, this time returning with my camera.

The pool area is not beautiful, but the cracked concrete and splashes of water make for some interesting close-ups. A flowering plant I don’t recognize grows near the fence, and I grab a few petals and toss them in the pool, then lay on my stomach, trying to get a shot of only flowers and water, with no hint of concrete from the pool or the deck.

After a few dozen shots, I turn my attention to Jamie, trying to capture on film the way she looks at peace, in such contrast to her usual frenetic persona. I actually get some amazing shots. Jamie’s got the kind of face that the camera loves. If she ever gets a break, I think she has a chance of actually getting work as an actress. But getting a break in Hollywood is about as common as, oh, being offered a million dollars for your portrait.

I almost laugh out loud. Now
there’s
someone I’d love to photograph. I close my eyes and imagine light and shadow falling across the angles of that amazing face. A hint of stubble. A slight sheen of sweat. Maybe even his hair slicked back after a dip in the pool.

I hear a faint noise and realize it’s me, moaning softly.

Beside me, Jamie stirs. I sit up straighter, trying to shake off the fantasy.

“What time is it?” The question’s rhetorical, as she’s picking up her phone to check the time even as she asks. I glance at the
display. Not quite eleven. “I told Ollie he should come hang with us today,” she says, her voice a little groggy. “I mean, it must suck with Courtney out of town, and I thought he had a good time last night, didn’t you?”

“He looked to be,” I say. “But you’re the girl who can force anyone to have a good time on a dance floor.”