Release Me

get to hang on to my new job high.
    “So what should we do to celebrate?” she asks.
    “A movie?”
    “No way. I want the dirt on you and Mr. Moneybags. Sushi?”
    “Perfect.”
    Since I am fed up with heels and skirts and tailored blouses, I head into my room to change into jeans while Jamie does the same. I hesitate before pulling them on, then toss them aside. I put on a denim skirt and sandals—and no underwear. Even when Damien isn’t around, rules are rules.
    The bra’s easy. I pair my skirt with a backless halter and call it a fashion choice. “You almost ready?” I call to Jamie.
    “Five minutes,” she promises, then, “Hey, did you see today’s paper?”
    “Why?”
    “It’s on the coffee table. The Life and Style section. Check it out.”
    I shrug, then settle onto the couch and pick up the paper. I flip through, but nothing much catches my attention until I get close to the end. And then what catches my attention is me.
    Or a picture of me. Me with Damien to be precise.
    It’s an article on the Stark Educational Foundation and the charity event. A double-page spread with candid shots of the guests. I smile as I scan the photos, looking for Blaine or Evelyn or Ollie.
    I don’t find them, but I do see Giselle. And my fingers stiffen when I see the man she’s standing next to—Bruce Tolley.
    What the—?
    Damien didn’t tell me he knew my new boss. But maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that Bruce is standing with Giselle.
    My attempt at self-delusion is quickly foiled when I glance at the caption. Turns out Bruce is Giselle’s husband. The husband that Damien had cocktails with the very first night we met. And Damien hadn’t said a word when I told him I was interviewing with Innovative, or just now for that matter.
    What the bloody hell does that mean?
    Nothing good, that’s for damn sure, and I feel a little queasy as this oddity roils around inside me, mixing with Ollie’s fears.
    Shit
.
    I grab my cell phone and start to call him, but I end the call before I finish dialing. This isn’t a phone call kind of conversation. For better or worse, I’m heading to him.
    “James,” I shout. Now that my mind’s made up, I’m not going to hesitate. “I’ve got to go. Sorry about the sushi.”
    I don’t wait for her to answer, and as the door’s slamming behind me, I hear her surprised, “What? What?” echoing behind me.
    My mind is either too blank or too full during the drive to Stark’s office. All I know is that there’s not a coherent thought in my head. When I get to Stark Tower, I ask Joe if Stark’s back, and am told he’s not.
    “Fine,” I say. “I’m going to wait for him in the penthouse. Tell him Ms. Fairchild wants to see him the minute he returns.”
    Joe looks a little taken aback, but I just march to the elevator, leaving him to call up and relay my demands to Stark’s overly efficient staff.
    The elevator that opens isn’t the one I rode up in with Carl and the boys. It’s Stark’s private elevator. I assume that Sylvia has sent it down for me and step on, feeling powerful and in control. Yes, indeed, Stark is about to get a piece of my mind.
    My exuberant purpose fades a little when the elevator doors open not on the office, but into Stark’s Tower Apartment. Suddenly I feel a little intimidated.
    I consider staying in the elevator and pushing the alarm button until the opposite set of doors open, but I don’t go through with it. Instead, I step out into the apartment and take a deep breath. As I do, the elevator doors close behind me.
    My breath hitches, and I turn and press the call button again, feeling suddenly, weirdly nervous.
    The doors don’t open.
    Apparently, I’ll be staying here until Stark returns.
    Right. Okay. No problem
.
    I’ve been here once, so I head on in, then grab myself a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator behind the wet bar. I take it into the living area and try to sit and wait, but I can’t. I’m up and pacing in seconds, too full of nerves and anger to sit still.
    I know I shouldn’t, but I explore the apartment. Then again, why the hell shouldn’t I? Stark knows all sorts of shit aboutme. At the very least, I want to know what his bedroom looks like.
    I’m surprised when I find it, and yet I’m not. It’s a simple room. One wall showcases a low wooden dresser with clean lines and recessed pulls. Another wall is dominated by a pair of elegant French doors that open onto a bathroom. As is