Release Me

not before my mind processes the feel of him. He’s lean and hard, and I’m uncomfortably aware of the places where my body collided with his. My palm. My breasts. The curve of my waist tingles from the lingering shock of his touch.
    “Ms. Fairchild.” He’s looking straight at me, his eyes neither flat nor cold. I realize that I have stopped breathing.
    I clear my throat and flash a polite smile. The kind that quietly says “Fuck off.”
    “I owe you an apology.”
    Oh
.
    “Yes,” I say, surprised. “You do.”
    I wait, but he says nothing else. Instead, he turns his attention to the painting. “It’s an interesting image. But you would have made a much better model.”
    What the …?
    “That’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard.”
    He indicates the model’s face. “She’s weak,” he says, and I forget all about the apology. I’m too intrigued by the way his words echo my earlier thoughts. “I suppose some people mightbe drawn to the contrast. Desire and shame. But I prefer something bolder. A more confident sensuality.”
    He looks at me as he says this last, and I’m not sure if he’s finally apologizing for snubbing me, complimenting my composure, or being completely inappropriate. I decide to consider his words a compliment and go from there. It may not be the safest approach, but it’s the most flattering.
    “I’m delighted you think so,” I say. “But I’m not the model type.”
    He takes a step back and with slow deliberation looks me up and down. His inspection seems to last for hours, though it must take only seconds. The air between us crackles, and I want to move toward him, to close the gap between us again. But I stay rooted to the spot.
    He lingers for a moment on my lips before finally lifting his head to meet my eyes, and that is when I move. I can’t help it. I’m drawn in by the force and pressure of the tempest building in those damnable eyes.
    “No,” he says simply.
    At first I’m confused, thinking that he’s protesting my proximity. Then I realize he’s responding to my comment about not being the model type.
    “You are,” he continues. “But not like this—splashed across a canvas for all the world to see, belonging to no one and everyone.” His head tilts slightly to the left, as if he’s trying out a new perspective on me. “No,” he murmurs again, but this time he doesn’t elaborate.
    I am not prone to blushing, and I’m mortified to realize that my cheeks are burning. For someone who just a few moments ago mentally told this man to fuck off, I am doing a piss-poor job of keeping the upper hand. “I was hoping to have the chance to talk to you this evening,” I say.
    His brow lifts ever so slightly, giving him an expression of polite amusement. “Oh?”
    “I’m one of your fellowship recipients. I wanted to say thank you.”
    He doesn’t say a word.
    I soldier on. “I worked my way through college, so the fellowship helped tremendously. I don’t think I could have graduated with two degrees if it hadn’t been for the financial help. So thank you.” I still don’t mention the pageant. As far as I’m concerned, Damien Stark and I are deep in the land of the do-over.
    “And what are you doing now that you’ve left the hallowed halls of academia?”
    He speaks so formally that I know he’s teasing me. I ignore it and answer the question seriously. “I joined the team at C-Squared,” I say. “I’m Carl Rosenfeld’s new assistant.” Evelyn already told him this, but I assume he hadn’t been paying attention.
    “I see.”
    The way he says it suggests he doesn’t see at all. “Is that a problem?”
    “Two degrees. A straight-A average. Glowing recommendations from all your professors. Acceptance to Ph.D. programs at both MIT and Cal Tech.”
    I stare at him, baffled. The Stark International Fellowship Committee awards thirty fellowships each year. How the hell can he possibly know so much about my academic career?
    “I merely find it interesting that you ended up not leading a product development team but doing gruntwork as the owner’s assistant.”
    “I—” I don’t know what to say. I’m still spinning from the surreal nature of this inquisition.
    “Are you sleeping with your boss, Ms. Fairchild?”
    “What?”
    “I’m sorry. Was the question unclear? I asked if you were fucking Carl Rosenfeld.”
    “I—
no
.” I blurt the answer out, because I can’t let that imagelinger for longer than a second.