Release Me (Stark Trilogy 1)

“Yo. Blondie!”

Blaine’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. He’s motioning for me to move again. I do, and then finally—finally—settle into what Blaine deems the perfect pose.

Damien slides in to press a kiss to my forehead. “Tonight,” he says. “I have meetings all day, but I’ll text you with the details. Edward’s ready to take you home whenever you’re done.”

“I could keep her here all day,” Blaine says. “She’s a fabulous subject.”

“All day?” I squeak. I’ve been posing for no time at all, and my muscles are already stiff.

“I said I could,” Blaine clarifies. “I think Mr. Big Shot Businessman will fire me if I tire you out or keep you too long.”

“I certainly will,” Damien says. He lowers his voice. “I have plans for her.” His voice curls around me, running through me, sending blood pulsing to all sorts of interesting places.

“There you go,” Blaine says. “I like that color on your cheeks, Blondie.”

I can’t move, of course, but I’m seething as Damien leaves, chuckling softly as he descends the marble staircase.

After he’s gone, Blaine is a whirlwind of activity, in constant motion, looking, sketching, giving orders, adjusting lights. Despite the overtly erotic nature of his work, he’s actually a hoot to work with, and as far as I can tell there’s not a dark bone in his body.

“Evelyn’s dying to see you again,” he says when we’re finally wrapping up. “She wants the gossip on Damien.”

I slip the robe back on and tie the sash around my waist. “Really? I get the feeling she’s the one who has all the gossip. On Damien and on everybody else.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve got my lady nailed.”

“I really do need to give her a call,” I admit. “I’ve been wanting to see her, too. Maybe we can see each other tomorrow.”

He gives me an odd look and shakes his head. “Get out of here, Blondie. You’re messing with my concentration.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure how the conversation slipped away, but maybe Blaine is just showing off an artistic temperament. “You’re sure it’s okay if I go? I mean, how can you paint me if there’s no me to paint?”

“It’s amazing how much of painting from life doesn’t actually require the living to be present.” He makes a shooing gesture with his paintbrush. “Go. Edward’s probably bored out of his mind.”

“He’s just waiting out there?” I had assumed I’d need to call him or something.

I get dressed quickly, then grab my stuff and hurry down the stairs, but before I do I also grab the Leica and take a few quick shots of the room, of the painting in progress, and of Blaine. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen to me often. I’m keeping a record.”

“Blondie,” Blaine says, “I know the feeling.”

Edward isn’t at all put out by how long I’ve taken. Apparently he likes to sit in the Town Car and listen to audiobooks. “Last week it was Tom Clancy,” he says. “This week, Stephen King.”

On the ride from Malibu back to Studio City, Edward listens to his book and I listen to my thoughts. Or I try to. There’s so much going on in my head—Damien, my job search, Damien, the portrait, the million dollars, Damien, Jamie and Ollie. And, oh yeah, Damien.

I lean my head back, half-dozing and half-thinking, and before I know it, Edward has pulled up in front of the condo and is walking around to open the door for me.

“Thanks for the lift,” I say as I climb out.

“It was my pleasure. And Mr. Stark asked me to be sure you got this. He said to tell you it’s for this evening.” He hands me a white box tied with a piece of white twine. I take it from him, surprised to find there is essentially no weight to the box at all.

I’m curious about the box, but I’m more curious about my job prospects, so I toss the box on the bed as I enter my room, where I immediately fire up my computer and pull up my resume. This probably qualifies as anal, but I don’t want to call Thom, my headhunter, without having my resume in front of me. What if he has a question about the exact date one of my apps went on sale? What if he needs to know the title of the research paper I presented during my summer internship two years ago. What if he wants me to change the font and then resubmit the thing?

As soon as I’ve printed a copy, I dial Thom’s direct dial. “I know you just got my resume yesterday,” I say, “but I wanted to check and see if you’d had any nibbles.”

“I’ve had more than a nibble,” he says. “I’ve had a bite.”

“Seriously?” A sudden image of Damien asking why I didn’t just go work for him pops into my head. “Wait. With who?”

“Innovative Resources,” he says. “Familiar with them?”

“No,” I admit, sagging a bit with relief. I’m having a perfectly lovely time lost in my fantasy with Damien. But while silk sashes and blindfolds may get me hot in the bedroom, I don’t think I want to bow to the amount of control Damien would demand in the boardroom. “What kind of bite?”

“They want to schedule an interview. They’re short-staffed and they’re busy. They’d like to see you in the office tomorrow afternoon. Can you make it?”

“Absolutely,” I say, certain Blaine won’t mind. If I set the interview for two, that should be plenty of time to get in a full session, return to Studio City, get changed, and make it to wherever Innovative is located.

Thom promises me that he’ll set it up, and that he’ll pull some information on the company and send it over so that I can prep. I hang up the phone, drop the professional attitude, and do a wild dance out of my bedroom and out into the hall. I pound on Jamie’s door, but she’s not there, so I take my dance into the kitchen, pop the top on a Diet Coke, and go wild. Because it’s a celebration, I even dig into my secret stash and pull out the frozen Milky Way I keep hidden behind the ancient TV dinners.

Heaven.

I’m heading back to my room with my frozen chocolate bar sticking out of my mouth when I see the Monet still on the floor by the kitchen table. Jamie had promised she’d help me hang it—after making repeated lame jokes about needing to buy a stud finder so that it could get nailed—but so far we’d made no progress in that direction. I want it in my room, though, so I take it with me back to my bedroom. I clear a spot on my dresser, then prop it up in front of the mirror. Now, when I look at myself, I see me standing over an Impressionist sunset. Not a bad way to live, when you think about it.