Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

I turn my laptop back on and step to the white board where my summary slide is being projected. I snatch up a marker, and proceed to edit my plan right in front of them, talking through each element and how I would revise it to meet the tighter deadlines. "It will be a challenge," I say. "Then again, you both already knew that." I point to my notations. "But it's doable."

"It is," Noah says with a nod. "If you have the staff to make it happen."

He's right, of course. And the truth is, I don't. My operation is small, with only three of us working full-time. Me, of course. Maia, who's been my right-hand for years, and who I've just asked to come on board as my partner. And our office manager.

My practice is to staff up for each project, using trusted freelancers I've worked with before. I've already put five on notice. But getting a larger team together for this new timeframe will be tricky.

Since bullshitting won't get me anywhere, I tell Noah and Stark exactly that, and am rewarded by the flicker of both surprise and respect in their eyes.

"Are you saying that you're withdrawing your proposal?" Noah focuses on my face as he asks the question. And I can't tell if his expression holds relief or disappointment.

"Not at all," I say, my mind churning as I struggle to salvage this problem. "I'm proposing that my team utilize Stark employees."

Sometimes, I love my subconscious. I hadn't planned that approach, but it makes the most sense. It's already my practice on large jobs to have my team move into a conference room on-site so that we have easy access to the company's support staff. All I'm proposing now is that we go even further.

Even though Stark International and all its subsidiaries have excellent in-house marketing, I'm not surprised they're using an outside contractor for a rollout such as this--a man like Stark knows the value of specialization. But at the same time, I'm sure there are oodles of Stark employees across the globe who are more than capable of providing support for a rollout of this nature.

I can practically see my thought process reflected on Mr. Stark's face--and the fact that he doesn't dismiss the idea outright gives me hope.

As for Noah, I'm almost afraid to look at him. Because if he and Stark accept this revised proposal, then I'll be moving in. This very conference room may be command central, and I'll be working intimately with him and the team every single day.

The thought gives me pause, but only for a moment, then I'm firmly back on the giddy train.

The intercom buzzes, which I recognize as a signal from the assistant who walked me in that my time is up. They still have more candidates to interview, but I know the guys who are about to pitch, and they're not pressure players. Which means that unless Stark and Noah saw something seriously impressive before I walked through the door, I'm confident this job is mine.

"Ms. Porter," Stark says, rising to shake my hand, "it's been a pleasure."

"Good seeing you again," Noah says. His voice reflects only corporate politeness. But his handshake is firm, and though I don't want it to, his touch sends my body humming.

"You too," I say, trying to tug my hand free without being obvious.

"We'll be in touch," he adds, as the dark-haired assistant leads me out the door and back to the elevator. I walk calmly, but it's not easy. What I want to do is skip.

And once I'm alone on the elevator, I do exactly that.

Because I nailed it. This job is mine.

Am I a marketing goddess or what?

"I'm an idiot, aren't I?"

It's barely eight in the morning, and I'm sitting morosely at my breakfast bar watching Ares pour green sludge from my Vitamix into a tumbler.

"Pretty much," he says, then shoves the drink in front of me. "Here," he says. "You're thin as a rail."

"Well, no wonder, if this is the kind of stuff you're feeding me. There's not an ounce of chocolate in here, much less ice cream."

He smirks, and I smile sweetly back. But I also do as he asks and take a sip of the nasty thing. These last few months, all my attention has gone to writing songs and working up the Stark proposal. Mundane things like eating and having a life have fallen by the wayside.

The upside is that I can probably market my eating plan and make a mint. The downside is that I would be vilified across the globe. A diet of coffee and rice is hardly a nutritious choice.

"That was gross," I say honestly, after I've choked the kale flavored mouthful down. But I am hungry, and it is healthy. "I'm pretty sure you're the devil," I say, then take another sip.

"No, I'm just her cousin."

That makes me laugh, which leads to me almost snorting green smoothie through my nose. But it's worth it for the mental picture of Celia with little red devil horns.

My best friend and former band mate is both organized and bossy, which makes her annoying, though not truly evil. But that doesn't mean I'll forego teasing her, even in absentia.