“Good morning. He and Mr. Maynard are on the phone. Would you like to wait?”
“That’s okay. He’s obviously busy.” I think about the reporters and what they said about an indictment. If Charles is here, there must be some legal wrangling going on with one of the Stark International divisions.
Edward isn’t working until later, but Ms. Peters arranges another car for me. Only the cat greets me when I come through the door. Jamie, I assume, is with Raine.
I haven’t been alone that much lately, and it’s nice to be in my room with my things. Especially since so many of my things now remind me of Damien.
I look over at the Monet he gave me—haystacks at sunset. It’s stunning, and thank God it’s insured. I’m still nervous, though, but at the same time, I don’t want it anywhere else except the room in which I sleep. Well, the room in which I sleep when I’m not with Damien, anyway.
I settle in front of my computer and start looking through my image files. I should be doing work stuff, but I so rarely have time to spend on the gift I’m making for Damien—a scrapbook filled with mementos of our time together. A snapshot of the Monet. Dozens of pictures of sunsets, and lots and lots of images of the two of us together. As much as I hate the paparazzi, I have to admit they’ve captured a few nice candid shots.
I work on organizing the pictures and writing captions for a few hours, then decide I ought to tackle cleaning the apartment before I shower for tonight. Weirdly, “cleaning” includes making up the bed in our living room.
As I vacuum, the sound of grunts and moans comes from next door, loud enough to be heard over the machine. I close my eyes, silently thankful that Jamie is not still sleeping with Douglas, our too-loud, too-fucked by too-many women, neighbor. Mostly, I wish she hadn’t fucked him in the first place, especially since he’s been making hints about wanting her again.
By the time Jamie gets home, Douglas’s latest fuck buddy has gone and I’ve moved on to the kitchen counters.
“Wow,” she says. “You’re hired.”
I lift a brow. Jamie’s idea of cleaning is to let the place get completely trashed, then spend an entire day complaining about how much she hates cleaning. It drives me nuts.
“Will there be food tonight?” she asks.
“Appetizers and drinks,” I say.
“Wanna grab a late lunch?”
I shrug. “Sure. Edward will be here at six to get us, so we want to leave time to come back and change.”
“In the limo?” Jamie perks up.
“I don’t know,” I say, tossing her a sponge. “But if you go wipe down the bathroom counters, I’ll text Damien and tell him that’s what we want.”
And that, I think as she trots off to clean, is how to manage a roommate.
“Holy architecture, Batman,” Jamie says as one of the staff that Damien hired for the party opens the door for us.
I follow her inside, and stop just over the threshold. Apparently Damien has house elves, because the huge room that was bare just yesterday is now furnished in a manner that is both welcoming and opulent. The white marble tiles, which extend through the entrance hall all the way to the back of the house, gleam, a perfect stage for the equally white furniture that now fills the space, the only color provided by the vibrant artwork decorating the two walls to the left and right. The far wall is glass and is constructed like the door to the third-floor balcony so that the panels can be thrust aside and the room opened to the pool deck and the negative-edge pool that extends beyond. The ceiling extends up all four floors to a glass skylight, giving the room an atrium-like feel.
The two focal points—the pool outside and the massive marble staircase—complement each other, as if each is beckoning the visitor to come exploring, promising all sorts of delights no matter which direction the guest chooses to go.
“This place is fabulous,” Jamie continues in a stage whisper that probably carries all the way to the third floor.
“I know,” I say as a kind of proprietary pride swells through me. I have had nothing to do with building or decorating this house, and yet there is no denying the simple truth that it feels like home. “Want a tour?”
“Drink first,” she says. “Tour later.”
“Come on, then.” I lead her to the marble stairs and we climb up to the third floor. The second floor is really more of a balcony or mezzanine and has no enclosed rooms. Instead, it is an area that is accessed from either a set of stairs near the kitchen or from the small service elevator. What makes the floor unique is that it serves as a library, and as our climb takes us even with that level, I hear Jamie suck in air. “Wow,” she says.
“Amazing, huh? The workers just finished the shelving a few days ago. I have no idea where Damien was storing all those books.” From our perspective on the stairs we appear to be completely surrounded by cherrywood bookshelves filled top to bottom with every volume imaginable, ranging from rare first editions to spine-broken sci-fi paperbacks that Damien has read over and over again.
Like the rest of the house, one entire wall is made of glass and looks out over the ocean. This glass, however, is especially designed to block damaging rays that could harm the books. Four leather armchairs make up the focal point of the reading area. They are a deep, chocolate brown and they are covered with a buttery soft leather that I happen to know feels wonderful against naked skin.
Even with no enhancements, the library would be awe-inspiring. Tonight, though, it is magical. Damien must have had a crew working all day, because the intricate iron railing now sparkles with strings of white lights. They glow softly, invitingly, and when we ascend the stairs and pass by them, the twinkle of lights gives the illusion that we are passing by the stars and entering heaven.
I’ve brought my Leica tonight, despite the fact that my camera bag does nothing for the stunning blue dress that Damien bought me, and I pause on the stairs long enough to take a photo of Jamie with the lights shining behind her.
I tuck the camera back into the bag and we continue up to the third floor, then step out onto the landing. Beside me, Jamie gasps. I do, too.
Because the first thing I see is me, my naked body, standing strong and bound for the world.
“Not a bad way to greet visitors, eh, Texas?” Evelyn smiles broadly as she hurries over to envelop me in a very un-LA-like bear hug. Evelyn is not an air kiss kind of woman. “You are as gorgeous in that painting as you are in real life,” she says, adding another squeeze to the hug.