Release Me

was expecting me to blush and smile and thank him for his kind words. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat and got down to business. “You know who Stark is, right?”
    “You saw my resume,” I reminded him. “The fellowship?” I’d been the recipient of the Stark International Science Fellowship for four of my five years at the University of Texas, and those extra dollars every semester had made all the difference in the world to me. Of course, even without a fellowship, you’d have to be from Mars not to know about the man. Only thirty years old, the reclusive former tennis star had taken the millions he’d earned in prizes and endorsements and reinvented himself. His tennis days had been overshadowed by his new identity as an entrepreneur, and Stark’s massive empire raked in billions every year.
    “Right, right,” Carl said, distracted. “Team April is presenting at Stark Applied Technology on Tuesday.” At C-Squared, every product team is named after a month. With only twenty-three employees, though, the company has yet to tap into autumn or winter.
    “That’s fabulous,” I said, and I meant it. Inventors, software developers, and eager new business owners practically wet themselves to get an interview with Damien Stark. That Carl had snagged just such an appointment was proof that my hoop-jumping to get this job had been worth it.
    “Damn straight,” Carl said. “We’re showing off the beta version of the 3-D training software. Brian and Dave are on point with me,” he added, referring to the two software developers who’d written most of the code for the product. Considering its applications in athletics and Stark Applied Technology’s focus on athletic medicine and training, I had to guess that Carl was about to pitch another winner. “I want you at the meeting with us,” he added, and I managed not to embarrass myself by doing a fist-pump in the air. “Right now, we’re scheduled to meet with Preston Rhodes. Do you know who he is?”
    “No.”
    “Nobody does. Because Rhodes
is
a nobody.”
    So Carl didn’t have a meeting with Stark, after all. I, however, had a feeling I knew where this conversation was going.
    “Pop quiz, Nikki. How does an up-and-coming genius like me get an in-person meeting with a powerhouse like Damien Stark?”
    “Networking,” I said. I wasn’t an A-student for nothing.
    “And that’s why I hired you.” He tapped his temple, even as his eyes roamed over my dress and lingered at my cleavage. At least he wasn’t so gauche as to actually articulate the basic fact that he was hoping that my tits—rather than his product—would intrigue Stark enough that he’d attend the meeting personally. But honestly, I wasn’t sure my girls were up to the task. I’m easy on the eyes, but I’m more the girl-next-door, America’s-sweetheart type. And I happen to know that Stark goes for the runway supermodel type.
    I learned that six years ago when he was still playing tennis and I was still chasing tiaras. He’d been the token celebrity judgeat the Miss Tri-County Texas pageant, and though we’d barely exchanged a dozen words at the mid-pageant reception, the encounter was burned into my memory.
    I’d parked myself near the buffet and was contemplating the tiny squares of cheesecake, wondering if my mother would smell it on my breath if I ate just one, when he walked up with the kind of bold self-assurance that can seem like arrogance on some men, but on Damien Stark it just seemed sexy as hell. He eyed me first, then the cheesecakes. Then he took two and popped them both in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then grinned at me. His unusual eyes, one amber and one almost completely black, seemed to dance with mirth.
    I tried to come up with something clever to say and failed miserably. So I just stood there, my polite smile plastered across my face as I wondered if his kiss would give me all the taste and none of the calories.
    Then he leaned closer, and my breath hitched as his proximity increased. “I think we’re kindred spirits, Miss Fairchild.”
    “I’m sorry?” Was he talking about the cheesecake? Good God, I hadn’t actually looked jealous when he’d eaten them, had I? The idea was appalling.
    “Neither of us wants to be here,” he explained. He tilted his head slightly toward a nearby emergency exit, and I was overcome by the sudden image of him grabbing my hand and taking off running. The clarity of the thought alarmed me. But the