Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(33)

I hear him exhale. “I don’t like it.”

“Me, neither.”

“Dammit, Nikki.”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say.

Finally Damien speaks. “I’m going to my meeting,” he says, but what he means is, I’m worried about you.

“I’m fine,” I say. “And, Damien?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Right emotion. Crappy execution.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” he says. “It is not an argument I can have from Palm Springs.”

I frown. Apparently it is an argument he can have in Los Angeles. Great.

He really does have to go to his meeting, so he ends the call, and I’m left scowling at my phone and the knowledge that I’m going to have to deal with not only the paparazzi, but with Damien trying to babysit me through my day.

I shove the problem out of my head and hurry into the building. I no longer have time to grab a coffee, but that’s okay because I don’t want to risk spilling it on my white blouse. As my mother’s voice in my head reminds me, there are better ways to make a first impression than coffee stains on your outfit.

The reception area is on the fourth floor, and I punch the elevator call button and wait impatiently for the elevator to arrive.

The doors finally slide open and I shift to one side to let the passengers get off. I’m about to step into the car when I hear a throaty, familiar voice behind me.

“Well, look at you, Texas. All dressed up with someplace to go.”

I turn and find myself facing Evelyn Dodge, a brassy broad if ever there was one, and one of my favorite people in the world. She’s wearing flowing black pants and gold sandals that look like something imported from Morocco. The pants are mostly obscured by a blustery multi-patterned shirt that, as far as I can tell, was created by stitching together dozens of Hermes scarves. She looks a bit like a gypsy with very expensive taste.

“I knew today was your first day,” she says, “but I didn’t think I’d get lucky enough to see you.”

I realize that I’m still staring at her in complete surprise—and blocking the entrance to the elevator. I step to the side so that the small group that has gathered can get on, and force myself to speak despite the grin that is plastered across my face.

“What on earth are you doing here?” I ask. Evelyn lives in Malibu, not far from Damien’s new house, and she’s not the type to make the trek to the Valley unless the apocalypse is upon us.

“Same thing you are, Texas.”

I lift a brow in amusement. “You’re going into the tech industry? Designing an iPhone app to feature Blaine’s work?”

She taps her nose and points at me. “Not a bad idea, actually, and I just may have to wrangle some advice out of you about that later. But no. I’m here to see Bruce.”

“Why?” The question is out of my mouth before I realize how completely rude it sounds.

Evelyn, however, isn’t the kind to take offense. “I need one of his keys,” she says, then barks out a throaty laugh. “But don’t worry. It’s not for a tryst. Blaine’s more than I can handle in that department—and now he’s decided he wants to touch up some of the paintings for Saturday’s showing, but apparently they’re in the gallery’s off-site storage facility.”

Now I really am confused. “Can’t Giselle let you in?” Giselle is Bruce’s wife and the owner of a few Southern California art galleries. Saturday’s cocktail party will not only feature the portrait of me—though only a handful of guests will actually know that I am the model on the wall—but also a number of Blaine’s other paintings.

“If she hadn’t hauled her ass to Palm Springs, sure. But she called me from the road. Apparently she’s on her way to get a few pieces from her gallery there, and her assistant doesn’t have the spare key to the unit. Why the hell Giselle gave it to Bruce instead of her assistant, I don’t know. Sometimes, that woman baffles me.”

“Damien’s in Palm Springs, too. He went there this morning.”

“Too bad Giselle didn’t know. She could have dumped the job of bringing the paintings back on him. Would have saved me a trip.” Evelyn shakes her head. “Frankly, I would have much rather gone to Palm Springs than Burbank, and I’m sure she knows it, but I think she and Brucey boy are having another tiff.”

“Why are they fighting?”

“With those two? Who the hell knows.” She brushes the conversation away, as if it is old news, but to me the topic of Giselle is one of unpleasant but undeniable interest. I’d been jealous of the woman for about five minutes when I’d first met Damien at Evelyn’s party because it had seemed to me that she was the girl on Damien’s arm. Once I’d learned that she was married, however, the jealousy had been shoved into a dark corner where it belonged. I wouldn’t say that the jealousy has returned, but my hope that Bruce and Giselle quickly regain a state of marital bliss is definitely more selfish than altruistic.

“And what about you?” Evelyn continues. “I keep hoping you and that camera of yours will take me up on my offer so that I can ply you with drink and wrangle some gossip, but I guess you don’t need me now that you’ve got Damien’s view at your disposal.”