Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(36)

“We’re not working together,” he says, making air quotes with his fingers. “You’re my f*cking boss now.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I am. And I suggest you think before you talk to me like that.” Seriously, what the hell is this guy’s problem?

“This was supposed to be my job. I worked this encryption package since day one. I know it inside and out. And I’ve proven to Bruce over and over again that I can head up a team. Then what happens? Some privileged little bitch decides she wants to work for pin money, and suddenly I’m booted back downstairs.”

“Pin money?” I repeat. “What century are you living in?”

“What’s the matter? Get bored with spending your boyfriend’s money? Thought you’d come here and shake things up? Do you know how many calls Cindy’s had to field? Dozens of calls from reporters who just want to know if you really work here. It’s a f*cking waste of her time.”

The tempo of my pulse kicks up and I feel beads of sweat rise in my cleavage. How the hell would the press know that I work here? And why won’t they back the hell off? Even with Damien Stark in my life, I am just not that interesting.

On the upside, Tanner’s enigmatic “flavor of the month” comment makes more sense.

“And you know what really chaps my ass?” he asks, then continues without waiting for an answer. “The fact that you’re here just because the boss wants to make his wife happy.”

Now my head really is spinning. I haven’t got a clue what Giselle has to do with this, but at this point, I’m done playing games.

I reach over and start the elevator up again, then turn back to him once it lurches into motion. “This job requires a certain amount of finesse. An ability to communicate with clients and the public. And most of all a talent for smiling at people that you’d much rather spit on.” I flash my brightest Social Nikki smile at him. “Tanner,” I say. “I don’t think this position is for you.”

We reach the lobby, and the doors open. I step out, leaving him to follow. I am the one in charge here, and he can damn well deal with it. I may not have a handle on everything he’s just said, but I know enough to know that if I don’t take control now, he’ll do whatever he can to snatch it from me.

As we head through the lobby toward the exit, I see a poised-looking Asian woman sitting at a table outside the cafeteria. She’s reading what looks to be a stock report, and in the brief instant when she flips a page, her eyes lift and catch mine. I’ve never seen her before, but something in her poised, confident manner inspires me. This is my job, and I got it on merit, not because of Damien, and certainly not because of Giselle. I’m in charge here, and I’m damn well going to prove it.

I march to the exit and burst through the doors—and half a second later, my bright, shiny bubble of self-assurance pops as six paparazzi with flashing cameras and rising voices rush toward us from where they were apparently lying in wait in the parking lot.

Before I can even think about reacting, I am verbally bombarded.

“Is it true that Stark is looking to take over Innovative Resources?”

“Nikki, what exactly is your role at IR?”

I fight to keep my composure. To keep my Business Nikki face plastered on. I hate this, but I’m not going to let them have the satisfaction of knowing it.

“Are you reporting back to Stark’s company?”

“What do you say to the allegations of corporate espionage?”

At that, I have to force myself not to clench my hands. Not because I want the pain, but because I want to smash my fist into the face of whichever one of these *s has dared to suggest that Damien would send me in as a corporate spy.

“Is this a ploy to up your value to reality-show producers?”

“Tell us about the real Nikki—is it true your sister committed suicide?”

I stumble backward, my composure knocked out of me by the force of those words.

No. No, no, no.

This time I do clench my fists. I want the pain. I need it to collect myself. To give me strength.

I need it because I have to find the will to put the mask back on. To face these people. And then to get the hell out of here.

Slowly, I square my shoulders. And though it takes every ounce of strength within me, I look at each one of them in turn. Then I flash my million-watt smile. “No comment,” I say, before I turn casually around to find Tanner.

He’s still in the building doorway, and my eyes locate him just in time to see his smug expression fade. “Hurry up, Tanner,” I say as I push my way past the paparazzi. “We need to get to a meeting.”


“Oh, my God! I can’t believe you got paired to work with such a twit!” Jamie says. We’re sitting at the polished wooden bar in Firefly Studio City drinking dirty martinis. She eats the final olive out of hers, then points the little plastic sword at me. “It’s like you’re living a sitcom. No, a movie,” she amends. “One of those screwball comedies where the spunky heroine is paired with the completely incompetent idiot and wackiness ensues.”

“Except he’s vengeful, not incompetent. And doesn’t the heroine in those movies always end up with the idiot?”

“Not necessarily,” Jamie says, leaning back and looking smug. “Not so long as there’s another love interest in the B-story.” She swipes her hand through the air. “A Day with Tanner. I can practically see the trailer.”