Complete Me(119)

A wry smile twists my lips. Apparently Damien spoke with Preston Rhodes.

I consider calling him, but decide to wait. It will serve him right to squirm.

Promptly ten minutes later, there is another delivery. A gift basket filled with fancy liqueurs surrounding a huge bottle of Macallan whiskey. The man knows me well. I check the card and laugh out loud. Forgiveness goes even better with alcohol.

Funny, maybe. But I’m still clinging to my irritation.

Still, I can’t deny that the edge on my anger has dulled a bit.

When the next delivery is announced, I’m already waiting by the door. I tug it open and gasp to see Damien himself standing there. He’s holding a shopping bag and carrying a single red rose. There is both amusement and apology in his eyes, and I have to fight the familiar tug that urges me to take the packages from him and wrap myself in his arms.

I realize we’ve been standing like that for too long when he clears his throat. “Can I come in?”

If I’d heard even the slightest hint of laughter in his voice, I would have slammed the door in his face. But his voice was flat and respectful and despite the whimsical nature of his gifts, it is clear that he knows my frustration with him is genuine.

“For a bit,” I say. “I have work to do.”

I step aside, and he eases in, his arm brushing mine as he does so. I feel that frisson of awareness that I associate with Damien and draw in a tiny little breath. If he hears me, he doesn’t show it. He just strides into my office, puts down the bag, then hands me the rose. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I shake my head and face him, legs parted, my hands on my hips, totally exasperated. “You are a brilliant man, Damien Stark. Which is why I don’t understand why you can’t get it through your head that this kind of thing pisses me off. It’s one thing—one very annoying thing—to ask Lisa to seek me out and help me. It’s another thing to lie to me about checking her credentials.”

“I have checked her credentials,” he says. “It’s just been a while.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he admits. He steps toward me and the air between us thickens.

I step back. “Dammit, Damien. You can’t just pull shit like that.”

“Are you going to ignore her advice? Cut her off?”

“No. She’s my friend. Despite you,” I add. “Not because of you. And don’t you dare argue that what you did makes no difference because we ended up genuinely liking each other.”

“I know the difference,” he says seriously. “But I have a blind spot where you’re concerned, Nikki.”

“Aw, really? That’s so romantic.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Get over it.”

He chuckles, then crosses the space between us before I can back away again. His arm is around my waist and he pulls me close so that my pelvis is hard against him. I feel the length of his erection, and I want to be annoyed that he’s hard despite the fact that I’m mad at him. I can’t, though. Because I’m turned on, too, my body tingling and already melting against him. Hell, I’d gone damp the moment he stepped into my office. “You can f*ck me,” I say breathily. “But I’ll still be mad at you.”

He closes his mouth over mine for the kind of kiss that positively melts a girl. “Tempting,” he says. Then he releases me, takes two steps back, and returns to me with the shopping bag. “For you.”

I take it warily, then peek inside. It’s full of tissue paper, which I pull out to reveal a box shaped like a doghouse. I glance at him, confused, then pull the box out of the bag and open it. Inside are a dozen sugar cookies baked in the shape of dog bones. Each has I’m sorry lettered upon it in silver icing.