“I so sorry, Nikki.” Rachel flashes me a sympathetic smile from behind the polished oak desk in the fifty-seventh floor reception area of Stark Tower. “He’s not here.”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose in frustration as I glance toward the closed double doors that lead to Damien’s penthouse office. I managed to pull myself together in the time it took to drive from Malibu to downtown, but I’m still shaky. I’d been counting on the feel of Damien’s arms around me, his body pressed close to mine. I wanted his kisses to bring me back to myself, and now that my plans have been foiled, I’m at loose ends.

With forced nonchalance, I lift a shoulder and sigh. “I wanted to surprise him.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised to see you.” She tilts her head, the ends of her neat ponytail brushing her shoulder as her chestnut-colored eyes nail me. “Didn’t you have an interview today? You can’t possibly be done.”

“Oh, I’m very done. Believe me.”

Rachel’s brow furrows, and I backtrack, realizing suddenly that I don’t want to get into it. Not with her. Maybe not even with Damien. A reporter was bitchy to me. Bitchy with a side of evil, true, but the sum total of it was attitude. And, honestly, if I can’t handle obnoxious reporters after all this time, then I have no business being married to a man like Damien.

“It was just one of those interviews,” I say with a casual wave of my hand. “A clunky reporter with a list of questions she doesn’t deviate from. Painful because you can’t ever get a conversation going.” Not that I would have wanted one with Mary Lee, but it’s a little white lie that keeps me from having to reveal what’s truly upset me.

“Since it finished early, I have extra time before I meet Jamie for lunch, so I thought I’d come by and lay eyes on my husband. It’s been so long, I’ve started to forget what he looks like.”

“Like anyone could forget that man. Sorry.” She holds up a hand. “I know he’s your husband and my boss, but seriously. We both know I’m right.”

“We do,” I say, happy that she’s coaxed a laugh out of me.

“You were looking to surprise him, which totally sucks because unless your lunch is downtown, that’s a hefty detour.”

“Santa Monica,” I admit, confirming her assumption.

She sighs, as if I’ve placed a heavy weight on her shoulders. “Honestly, Nikki. How many surprises have I helped you plan?”

“More than a few,” I admit. Rachel is Damien’s Executive Assistant, and over the years, she’s become a good friend. More than that, she’s been my co-conspirator on several surprise getaways, including a birthday party for Damien that turned out to be more than anybody involved bargained for.

“Exactly. You should have called me. I would have told you he was out.”

“Last minute decision,” I say. “When will he be back?” I try to keep my voice casual, but I’m afraid I sound a little desperate. I’m calmer now, but my desire to see Damien isn’t any less.

“It’ll be a while, I think. Trouble at The Domino.”

That sobers me up. “That’s not good.” The Domino is a business complex that Damien and Jackson are working on together. Or, technically, that Stark Real Estate Development and Steele Development are working on together. The office complex will cover three city blocks in Santa Monica, with space available for both sale and lease. And although tenants won’t be limited to the tech and entertainment industries, the news has been touting the complex as the most high-profile addition to Silicon Beach.

“What’s happened?” I ask Rachel.

“Not sure. But it’s a massive site, so it could be anything. Hopefully nothing so serious it pushes back the Phase One opening.”

“No kidding.” The first phase is supposed to be ready for occupancy within the next sixty days, and I make a mental note to ask Sylvia. As Jackson Steele’s wife and a Project Manager with Stark Real Estate Development, she’ll have the scoop.

I tilt my head, considering. Most likely, Syl is downstairs in her office. I could ask her to come up to the apartment. The Stark Tower penthouse is divided into two halves, with Damien’s office on one side and a luxurious apartment on the other. Before the kids, we spent a lot of time in the apartment, and it really was a second home. Now, it’s become a convenient place for Damien to grab a meal and a nap if he’s working late. Something else he rarely does anymore since he’s almost always home by the girls’ bedtime, and if he has work to do, it comes home with him.

At the moment, I just want to use it as a place to have a casual coffee with my sister-in-law. A good plan, I think. After all, I haven’t seen Syl in weeks, I’m dying to know what’s going on at The Domino, and the conversation will distract me from my encounter with the bitch from hell.

“You look like you’re scheming,” Rachel says.

“Maybe a little. Could you call down and see if Sylvia’s around?”

“I could, but I don’t need to. She’s on-site with Mr. Stark and Mr. Steele.”

I make a face.

“You could wait a little while. They might not be too long,” Rachel says, obviously trying to be helpful. “He assured me he’d be back before heading home. He’s got a few things to take care of here that are time-sensitive.”

The idea is tempting, but I don’t want to blow off Jamie. And after our lunch, I have errands to run.

I cock my head toward Damien’s office. “I’m going to leave him a note, then I’ll get out of here and let you get back to work.”

As Rachel turns her attention to an incoming phone call, I head into Damien’s lair. The space is huge, but over the years, I’ve become so familiar with the layout that I barely notice. I pass the wet bar and the informal seating area, smiling at the girls’ framed finger paintings on the walls and the photos of me and the kids that cover a chrome and glass table near the window, bathed in natural light.

I go immediately to his massive desk, and settle into the supple leather of his desk chair. Then I stare at the desktop, uncertain of what I want to write. I’d come wanting to pour everything out to Damien, knowing that he’d fold me into his arms and make me feel better.

But now I’m not even sure if I should tell him what happened. Not in a note, anyway. Yes, Mary Lee’s rant disturbed me, but that’s all it was. A rant. Pour my heart out now to Damien in a note, and I’ll only worry him.

I roll the chair back and open his middle drawer, thinking I’ll just scribble love you, sorry I missed you on a sticky note. But when I see the stack of notecards embossed with D.J.S., inspiration strikes.

I’ve left my purse on the floor beside the chair, and now I reach down, retrieving my lipstick. I brush color on my lips, pick up the card, and plant a lipstick kiss right in the middle.

I push back the chair and stand up, then position the card exactly in the middle of the blotter that tops Damien’s desk. Not that he could miss it. The space is neat and clutter free, and the kiss from me definitely stands out.

It’s not, however, enough. Not to underscore why I was compelled to drive here today. How much I craved his understanding and his touch. His strength and his kisses.

For a moment, I just stand there, thinking. Then it hits me. A deliciously wicked idea that will both cheer me up and, I hope, put a smile on Damien’s face after whatever crisis has had him running all over town. I hurry across the room to the credenza, hoping that what I need is still there. I bend down, pull open the doors, and exhale with relief at the sight of the small brown paper shopping bag.

I take the bag back to his desk, then take out a folded bundle of white tissue paper and a spool of red ribbon. I need scissors, too, but Damien has a pair in his drawer.

The tissue and ribbon are from February, when I’d popped in while he was at a meeting and left a picture of me and the kids as a Valentine’s Day surprise. I’d grabbed the supplies in the lobby gift store before heading up, and since it doesn’t take much to wrap a small, silver frame, I’d tucked the leftover into the credenza, figuring it might come in handy someday. Guess I was right.

I take a sheet of his stationery, then write a quick note:

Sorry I missed you. I can’t stop thinking about you.

Then again, I can’t ever seem to stop thinking about you.

XOXO

Your wife

I fold the note into a square, then lift my skirt and wriggle out of my panties, white and silk with a delicate lace band. I place them neatly on top of the note. Next, I wrap the small bundle in several layers of white tissue paper and tie the whole thing with red ribbon, underneath which I tuck the lipstick kiss notecard.

I stand back and examine my work, feeling so much better. And, yes, feeling both devious and frustratingly turned on. But then again, that’s part of the point. Anticipation.

I start to leave, then realize that Damien will have a million things on his mind when he returns. Odds are that he’ll bring Rachel into the office, and he might open the present while they’re talking. I doubt it … but I could be wrong.

I backtrack to the desk, pick up his fountain pen, and add a neatly printed note to the bottom of the lipstick card: Personal & Confidential.

Satisfied, I hitch my purse onto my shoulder, put away the wrapping paraphernalia, and head out. Rachel’s speaking to someone on the headset, but she mouths, All good?

I give her a thumbs-up and head to the elevator. I may not have seen Damien, but as I imagine his reaction when he finds that package, I can’t deny that everything is good indeed.