MYSTIC FALLS 2017

Elena Gilbert knew she couldn't run. She couldn't hide. She could only continue as she was—hurtling at over a hundred miles per hour on a collision course with a destiny she thought she had escaped ten years ago. And with the man she had left behind.

A man she told herself she no longer wanted—but couldn't deny that she desperately needed.

He was even more magnificent now than he was ten years ago. The brashness of youth had been replaced by a mature confidence. He was Jason and Hercules and Perseus—a figure so strong and beautiful and heroic that the blood of the gods must flow through him, because how else could a being so fine exist in this world? His face consisted of hard lines and angles that seem sculpted by light and shadows, making him appear both classically gorgeous and undeniably unique. His dark hair absorbed the light as completely as a raven's wing, but it was not nearly as smooth. Instead, it looked wind-tossed, as if he had spent the day at sea. His eyes were so blue and deep you could drown in them.

He was dressed in an expensive tuxedo. His cuff links gleaming. He exuded determination and confidence but in Elena's eyes, she saw even more.

She saw sensuality and sin. Power and seduction. She saw a man with his shirt collar open, his tie hanging loose. A man completely at home in his own skin, who commanded a room simply by entering it.

Elena saw the man who wanted her.

She saw the man who terrified her.

Damon Salvatore.

Immediately, her chest tightened and a current of electricity zinged across her skin.

She remembered the way his skin felt as it brushed hers. She even remembered his scent, wood and musk and a hint of something smoky.

Most of all, Elena remembered the way he made her feel. And now, here back in Mystic Falls she couldn't deny the current of excitement that ran through her, simply from the prospect of seeing him again.

And that, of course, was what scared her.

At twenty-eight, Elena was more than a successful businesswoman: she had become the chief executive officer of Gilbert International five years ago after her father Grayson Gilbert had suffered a massive heart attack. The necessity and desperation after her father's sudden deterioration in health had driven her to take risks and defy the odds in order to keep the family together. Timing and luck had propelled the family far beyond their modest hopes. And in the end, she had managed to keep their multimillion-dollar family business running smoothly.

Several months ago, she had noticed a small article in the Virginia Times discussing the tourism in Richmond. There wasn't any other information, but she had taken the article to John Gilbert, the vice president of Gilbert International.

"The land in Dunham Lake might be up for sale, and if so, I figured we should act fast," she had said, handing him the article. They were moving briskly down the corridor toward a conference room where no less than twelve banking executives from three different countries waited with Lorenzo (aka Enzo) St John, Gilbert's attorney, for the commencement of a long-planned tax and investment strategy meeting.

"I think Dunham Lake is the potential site for a couples of resort in Richmond," she continued, "this is a real potential. I can see the Dunham Lake becoming a popular holiday retreat for families."

John handed the article back to her. "I trust your judgement, Elena. Your projects in the last few years were successful. Draw up a business plan and we will go from there."

Go from there had led in a more or less straight line directly to this moment. Elena was officially in charge of the resort at Dunham Lake. In her mind, Dunham Lake was hers. The land, the lake, and all the potential that went with it.

But she received a bad news yesterday.

"What happened?" Elena asked when she saw Enzo's grimed expression.

Enzo took a deep breath, and spilled the news he had hanging on to. "Wes Maxfield pulled out of the project this morning."

He could see the change in Elena's face immediately. The quick flash of shock followed by anger, then immediately replaced with steely determination. Beside her, Bonnie Bennett, Elena's assistant wasn't nearly so controlled.

"Wes? But he's been nothing but enthusiastic. Why on earth would he want to quit?"

"Not want to," Enzo clarified. "Has. Done. He is gone."

For a moment, Elena just stared at him. "Gone?"

"Apparently, he has moved to Dubai."

Elena's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. "Has he?"

"He' had sold his property, shut down his firm, and told his attorney to let his clients know that he has decided to spend the rest of his life in Dubai."

"Damn it," Elena said with fury. "What the hell is he thinking?"

Both Bonnie and Enzo understood her anger. This was Elena's project, and Wes had managed to screw them all. The Resort at Dunham Lake might be a Gilbert property, but that didn't mean that it was fully financed by Gilbert International. They had worked their tails off over the last three months pulling together a who's who of investors—and every single one of them named two reasons they were committed to the project: Wes's reputation as an architect, and Gilbert International's reputation as a successful developer.

She grimaced "All right then, so we handle this. If his attorney is notifying clients today, the press will get wind of it soon, and everything is going to unravel fast."

Just the thought made her skin feel clammy, because this project belonged to her. She conceived it, she pitched it, and she had worked her ass off to get it off the ground. It was more than a resort to her. She had to keep this project alive. And, dammit, she would keep it alive.

Even if that meant approaching the one man she swore she would never see again.

"We need a plan in place," Enzo said. "A definitive course of action to present to the investors."

Elena was relieved to know Enzo had come up with a plan. "And you have a suggestion already. Good. Let's hear it."

"The investors were impressed by Wes's reputation and his portfolio," Enzo said. "But that's not something we can replicate in another architect." As the moving force behind some of the most impressive and innovative buildings in modern history, Wes Maxfield was a bona fide star architect—an architect with both the skill and celebrity status to ensure a project's success.

"So, I suggest we present the one man who by all accounts is poised to meet or surpass Wes's reputation." Enzo passed the magazine to her.

Elena went still. "Damon Salvatore."

"He has the experience, the style, the reputation. He is not just a rising star in the field—with Wes out of the picture, I think it is fair to say that he is the new crown prince. And that's not all. Because even more so than Wes, Salvatore has the kind of celebrity appeal that this project can use. The sort of publicity potential that will not only excite the investors, but will be a huge boon when we market the resort to the public."

"Is that so?" Bonnie said, her voice oddly flat.

Enzo saw her caught Elena's eyes, and couldn't help but wonder at the quick look that passed between the two women.

"Read the article," Enzo urged, determined to prove his point. "Not only is there a rumour that the story surrounding one of his projects is going to be adapted into a feature film, but they have already produced a documentary on him and that museum he did last year in Munich."

"I know," Elena said. "It is premiering at the Mystic Falls theatre tonight."

"Yes," Enzo said eagerly. "Are you going? We could talk to him there."

"Elena isn't a fan of theatre stuff," Bonnie said flatly.

"It's a red-carpet event," Enzo pressed. "This guy has celebrity sparkle all the way. We need him on our team. And the article also says that he is looking to open a satellite office in Mystic Falls which suggests that he is trying to move more into the Richmond market."

"Damon Salvatore isn't the only name in the pot," Bonnie said.

"No," Enzo agreed. "But right now, he's the only one with a serious spotlight on him. More than that, I have already looked into the few others who might appeal to the investors, and none have current availability. Salvatore does. I didn't present Salvatore as a possible architect in the original development plan because he was committed for the next six months to a project in Dubai."

"Then we should find another candidate." Elena couldn't help but feel grateful that Damon was unavailable. "I'm sure we can find another good architect."

"The Dubai project fell through," Enzo continued. "Political and financial issues, I guess. It's all outlined in the article. I did some quick research, and I don't believe Salvatore has another green-lit project, but it won't stay that way for long. Damon Salvatore can save the Dunham Lake resort. Please trust me when I tell you that I wouldn't suggest him if I didn't absolutely believe that."

"I believe it, too," Elena said. "And I agree with your assessment of the situation. If we don't get Damon Salvatore on board right away, we will lose our investors. The only other way to keep the project alive is if Gilbert International fully fund the project, either using corporate assets or my family l funds." She drew in a breath. "Enzo," she said gently, "that's not the way Gilbert International do business."

"I know. Of course I know that. That's why I'm suggesting we approach Salvatore. This is a high-profile project—exactly the kind of thing that he is focusing on these days. He will sign on. Everything about it is what he is looking for."

Once again, Elena and Bonnie shared a look.

"I'm sorry," Enzo said. "But is there something I don't know?"

"Damon Salvatore has no interest in working for Gilbert International," Bonnie said, after a brief hesitation.

"He—what?" Enzo's eyes widened. It took a moment for the words to sink in. "How do you know?"

Elena said nothing.

"Let's just say there was some bad blood between the Gilbert and the Salvatore," Bonnie said. "In other words, we won't be landing Salvatore for this project."

There was a brief silence.

"Okay," Enzo finally said. "The project is dead then. I will call the investors personally."

No.

No. She had worked too hard, and this project meant too much. She couldn't just let it go. Not like that. Not without a fight.

And, yes, perhaps there was a part of her that wanted to see Damon Salvatore again. To prove to herself that she could do this. That she could see him, talk to him, work with him—and somehow manage to not shatter under the weight of it all.

"Let me talk to him," Elena said softly.

"What?" Bonnie looked at her, stunned. "Are you serious, Elena?"

"We need to at least try."

"But Elena…"

"I don't give up easily," Elena said. "I have never known you to walk away from a floundering deal if there was any chance of saving it, right?"

For a moment, Bonnie said nothing.

"We can't keep this from the investors," Enzo said. "We need to update them about the project."

"I can schedule a conference call for next week," Bonnie said.

"By next week we will either announce that we have Damon Salvatore on board, or that the project is in trouble," Elena said.

"Maybe he will agree," Bonnie said softly, touching Elena's shoulder gently.

Enzo's head tilts ever so slightly to the left, as if considering Bonnie's words. "Is there something I need to know?"

Elena licked her lips. "Damon…and I had history. About ten years ago here in Mystic Falls. Right before he left the town, actually. I don't know if he will agree, but I think he will hear me out."

Elena's stomach twisted unpleasantly and she told herself not to worry. Damon would help her. He had to, because right now everything she wanted was riding on him.

After fifteen minutes being in the theatre, Elena was regretting her decision. She had circled the room twice and seen dozens of familiar faces from Mystic Falls.

But she hadn't seen Damon.

He must be here, though, so Elena decided that the best approach was to go up to the second level, parked herself along the balcony, and scanned the guests from above. She was heading that direction, her head slightly down as she was taking a second to check her office email and messages on her phone, when she caught a glimpse of something familiar in her peripheral vision.

Elena looked up, ignoring the sudden tightness in her chest, and searched the surrounding faces for him. Except he was not there, and now her chest tightened even more, this time with disappointment.

She took another step as she put her phone back into her tiny red purse.

And that's when she saw him.

He was descending the stairs, his attention focused on the distinguished-looking man beside him. Elena recognised the man beside him. It was Klaus Mikaelson.

Whereas Klaus might be sex on wheels, Damon was the slow burn of sin and seduction. And what a sight he was. Whether in a tux or jeans, where Damon was concerned, it was the man that mattered, not the garment.

He was so sexy and handsome that the word was almost an insult. But it was more than that. It was not his looks, it was his presence. He commanded the room simply by being in it, and Elena realize that she was the only one looking at him. The entire crowd had noticed his arrival. He must feel the weight of all those eyes, and yet the attention didn't faze him at all.

He looked dark and sexy and unpredictable. More, he looked important. The kind of man who could say "go to hell" to convention, and have everyone scrambling to keep up with him.

This was the man who lived in Elena memories. Those crystalline blue eyes. That wide, gorgeous mouth. The thick brows and sculpted features.

She wanted to throw herself into his arms. She wanted to be held by him. But that was no longer her right, and that reality was pounded home as Elena glanced around and realized that every woman in the vicinity was looking at him, just as she was. She closed her hand into a fist, feeling suddenly proprietary, even though she had no claim on this man anymore.

The past was over, goddammit. She needed to just suck it up and move on, just like she had been doing for her whole life.

Elena took a deep breath, then another, as she forced herself to get her shit together. She was a businesswoman with a lucrative proposition. She not a starry-eyed girl getting weak-kneed around the ultra-sexy man of the hour.

She could do this. She could approach him, greet him, tell him that she was not going to accept a brush-off. That it had been ten years, they were both grown-ups, and he was just going to have to listen to her.

Straightforward. Direct. To the point.

Right. She could manage it. No problem at all.

Elena took a step toward him, then another.

She straightened her shoulders and put on the professional smile that she had honed over five years of working for the CEO of Gilbert International.

She kept her eyes on Damon as she moved towards him.

He didn't see her—he was completely focused on the man beside him. She couldn't hear their conversation. Klaus said something, and Damon laughed, his wide, sensual mouth curving into a smile that freeze in place as he casually scanned the crowd—and then found hers.

A wild heat burnt across his expression, but was banked so quickly that Elena almost thought she had imagined it. Now when she looked, she saw only a blank stoicism. And yet there remained an intensity to him, the illusion of motion even though he had gone still in the room.

His eyes were locked on hers, and Elena stood motionless as well, unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.

"Damon," she said, but she was not sure if she had spoken aloud or if his name had simply filled her, as essential as oxygen.

They held like that, time ticking by, the world around them frozen. Neither of them moved, and yet Elena felt as though she was spinning through space and hurtling toward him. The illusion terrified her, because right then she knew two things—she wanted desperately to be in his arms again, and she was absolutely terrified of the collision.

And then, suddenly, the world clicked back into motion. His eyes held hers for a split second longer, and in those few brief moments before he turned away, Elena saw the flash of cold, hard anger. But there was something else, too. Something that looked like regret thawing under the ice.

Elena realized that her limbs would function again, and took a step toward him, knowing that this was her chance. For the project—and for something deeper that she did not want to think about because opening that door scared her too much.

But it didn't matter. Not her fear, not the project.

Because Damon didn't look at her again.

Instead, he strode right by her, never looking back, never even slowing. And Elena was left to watch him pass, as anonymous as all the other women who stood there and looked after him with longing.

x x x

What the hell had she been thinking?

The man had flatly declined a meeting with her. Had she really believed that once he saw her in person everything would change? That he would rush over, take her hands, and ask her how he could help?

Elena didn't believe that, no. But damn it, she had hoped it.

It had seemed so simple in theory. Not easy—nothing about seeing Damon again was going to be easy—but by the numbers. She could do it, especially because she had to do it.

But she had choked.

Instead of taking the straightforward approach—find him, talk to him—she had frozen. Instead of moving in, she had let him pass her by.

Damn.

Elena had miscalculated everything, and whatever slim confidence she had been clinging to had been thoroughly and dramatically shattered.

She saw Caroline Forbes across the room laughing with a woman in a short, tight dress and sun-streaked blond hair. She glanced her way, and Elena saw her brows lifted slightly in question. Need me?

Elena shook her head and smiled. She had known Caroline since first grade and she knew Caroline would do anything for her including asking Klaus to arrange a meeting with Damon. Caroline was engaged with Klaus two months ago, and they had been through a lot to get together. She wasn't going to mess up Caroline's relationship because she knew Klaus was Damon's best friend and he was aware about their history.

Besides, it was time to bite the bullet. She came here to pitch a project, and she was damned if she would leave without giving it a shot.

Jazzed from her mental pep talk, Elena started off in the direction in which he had disappeared, only to be waylaid by the announcement that the film would begin in fifteen minutes, and guests should start making their way toward the theatre.

The announcement pretty much destroyed any chance of getting a spare moment with Damon. For one thing, Elena was certain he must have some sort of man-of-the-hour thing to do onstage before the film started. For another, the crowd had become so thick that she had no choice but to be swept along with the throng.

Elena allowed herself to become part of the surge, making peace with the realization that she was going to have to either find Damon right after the screening or wrangle her way into the after-party—a perk that her invitation doesn't include.

Black-clad ushers who were probably USC film students directed the crowd out of the multiplex and over to the original theatre. It was one of her favourite places in Mystic Falls. She used to escape here as a teenager, losing herself to another reality hidden in this exotic venue. It had been recently remodelled, but unlike the shining modernism of the ballroom they had just left, the lobby of the theatre still has a bit of camp, with statues brought from different countries, ornate ceiling tiles and fixtures, folding screens used as wall decorations, and lots of red walls and carpets.

Once inside the theatre, though, technology rules. The IMAX screen was huge and state of the art, and Elena couldn't deny the thrill of knowing that she was about to see Damon splashed larger than life in front of her.

She grabbed an aisle seat in the very last row, figuring that she would have the best chance of extricating herself from the crowd and finding Damon if she could get out the door quickly once the film was over. The theatre wasn't completely full, and there were five or six seats between her and the next person over by the time the lights dimmed. Elena couldn't help but be relieved. She was on edge and antsy, battered by memories that were butting up against her, pushing and prying and trying to break free. She was tired of fighting them. After the film, she could be strong again. But for the next seventy minutes, she wanted to lose herself to the past and to Damon.

A ripple of applause filled the room as a man with grey hair took the stage and introduced himself as Michael Prado, the documentary's director.

"As many of you may know, I serve on the board of the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project, and in that capacity, it has been my privilege to observe the growth of many talented young architects. Some display raw talent. Some, a keen business sense. Still others have an innate ability to mesh form and function, location and purpose. Only once, however, have I seen all those attributes embodied in one man. And that man is here tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Damon Salvatore."

There was considerably more applause as Damon took the steps two at a time, then waved at the audience before shaking Prado's hand.

"Thank you all for the warm welcome," he said as he took the mike. "And thank you, Michael, for your incredibly generous words. As you might realize," he continued, turning so that he faced the audience without putting his back to the director, "a documentary of the nature that Michael has put together is an extremely invasive beast. And I say that with the utmost respect and affection," he added as the audience laughs.

"He is trying to say that I got in his way," Michael joked.

"Or that I got in his," Damon said, handling the audience with undeniable skill. "But seriously, I owe this man a great debt. This documentary was in the works even prior to the board of the Munich Contemporary Art and Science Coalition choosing my design for their museum. And while I can't say that I was prepared to have my process so fully scrutinized, I can say that the experience has been both educational and rewarding. I've had the luxury of seeing my work through another's eyes. That is a rare gift and one that should not be squandered. It taught me to respect my vision, but also to open my eyes."

Elena was riveted as she watched him, so personable, so comfortable in front of a crowd.

He shifted on the stage so that he seemed to look at everyone in the audience. "And now I am pleased to welcome you to the US premier of Stones and Steels, and to offer you this glimpse into another type of joint work. Michael Prado's interpretation of the trials, tribulations, and successes that surrounded the funding, building, dedication, and opening of the celebrated—some might say infamous—Munich Art and Science Museum."

He paused as the audience applauded once more, and it struck Elena how successful Damon was. He had made it to the top finally. He had proven to the world that he could do it.

After a few more words about the history of the project, Damon invited the audience to settle in and enjoy the show.

The lights dimmed, the curtain parted, and Elena leaned back in her seat as the music swelled and the screen filled with motion and light. The camera rose in a magnificent shot that started at the ground, then climbed faster and faster, rising up the now-iconic smooth edge of the museum to ultimately flared out as blue sky and sun fill the frame.

The screen turned a blinding white that dissolved into a title sequence and then a close-up of Damon, his hair ruffling in the wind and his jeans tight on well-muscled thighs as he leaned over a table littered with blueprints. He was deep in conversation with another man, but their words were muffled beneath the precise, careful voice of the narrator.

Elena watched, mesmerized by the man on the screen. By the passion and precision of his movements. He was absorbed by his work, compelled by it. There was power in what he does. Majesty, even magic.

And the depth of emotion she saw on his face made her skin heat and her heart pound in her chest.

Elena had seen that same fire, that same determination. She had seen joy and rapture. She had held him close and felt his heat, and she had been burned by the intensity of this man.

Her chest ached and her hands began to hurt. She realized that she was clutching the armrests too tightly. More, she had been holding my breath.

Air, she thought as she stood up. She just needed to get to the lobby. Maybe hit the ladies' room and splash some cold water on her face.

But as she started to lever herself out of the seat, someone slipped into the chair beside me.

Damon.

She hadn't seen him—didn't even turn to face him—and yet she had no doubt. How could she when her skin already tingle simply from his proximity? When the scent of his cologne surrounded her, all spice and musk and smoke?

Elena closed her eyes and held herself half in and half out of the chair, suddenly unsure of where she was going and why.

"Stay."

One simple word, and yet it compelled her. She drew another breath, nodded, and then settled back into the upholstered theatre chair. She turned towards him and found him focused on her. Shadows danced upon his face, and Elena swore that she could tumble into the brilliant blue of his eyes.

She started to speak, though she was not at all sure what she was going to say. Then he leaned towards her and placed his palm on her leg, so that the heel of his hand rested on the thin material of herd dress, but the tips of his fingers graze her bare skin. Every nerve ending in her body seemed clustered in that one area, sparkling and sizzling.

Elena was desperately, painfully aware of the contact, and she had to fight the urge to draw in a breath, to stiffen as her pulse pounded and a wild heat burst through her. She didn't want to react to him; she didn't want to give anything away. And she damn sure couldn't let go of the tight grip she had on control.

But he was leaning closer, the pressure increasing upon her thigh as his lips came within a whisper of her ear. "What the hell do you think you are doing here?"

Elena considered playing it coy, but there was no profit in that. Not to mention the fact that she was not at all sure she could pull it off. Not now, when he was touching her. "I need to talk to you," she said simply.

"Do you?" he asked, his voice as smooth and tempting as chocolate. "I'm fairly certain you don't have an appointment."

His finger moved slowly on her skin, back and forth, the motion so idle that he might be unaware of it. Except Elena knew that was bullshit. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Do I need an appointment to chat at a party?"

"Is that what we are doing?" he asked as his finger strokes and teases. "Chatting?"

She felt her chest tighten and a thin panic rose. "Please, Damon."

"Please what?"

"Outside." She hoped that he could not hear the way her voice was shaking. "Can we just go talk for a minute in the lobby?"

Elena tried to rise, but he held her down with a gentle but firm pressure on her leg. In the process, he managed to slide her hem up, revealing just a sliver more of bare skin. It was enough, however, to make her feel even more exposed. Even more vulnerable.

To make her remembered the way his hands felt when he was touching her without anger or pretence.

Elena swallowed as a wave of longing and regret broke over her. "Damon…"

"You are so determined to talk, then talk here." His voice hadn't lost the velvet, but there was steel under it now.

"We will bother everyone around us," she whispered, determined to regain her equilibrium.

His brows rose, and Elena saw the amusement danced at the corner of his mouth. "Will we?" His hand eased higher, pushing her skirt up with the motion. "I didn't think our … conversation … would be quite that loud."

"Stop." She closed her hand hard over his, preventing him from gaining even another millimetre.

"Why?"

"Because I said so, dammit."

"I meant, why do you need to talk to me," he clarified. "But the same applies." He eased his hand higher, pushing her skirt up inch by excruciating inch. "Tell me why you say I should stop. Because you don't want me to touch you? Because you don't want me to slide my hand just a little bit higher? Because you don't want my fingertips to stroke your panties and find you wet and hot?"

Her mouth was dry, her body burning. And—damn her all to hell—he was right. She was desperately wet, her thighs hot and her sex throbbing.

"Or maybe it is because you do want me to keep going? Because you can imagine—can remember—the way my finger feels inside you, teasing you, stroking your clit. Are you wet now, princess?" he asked, his voice as gentle as the finger that still skimmed along her thigh. "Are you hot and needy and silently begging me to touch you, to slide my finger over your slick, wet heat? Is that what you want? Come on, sweetheart, you can tell me. Don't you want me to take you there? To take you higher and higher until you tremble in my hand as the orgasm rocks you? Because I think you do. I think you want it so bad you can taste it."

Elena closed her eyes, determined not to let him see the truth of his words on her face. "Stop it," she repeated. "You can't—"

"The hell I can't." The soft sensuality in his tone had vanished, replaced by harsh accusation. "Do you think I haven't watched you tonight? Do you think I didn't see the way you have looked at me? We both know you still want me, and we both know that pisses you off. So tell me, Elena. I want to hear it. I want you to say it out loud."

But there was no way in hell that she was conceding. Because while it might be true—God help her, she still wanted him, and that did piss her off.

"Tell me," he repeated, his words heavy with ten years' worth of hurt and anger. "And then I will listen to what you have to say."

Elena winced as something like guilt crashed over her. But she pushed it aside even as she shoved his hand away and bolted up out of the chair. "Go to hell," she snapped, ignoring the low-pitched "sssshhhh" from down the row.

She stumbled up the aisle, then practically slammed herself against the door, not even taking a breath until she was safely in the lobby.

She leaned against the wall and told herself to get a grip. She hadn't quite managed that task when the door opened and Damon strode out and headed straight towards her. She must have flinched, because she saw his jaw tightened, and he came no closer.

"Not exactly the sweet words I was looking for," he said wryly. "But good enough."

"Just leave me the hell alone," she said.

"I can do that." His tone was now all business. "Or you can tell me why you want to talk to me."

Elena blinked, a little whiplashed by his sudden change in tone. "A job," she managed to say, even as her shoulders sagged with both relief and, though she hated to admit it, a touch of disappointment. She pushed the latter firmly away—there was no room for anything but business between Damon and me, and even imagining there might be more was a recipe for heartache.

His eyes stayed fixed on mine, then he nodded briskly. "All right. I'm listening."

Elena straightened herself, sliding into business-mode and relishing the sense of being back in control. "It's for Gilbert International," she said. "And before you turn me down, I'd like you to hear me out."

She took his silence as acquiescence and continue, giving him the full rundown of the project from inception to the horrific news that Wes had pulled out.

"Miss America got slammed on Facebook, and now the runner-up has the crown?"

"No," she said firmly. "This isn't about bringing in the runner-up. It is about making this resort the best that it can be."

"Really?" His gaze skimmed over her, as sensual as a slow caress. "I don't recall being approached when the project was initiated."

"You were tied up with the job in Dubai."

"Was I?" he said, as if that commission was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. "So this has nothing to do with the fact that your precious resort is in more trouble than you've let on?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Problems with the FAA, Elena. Utility permitting. Environmental groups. Do you want me to go on?"

"Everything you have listed is being handled," Elena said, which was technically accurate. And he was right about the environmental groups, too. As it turned out, Dunham Lake was a habitat for a rare species of cave crickets, and negotiating that possible land mine was as fraught with destructive potential as disarming a nuclear bomb.

But what really concerned her was how he had heard about those problems. Because Gilbert International kept a tight lid on each and every one of them.

"Dammit, Damon, the bottom line is that it is a great opportunity."

"I'm not saying it isn't." He held out his hand. "Come with me."

She glanced at his hand, but she didn't take it. After a moment, he lowered it, and the shadow she saw in his eyes came very close to breaking me.

He said nothing else, but turned and started walking. She followed him in silence all the way back to the ballroom and then into a hallway that she hadn't entered before. "Won't they miss you?"

"No." He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way she found both disarming and very, very sexy. "Besides, the after-party is here. Eventually, whoever needs me will find me."

Elena nodded, then took the opportunity to look around. The hallway was wide with white walls rising to a low ceiling. The floor was brushed concrete, and it was broken up by several geometric, flat-sided pillars spaced down the length.

Dozens of framed black and white photographs lined the walls, and as they walked they passed Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Harrison Ford, and countless other stars of some of my favourite movies.

But it was not those images that Damon wanted to see. Instead, he took to the first pillar and the full colour photograph that hung there. It was of the Winn Building in Manhattan, a glass and steel skyscraper that rose like royalty over the city, with so much retail, office, and living space that it was practically a city unto itself.

Damon said nothing as they looked at the image, and she estimated that a full minute passed before they moved to the next pillar and the framed image of the new Salzburg Opera House, with its curved facade that seemed to flow like music in perfect harmony with the mountains that frame it.

The last photograph was not of a commercial project, but of a house in the mountains outside of New Mexico. Its burnished exterior blended with the stone and rock, and though the single-story residence was obviously both new and state of the art, it flew over the landscape with the kind of bold confidence that suggested it rose fully formed from the mountains that bore it.

"What do you know about these?"

Elena told him, giving him the details that he already knew. How the Santa Fe getaway for a well-known philanthropist finally earned him the recognition he deserved and jump-started his architectural career. How the opera house thrusted him into the design-build arena when he branched out from strict design work to the full spectrum of property development. And how the Winn Building was a major victory for Salvatore Development, as it marked his company's foray into the lucrative New York market, and resulted in the first project in which he retained an ownership interest.

She didn't mention that the rental income from the Winn Building must have at least quadrupled Damon's net worth overnight. But they both knew that she was aware. She had been in construction business all these years and had gained some understanding of the monetary potential for the kind of projects Damon now commanded.

In other words, Damon didn't need the income from The Resort at Dunham Lake. And considering how fast his star was ascending with the documentary and the possibility of a feature film, he didn't even need the publicity.

All Elena had to offer was the challenge. She could only hope that would be enough.

Elena turned so that she was facing him, her back now to the pillar. "So? How did I do?"

"Not bad. You have been watching my career."

"No," she said, the lie coming easily. "But I'm good at my job. And that means I know who I'm recruiting."

"Recruiting," he repeated. He took a single step toward her.

"Yes." The word was firm, and Elena was proud of how steady she felt.

He stepped closer, reducing the distance between them to mere inches. She tilted her head back. She couldn't help but feel small. Vulnerable.

She pushed that down, though, and met his eyes, hoping hers showed ice and determination.

"Do you remember our time together?"

His words were like a slap, and despite all her resolve, she stepped backward, only to be foiled by the pillar behind her. "I—of course I do." She licked her lips. "Damon, I'm sorry about the past. But this isn't—"

"No," he said, holding up a finger to silence her. "Do you remember before? Before you tore it all apart. Do you remember the way it felt when I touched you?"

Her throat had gone completely dry, and she could feel small beads of sweat at the nape of her neck. "Damon. Don't."

He stepped closer, ignoring her. "Tell me, Elena. And be honest, because I swear I will know if you are lying." His voice was low, seductive, and utterly commanding. "Do you remember?"

She shook her head, but that isn't enough to push away the truth. Of course she remembered. She remembered every laugh, every touch, every breath. She remembered every word of every conversation, the taste of every meal. She remembered the glorious sensation of his hands upon her and his cock inside her.

But she also remembered the pain when they were together. Not only they were in pain. The people around them felt the hurt too.

His fingertip hooked under her chin and he tilted her head up so that she was staring deep into his eyes. "Do you remember?" he repeated.

Elena said nothing.

"And at the end," he persisted. "Do you remember what you asked me on your birthday ten years ago?"

She licked her dry lips, then nodded.

"Tell me."

Whatever you need, baby, I promise. You only have to ask.

Damon, I—I need you to leave me. I need you to walk away and to never look back.

The memory pounded like red neon inside her head.

"Tell me," he repeated.

"I asked you to leave." Elena said the words simply, as if every syllable wasn't ripping her to shreds.

"And did I?" His voice was still even, still calm, but there was no hiding the tension that back each and every word. "Did I not do exactly what you asked? Did I not walk away even though it just about killed me?"

It killed her, too. Elena wanted to shout the words at him, but she didn't. She couldn't. "Yes." Her voice sounded lost. Hollow. "You did."

He leaned closer, placing one hand on the pillar just over her shoulder. He was at an angle, his face so close she could smell whiskey on his breath. "So what exactly do you want from me now?" He stroke his free hand down her bare arm until he reached her hand. He twinds his fingers with her and pulled her hard against him.

Elena gasped and tried to ease backward, but it was not possible. He had moved his palm from the pillar to her lower back. He held her close, so tight that she was breathless, lost in the feel of him and, yes, in the erotic sensation of his erection, unmistakable against her abdomen.

"Damon…"

"Are you offering me a job?" he continued, ignoring her protest. "Are you offering to bring back everything you killed when you pushed me away?"

He released her hand. "Or are you offering me this?" he asked, as he brushed his fingertip over her lower lip, so softly and gently that she had to fight not to gasp with pleasure. "Or maybe this?" he asked as his hand moves lower, his palm grazing over her breast.

Her nipple tightened as her skin prickled with need. Elena had to focus on breathing, on not letting her knees give out.

Damon took no pity on her. Instead, he gently rubbed circles on her breast, taunting and teasing even as his words continue to flow over her. "Surely you remember how it felt," he pressed. "You in my arms. Your release. That expression of ecstasy etched on your face. The surrender I felt in your body."

"Don't." That single word was a cry. A plea.

"Don't?" His hand slid down again, his fingers twining with hers once more. "But I have to. So, tell me, Elena. Because I need to know. What exactly are you offering me?"

Her eyes stung, and she squeezed them shut, wishing for the release of tears but they simply wouldn't come. "Just the job," Elena finally said. She took a deep breath and open her eyes to face him. "Nothing has changed, Damon We can't …" She shook her head, letting her words trail away.

He held her gaze. The heat building in the space between them was so intense that Elena swore she could see the molecules spinning.

Slowly, he released his grip on her hand. He stepped back and she felt cold when he lifted his other hand from the small of her back. "You are right," he said. "We can't."

And that was it. Two little words, and then he turned away from her and walked down the hall. Elena stared after him, breathing hard, watching until he disappeared into the shadows of the larger room.

He never once looked back.