"Nice suit."

It's an innocent compliment, but it doesn't sound innocent at all. I notice that the lights in the room are still dim and bite my lip in nervous antic.i.p.ation.

"Not that I like to see you unemployed, but this works out well. Your day job was interfering with my plans for you."

"Oh." My mouth is dry. I swallow. "Yes, well, I'm hardly joining the ranks of the idle ma.s.ses. I'll need to find a new one."

"Why?"

"I have this thing about eating and paying my rent. I'm just wacky that way."

"In case you forgot, you'll have a cool million in a week. For that matter, if you need money now, I'm happy to advance you a portion."

"No, thanks. That money's going into the bank. I'm not spending a dime until I'm ready."

"Ready?"

I shrug. I know Damien could help me launch a start-up, but I'm not ready to share that dream with him. Not yet.

"Secrets, Ms. Fairchild?" His voice is playful. He moves closer, so that I have to tilt my head up to look at him. "Shall I beg you to tell me what you intend for my money?"

"Your money, Mr. Stark? I don't think so. I'm earning every last penny."

"Oh yes," he says. His low, sensual voice curls through me. "You most definitely are."

His thumb grazes my lower lip and my breath hitches. Beneath my thin blouse, my nipples are stiff against the lace of my bra. I want to draw his thumb into my mouth and suck on it. I want to slide my tongue over it and listen as Damien moans. I want to feel his hands on me, our bodies pressed together, his erection straining against the expensive weave of his tailored slacks.

I want it, but I don't take it.

Instead, I back away. "Our time hasn't started yet, Mr. Stark," I say.

His eyes burn with dark fire, and then he laughs, the sound as smooth as fine whiskey. "You're a tease, Ms. Fairchild."

"Am I? Well, I guess you'll have to punish me."

He sucks in a sharp breath, and I flash a seductive smile. I'm playing a dangerous game, but right then I don't care. I feel powerful, and I like it.

"Nikki ..." His voice is raw and needy and I feel the quickening in my belly, the tightening in my thighs. I want his hands on me, and I feel my resolve weakening.

I'm saved by the sharp buzz of his intercom. "Mr. Maynard on line two."

"Thank you, Sylvia."

He holds up a finger, signaling me to wait, then taps his earpiece. "Charles," he says. "Give me an update."

He listens for a moment. "No," he says, and I'm certain that he's just interrupted Mr. Maynard. "You know d.a.m.n well that I'm not interested in playing games or idle threats. I will file a defamation action if this goes any further. Make sure he understands that. Yes, of course I realize that. No, Charles, I'm not concerned about how difficult our case might be, I'm interested in stopping the son of a b.i.t.c.h. Well, then I guess you'll just have to bill me for all those extra hours, sounds like a win-win as far as your firm is concerned." His expression hardens. "Well, if he digs that up, then I'll really have to play hardball." He listens for a moment, then frowns. "No, you know she wouldn't. You took care of the new facility?" He nods, his expression weary. "Just make this go away, Charles. That's what I'm paying you for."

He hangs up without saying goodbye. I can feel his tension.

I'm tense, too. I'm certain the call was about Sara Padgett and her brother. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He looks at me, but it's as if I'm not even here. "No. It's just business."

I press my lips together, forcing myself to keep silent. After a moment, he seems to shake it off. He smiles slowly, then reaches for my hand. "Come with me."

Hesitantly, I twine my fingers with his. "Where are we going?"

"Lunch," he says.

"But it's not even ten yet."

His grin is boyish. "That should be just enough time...."

17.

We take Damien's private elevator down to the parking level, and when the doors open, I recognize the red sports car from last night. I glance sideways at Damien. "Nice car. Looks familiar. Probably a lot of them in Los Angeles, huh?"

"Hundreds, I'm sure," he says dryly.

I don't know much about cars, but I can tell this one is sweet. It's cherry red and polished to a mirror shine. The windows are tinted as dark as a limo. It's so low to the ground that I'm afraid my a.s.s will get bruised if we hit a pothole. It's sleek and beautiful and definitely the kind of toy I'd expect a billionaire to own.

"What?" he says, seeing my smile.

"You're predictable, that's all."

His brows lift. "Am I?"

"What is this, some kind of fancy Ferrari? I mean, what billionaire doesn't own a Ferrari?"

"Ah, it's much worse than that," he says. "This is a Bugatti Veyron. It costs about twice as much as a Ferrari. Nine hundred eighty-seven horsepower, a W16 engine, top speed of two hundred fifty-three, and she'll go from zero to sixty in under three seconds."

I force myself to look unimpressed. "In other words, you don't own a Ferrari?"

"I own three." Before I can react, he grins and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. "Watch your head getting in. She's low to the ground."

He opens my door, and I slide in. The all-leather interior smells amazing, and the seat hugs me like-well, I don't know like what, but I could get used to it.

"Where are we going?" I ask, as he gets in behind the wheel.

"Santa Monica."

The beachside town is maybe thirty minutes away, and that's only if we hit a ton of traffic. "Oh. So we're having an early lunch?"

"The Santa Monica Airport," he clarifies. "That's where I keep the jet hangared."

"Of course it is." I lean back in the seat and decide I'm either going to have heart palpitations or just go with it. The latter seems healthier. And more fun. "And we're taking the jet where?"

"Santa Barbara," he says.

"Really? With this car, I'd think we'd just drive."

"If I didn't have a meeting at three, we would." He presses a b.u.t.ton on the steering wheel and the car fills with a dial tone, then begins to ring.

"Yes, Mr. Stark?"

"Sylvia, I'm taking the Bombardier out. Call Grayson and get her ready and put in a flight plan for me to Santa Barbara."

"Of course. Shall I arrange for a car to meet you at SBA?"

"Yes. And let Richard know I'm coming. We'll be dining on the terrace."

"Consider it done. Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Stark."

He clicks off without saying goodbye.

"She sounds efficient."

"Sylvia? She is. I expect only two things from my employees, loyalty and competence. Sylvia excels at both."

I am, I realize, slightly jealous of Sylvia and her pert smile and pixie cut hair sitting right there outside Damien's office every single day. It's a stupid, petty emotion and I'm ashamed to even entertain it. I console myself with an even pettier truth-that I'm the one he's taking to lunch.

"Looks like traffic is with us," he says as he pulls onto the relatively clear Interstate 10. He hits the accelerator, and I immediately see that he didn't lie. The car is sweet and it rockets up to sixty before I even have time to draw in a breath.

"Wow," I say.

Beside me, he's grinning like a teenager. "I'd really open her up, but the cops tend to get testy."

"Why buy a car like this if you can't drive her fast?"

He glances sideways at me. "Spoken like a true pragmatist. I didn't say I never drive her fast. But I'm not willing to risk your life-or the lives of any of the other commuters stuck out here on the 10."

"I appreciate the courtesy."

"But if you're interested, we can take her out to the desert one day and I'll show you what she can do."

"Show me? I can't drive her?"

He eyes me with interest. "You know how to drive a stick?"

"I bought my Honda my second semester at UT," I say. "It had decrepit upholstery, primer instead of paint, and a standard transmission. I replaced the upholstery, painted it on the cheap, and learned how to work a clutch." I'd been d.a.m.n proud, too. When my mother had cut off the flow of money, she'd also taken my BMW. I'd wanted wheels, and I'd sc.r.a.ped together just shy of fifteen hundred dollars to get the Honda. It was a total piece of s.h.i.t, but it was all mine, and it's still chugging along.

"In that case, maybe you can drive her." I hear the heat in his voice. "If you're very, very good."

"To have all this power beneath me?" I say, pitching my voice low and breathy. "I think that's incentive."

Beside me, Damien groans. "Jesus, Nikki. I thought we were trying to avoid a traffic accident."

I laugh, feeling s.e.xy and powerful. It's one h.e.l.l of a nice feeling.

Despite not going close to three hundred miles per hour, it takes almost no time to get to the Santa Monica Airport. Damien pulls up in front of a hangar beside a futuristic-looking jet with wings that seem to extend forever from the belly of the plane and bend upward at ninety-degree angles at each end.

"Wow," I say. I glance around and see an older man with graying hair and a beard striding toward us. "Is that Grayson? Is he the pilot?"

"That is Grayson," Damien says. "And he's the mechanic, flight guru, and all-around grease monkey. Good morning, Grayson. She all ready to go?"

"That she is. Great day for it, too."

"Grayson, this is Nikki Fairchild, my date for the afternoon."

"It's a pleasure," he says, shaking my hand.

"How long have you been flying?" I ask him.

"Over fifty years," he says. "My dad used to take me up in his Cessna when I was a little thing and let me control the stick." He pa.s.ses a clipboard to Damien, along with something that looks like a test tube. "She's fueled up and ready, but I know you're going to give her your own once-over."

"My bird, my responsibility."

He takes the clipboard, then walks to the plane. He checks the pressure in the tires, then circles the jet, pausing occasionally to open something so that liquid can drip into the tube.

"What's he doing?"

"Checking for water in the fuel and for fluid in the lines," Grayson says. "I've been prepping planes for him for five years now, and he's never once not double-checked me."

"Isn't that a little annoying?"

"h.e.l.l, no. It's the sign of a good pilot, and Damien Stark is a d.a.m.n good pilot. I ought to know. I'm the one who taught him."

"Pilot," I repeat, as Damien returns and pa.s.ses the tube back to Grayson. "You're flying?"

"I am," he says. "Ready?"

I glance at Grayson, who chuckles. "You're in good hands."

"Very good," Damien says, but I have a feeling he's not talking about flying. Or, at least, not about flying in jets.

The access stairs are already down, and Damien gestures for me to go first. I climb up and find myself in a cabin so fine it makes commercial first cla.s.s look like prison. I aim myself at one of the seats, only to feel Damien's hand on my arm holding me back. "We're going left," he says, and I follow him into the c.o.c.kpit. Still polished and shiny, but this is a workplace, not an area to kick back with music and a c.o.c.ktail.

He gets me settled into my seat, then gives the belt a tug, making sure I'm nice and snug before seating himself. "Why not let Grayson fly?" I ask. "Isn't it a shame to forgo all that luxury and have to do all the hard work?"

"I have comfortable chairs and c.o.c.ktails on the ground. Flying is where the thrill is."