"All right," I say. "Thrill me."

His grin is wolfish. "I intend to, Ms. Fairchild. In the air, and when we're back safely on the ground."

Oh ...

He puts on a headset and checks in with the tower. Then we're taxiing to the runway and Damien is maneuvering the plane into position. "Ready?" he asks, and I nod. I hear the power build before I feel it, and then suddenly we're moving, racing down the runway. Damien's hands are on the wheel, firm and in control. And then he pulls back and I feel the ground fall away beneath us. I'm leaning back in my seat and we're flying.

I gasp. "Wow." I'm no stranger to commercial airplanes, but somehow the whole experience is different when you're sitting in the copilot seat.

We climb for a while, with Damien talking back and forth with the tower. Then we level off. When I look out, I see the California coastline far below us, and the mountains rising in the distance. "Wow," I say again, then rummage in my purse for my iPhone. I take a few snapshots, then turn to Damien. "I wish I'd known we were going to do this. I'd love to get some real shots."

"I doubt you could get anything decent through the gla.s.s. Grayson keeps it clean, but it's still going to cause some distortion."

He's right, and I feel a little better about the missed opportunity.

"Do you shoot digitally or on film?" he asks. Now that we're in the air, it's surprisingly quiet.

"Film," I say. "My camera's pretty old."

"Do you develop your own film?"

"No." I shudder involuntarily and hope that Damien won't notice. Of course, he does.

"I didn't realize that was such a loaded question."

"I'm not crazy about small, dark s.p.a.ces," I admit.

"Claustrophobia?"

"I guess. It's being enclosed in the dark, mostly." I lick my lips. "And locked rooms. I don't like feeling trapped." I look down and realize I'm hugging myself.

He reaches over and presses a gentle hand to my thigh. I close my eyes and concentrate on steadying my breathing. It's easier now that I have his touch to center me.

"Sorry," I finally say.

"You don't have anything to apologize for."

"I should be over it. It's stupid. Just childhood c.r.a.p, you know?"

"Things that happen in childhood stay with you," he says, and I remember what Evelyn said about s.h.i.t being piled onto him when he was a boy. Maybe he does get it. And right then, I want to share. I want him to see that there's an explanation for my quirks. Maybe I think that without a reason, I just look weak, and I don't want to seem weak to Damien Stark.

Or maybe I just want him to truly know me.

I don't know, and I don't want to wallow in self-a.n.a.lysis. I just want to say the words. "My mother had me competing in pageants from the time I was four," I say. "She was strict about a lot of things, but the one we battled the most on was me getting my beauty sleep."

"What did she do?" he asks. His voice is gentle, but clipped, as if he's holding on tight to control.

"At first, she just told me lights out at whatever time she set for my bedtime. Always at least two hours before my friends. I was never tired, so I'd go to bed, turn out the lights, then pull out a flashlight and play with my stuffed animals. When I got older, I'd read. She caught me one too many times."

He doesn't say anything, but I can feel the heaviness in the air between us. He's antic.i.p.ating my next words.

"She started searching my room. Taking away my flashlight. Then she moved my bedroom to an interior room so that I didn't have a window, because there was some light that crept in from a streetlamp, and she'd read somewhere that you can only truly sleep well if you're in pitch-black." I lick my lips. "And then she put a lock on my door. From the outside. And had an electrician move the light switch to the outside, too." I'm damp with sweat, wondering if I should have started talking about it, because even though the sky is bright outside the windows, the darkness feels like it's pressing in around me.

"Your father did nothing?" The anger in Stark's voice is palpable.

"I don't know my dad. They divorced when I was a baby. He lives somewhere in Europe now. I almost told my grandfather once, but I never quite worked up the courage before he died."

"That horrific b.i.t.c.h." He spits out the word, and though I completely agree, I can feel social niceties rising to my lips, as if I have to find excuses for my mother.

I tamp them down. "My sister tried to help." I smile as I remember the way Ashley used to shine a light under the crack in my door and read me stories until I got sleepy. At least until our mother found out.

"She didn't have to have her beauty sleep, too?"

"She didn't win enough, so my mom eventually quit entering her in pageants." The freedom had given Ashley time. It had given her back her life. I had adored my big sister, who'd always been my guardian angel, but I'd been incredibly jealous, too. I used to think she was the lucky one.

And then she'd killed herself.

I shiver. "I really don't want to talk about it anymore," I say.

He doesn't acknowledge my words, but after a moment he speaks again. "I thought I knew a bit about photography, but I guess I know less than I thought. I always a.s.sumed some light was allowed in."

I glance sideways at him, grateful for his discretion. He's stepped away from my personal issues with the dark, but kept the thread of our original conversation. "At a certain point in the process, yes," I say, letting my fears and memories fade under the weight of a subject I love. "And a red or amber safelight is common when making black and white prints because most of the papers are sensitive only to blue or blue-green light. But if you're working with color like I usually do, then the prints need to be kept in total darkness until they're properly fixed."

I shrug. "It's really not a big deal. Access to a darkroom is expensive and doing your own developing eats up a lot of time. One of these days I'll get a digital camera, but in the meantime, I send my film out and get back a contact sheet along with all the pictures on disk. Then I sit down and play with the images in my native environment."

"The computer?" he asks, grinning.

"Ever since I got my first one at age ten," I confirm. I don't tell him that the computer was my escape. I could turn it on and tell my mother I was doing homework, then lose myself in games and later in writing my own code. For a week or so, I'd even used the screen as a nightlight, but my mother caught on. My mother never missed a thing.

"Doing photographic work on the computer is like holding magic in your hand," I say. "I mean, I could take a picture of you and then find stock footage of the surface of the moon and make it look like you're standing in s.p.a.ce." I grin wickedly. "Or I could put your head on the body of monkey."

"I'm not sure that would show me off to my best advantage."

I have to agree. "No, it wouldn't."

"That's one of the apps you have for sale, isn't it?" he asks.

I blink, surprised he knows about that. I've designed, coded, and am selling three smartphone apps across various platforms. I designed them while I was at UT, though not for any particular cla.s.s. Turns out there's actually a market for apps that allow you to paste a headshot onto a provided stock animal photo, then share the new image across various social media.

"How did you know about that?" I ask. That app is reasonably popular, but it's not bringing in so much money that it would be on Stark's radar.

"I make it a point to know everything I can about the things I care about." He's looking at me as he speaks, and there's no mistaking that he means me and not the app. I don't know why I'm surprised. Damien never misses a thing, either.

I smile, feeling flattered but also exposed. I can't help but wonder what other things he knows about me. How deep has he looked? Considering the resources at Damien Stark's disposal, he could have looked pretty d.a.m.n deep, and that truism gives me pause.

If he notices my mood this time, he ignores it. "I've always thought of science as magic, too," he says, returning to the thread of our conversation. "Though not just computer science."

"I was pretty impressed with your questions during the pitch," I say. His questions had covered the technical aspects of the software design as well as the anatomical components, reflecting an understanding of both tech and basic anatomy. "What did you study in college?"

"I didn't go to college," he says. "For that matter, I didn't go to school. I had private tutors from the time I was ten. My coach insisted, and my father agreed."

An unfamiliar edge sharpens his voice, and although I want to know more, it's clear I've stumbled upon a sore subject. "So, do you know much about photography?" I ask, grappling for a shift in the conversation. I remember the photos in his reception area. "Did you take the pictures outside your office?"

"I know just enough to be dangerous," he says lightly, and I'm glad of the change in mood. "And no. I tried to find photos that represent my hobbies. Those are done by a local photographer. He has a studio in Santa Monica, actually."

"He's very skilled. His use of contrast and perspective is stunning."

"I agree, and I'm flattered you thought I might be the photographer."

I shift in my seat to look at him better. "Well, you are a remarkably talented man. And very full of surprises."

His decadent grin is pure Damien, promising more surprises to come, and I feel an answering tingle between my thighs.

I drop my eyes and clear my throat. "Your hobbies, huh? So there were photographs of the ocean, some mountains, redwoods, and a bike tire. I'm guessing sailing, skiing, I have no idea, and biking."

"Not bad. The ocean represents diving and the trees are for hiking. Other than that, you got it right. Any of those appeal to you, Ms. Fairchild?"

"All of them," I admit. "Although I've never tried diving. Not many opportunities in Texas."

"California has excellent diving," he says. "Though a wetsuit is a bit c.u.mbersome. I much prefer the warmer waters of the Caribbean. There," he says, pointing out the window.

It takes me a second to switch gears, but then I see that he's pointing to Santa Barbara.

"I'll need to put her into the landing pattern soon, but why don't you take control for a bit."

"What?" I clear my throat and try that again without squeaking. "I'm sorry, but what?"

"It's easy," he says, releasing his hold on the wheel. He reaches over and takes my hand. The contact burns through me-why do I feel this man's every touch so intensely? Right then, I wish I didn't, because he's putting my hands on the wheel and I'm supposed to keep this plane in the air, and he's making it really hard to concentrate.

"Oh, f.u.c.k," I say as he lets go of my hand. "s.h.i.t, Stark! What am I supposed to do?"

"You're doing it. Just keep her steady. Push in, we descend. Pull out, we climb. Go ahead, pull out gently."

I do nothing.

He laughs. "Go on. Give it a try."

This time I do, and then gasp with pleasure as the plane responds to my command.

"I like that sound," Damien says. "I think I need to hear that sound on the ground." He puts his thumb on my cheek and strokes it softly. This time, I try very hard not to make a sound. "There you go, baby. Okay, steady it out."

His hand grazes down my neck and rests on my shoulder. He squeezes it lightly. "Good job."

My breathing is coming fast, and I'm not sure if it's the exhilaration from the flight or from the man. "I am flying," I say. "I am really flying."

"Yes," he says. "And you will again."

We're the only guests on the terrace dining area at the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel on Bank Street. We're just a few blocks from the ocean, and from where we sit, we can see the pier at Stearns Wharf and, in the distance, the Channel Islands rising like sea creatures from the water.

I'm sipping a white chocolate martini, and I'm pleasantly full after a lunch of raw oysters and stuffed salmon. "This is amazing," I say. "How did you find this place?"

"It wasn't difficult," he says. "I own the hotel."

I don't know why I'm surprised. "Is there anything you don't own, Mr. Stark?"

He reaches out and takes my hand. "At the moment, everything I want is mine."

I take a sip of the martini to hide my reaction.

"Don't worry, Ms. Fairchild. I take very good care of the things I own."

My cheeks flush, and I'm suddenly very aware of my body, especially the parts below my waist. I savor the feeling, because the truth is that I'm a little afraid he's going to want to back out of our deal once he gets a full view of the condition of the merchandise.

A man in a tailored suit steps onto the terrace and approaches us. He's carrying a white shopping bag, which he hands to Damien. "This just arrived for you, Mr. Stark."

"Thank you, Richard."

As Richard leaves, Damien pa.s.ses me the bag. "I believe this is for you."

"Really?" I put the bag in my lap, peer into it, and gasp. It's a Leica, shiny and new.

I look to Damien and see his wide, delighted grin. "You like? It's digital. Top of the line."

"It's wonderful." I laugh. "You're amazing, Mr. Stark. You just blink and things happen."

"A bit more than a blink, but it was worth the extra effort. How else will you get shots of the beach today?"

I stand and walk to the edge of the terrace. "I can see the ocean from here, but not much of the beach."

"The view will be better when we're walking on it."

I lift my foot and show off my pumps with the two-inch heels. "I don't think I'm dressed for the occasion."

The ankle bracelet sparkles in the sun. He runs his finger over it, the heat from his skin radiating over mine.

"It's beautiful," I say.

"Beauty for beauty," he replies. "The emeralds match your eyes."

I smile, delighted. "I'm feeling showered with gifts lately."

"Good. You deserve to be. And that's not a gift," he says, brushing his finger over the bracelet. "It's a bond ... and a promise." He's looking right at me as he speaks, and my cheeks heat with a blush.

"I don't want to miss walking on the beach with you," I admit. My words come out a whisper. "I can go barefoot."

He chuckles. "You could. But have you looked under the camera box?"

"Under?" I go back to the table and pull out the box. Sure enough, there's something else there, wrapped in blue tissue paper. I look at him, but his expression gives nothing away. Slowly, I pull out the tissue paper. Whatever's hidden is flat and firm. I peel back the paper until I reveal a pair of black flip-flops. I look up at Damien and grin.