"No, why?"

"New-car smell. Um, she's not like some rare cla.s.sic car that's irreplaceable, is she?"

He reaches over and slides the key into the ignition. "Drive, Nikki."

"Drive. Right." I take a deep breath, punch in the clutch, and fire up the engine.

The motor purrs, and it's a sweet, sweet sound. Slowly and carefully, I move the car into first gear and ease out of the driveway and onto the caliche road leading up to the resort. "Go left when you hit the street," Damien says. "There are no other homes or businesses past the resort. I doubt there will be any traffic at all."

I nod and ease slowly over the caliche. I'm crawling, actually, and I think Damien may be a little frustrated with my snail's pace, but there is no way I'm risking little rocks flying up and chipping the paint on this baby.

And, yeah, I'm freaking nervous.

When I arrive at the intersection, I pause. "You're sure about this?"

"h.e.l.l yes," he says.

"What if I strip the gears?"

"I hope you do. I think a striptease would be an appropriate apology for something like that, don't you?"

I squirm, half-wishing he didn't have such an intense and immediate effect on me. "Don't talk like that," I say. "I need to concentrate."

He laughs, then takes my hand and puts it on the stick. "All that power in the palm of your hand," he says, and now I know he's just trying to make me wet.

"Boys and their toys," I retort, then ease the car left onto the street. "Here goes," I say, and accelerate. It takes me a minute to get used to the steering and the speed, but I have to admit it's exhilarating, and soon I'm all the way into seventh gear-seventh!-and the speedometer's hovering over one hundred eighty. The ride is remarkably smooth, and I think I could take it even faster, but the foothills are getting pretty big in the front window and I see the road curving up ahead and I'm still nervous enough that I can't do this on a curve.

I ease up, downshift, and pull over to the side of the road. As soon as the car's off, I peel myself out of the driver's seat and climb over the console until I'm straddling Damien. "That was amazing," I say. "Totally, completely amazing." I kiss him hard and fast, then press his hand to my leg. "Am I trembling? G.o.d, I think my body's still vibrating just from the speed of this car."

"Boys and their toys?" he says with raised brows. "I think this qualifies as a girl toy, too."

"Heck yeah, it does." I kiss him again, and he opens his mouth, drawing me in. His hands ease up the front of my blouse to cup my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and I moan and reach down for his fly. He's hard-I can feel him against my leg-but he shakes his head, his grin mischievous. "I don't think so," he says. "I think I'm going to make you wait." I run my teeth over my lower lip, because I don't want to wait. And yet there's something tantalizing about the idea of such sweet torture. To be hot and needy and antic.i.p.ating his touch.

He slides his hand between my legs and strokes me quickly, just one cruel little tease. I buck up and tighten my grip on his leg. "Oh, baby," he says, "tell me you liked our toy."

"Oh, yes."

"I have a new game."

"Game?"

He kisses me. "I bet I can make you come without even touching you."

"Let me drive this car a bit longer, and you won't have to do a thing," I say.

He laughs. "I don't want to make myself redundant. Besides, I brought another toy."

I ease back a bit and eye him. His face is lit with both amus.e.m.e.nt and pa.s.sion. He's got the devious look of a man with a plan, but I haven't got a clue what it could be. "All right," I say. "I'm curious."

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a cloth pouch, then pulls a metal egg from it.

"What is that?"

"I'll show you," he says. I'm still straddling him, and he slides his hand between my legs, and as I gasp in surprise, he slips the egg easily inside me.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

He laughs. "You'll see."

"But-"

"How does it feel?"

"I-it's, um, interesting." I feel full. And very aware. And very turned on.

"Interesting?" he asks, and before the word has even left his lips, the thing inside me starts to vibrate, teasing me from the inside and making me gasp.

"Holy f.u.c.k," I say, and Damien laughs. Immediately, the vibration stops.

I gape at him. "Remote control," he says casually, then opens the door and eases me off his lap. He gets out and I take his place. I'm quiet, contemplating this strange, exotic, enticing toy he's brought for us. I have to admit, it feels nice. The idea is weird, but the effect? Well, I really can't complain.

He peels back out onto the street with a h.e.l.l of a lot more aplomb than I did. I'm pretty sure we cross the two-hundred-mile-per-hour mark before we slow down and get back on the interstate. We drive for about twenty minutes, then exit in a small town called Redlands. "There's a restaurant here I love," he says, and he drives me past restored Victorian homes and into the quaint downtown area. It's eight o'clock on a weeknight, and there aren't many people out. The restaurant itself is only half full. It's in a refurbished warehouse, and has an air of elegance set against brick and stone and iron piping.

"I like it," I say.

"The ambience is great, the food even better."

We're led to a quiet booth in the corner, and I slide in on one side, expecting Damien to sit next to me. He doesn't. He takes a seat across from me. "I want to look at you," he says, but I don't entirely believe him. He has a remote control in his pocket, and I have a feeling that he has plans for this evening.

I lean forward. "Don't you dare. This is a nice restaurant."

But Damien only smirks. And, yeah, he turns it on just long enough for me to jump.

I lick my lips and look around, certain everyone has not only seen me, but knows what we're doing. But there's really no one in our line of sight, and none of the staff are looking our way.

I swallow and shift a bit in the seat. I try to focus on my menu, but it's hard, because any moment Damien might turn that thing on, and I'm both dreading it and antic.i.p.ating it.

"You're very easy to read, Ms. Fairchild."

I scowl at him and focus on my current conundrum of deciding between a martini and a bourbon, straight up.

The bourbon wins. There's really no contest.

The waitress returns with our drinks and takes our dinner orders-we're both having steak-then leaves us in our little corner.

"You're torturing me, you know," I say.

Damien laughs and holds up his hands as if in self-defense. "Hey, I'm not doing anything."

"Hmmm."

"Antic.i.p.ation is the better part of pleasure," he says.

"Antic.i.p.ation is driving me crazy," I retort.

He reaches across the table for my hand, stroking his thumb over mine. "Tell me about the job. What does Bruce have planned for you?"

I eye him suspiciously. "You really don't know?"

He laughs. "I really don't."

I launch greedily into the topic, giving him a rundown of the parameters of my new job. "Bruce seems really cool," I add. "I think I'll learn a lot from him."

"I'm sure you will, but I still don't understand why you don't just dive in and work for yourself. You said you have a product in mind to develop, right?"

"I do," I admit. "Honestly, I think I'm a little scared. I spent five years in school learning all the technical stuff. I trust myself with the science and the engineering. But the business end ..." I trail off with a shrug. "I feel like there should have been a cla.s.s on how to find investors or how to raise capital or something." I wave my hand, because I'm sure I sound like a total loser. "I just don't want to jump in before I feel competent. I'm afraid if I do all your money will just slip through my fingers."

"It's your money," he says. "Or it will be soon. But if you need help, all you have to do is ask. I've gotten pretty good at this stuff," he adds with a grin.

"Damien, please. I just-I just feel like I need to be the one who does this. On my own, you know?"

"No one survives in business going entirely on their own."

"Damien ..."

"Fine," he concedes. "But let me give you some advice. If you're looking to make a splash in the tech field, the time is now. I don't know what ideas you're developing, but I promise that you aren't the only one. Screw around too long, and someone will hit the market first."

"Like what happened to Carl."

"Exactly." He squeezes my hand. "Will you tell me your idea? I'm curious."

I hesitate only a second. I don't want to work for or with Damien, but I do value his opinion. And I'm proud of my idea and want to share it with this man who now fills my world.

"I have several smartphone apps already out there, and they'll be part of the company, of course. But the marquee product will be a cross-platform note-sharing system for use on the Web."

"I'm intrigued. Explain."

I do, roughing out my idea of a web-based software that allows users to leave virtual sticky notes on webpages that their friends and colleagues can see when they access the same website. "That's just the most obvious use. There are all sorts of permutations. But I think it has real potential."

"So do I," he says. "When you're ready, I'll help."

Maybe it's foolish to feel so proud of myself simply because my idea has the Damien Stark seal of approval, but I do. I beam at him and squeeze his hand. "How about you? How was your trip to San Diego? Did you buy a conglomerate? A country? A chain of gourmet cupcake bakeries?"

I'm being a goof, but his reaction doesn't match my words. His face turns cold, the familiar ice returning, and I wonder what I could possibly have said. He picks up his water gla.s.s and takes a long drink. When he sets it down, he keeps his eyes on it for what feels like a very long time, but probably is only seconds. He turns the gla.s.s, the condensation making patterns on the polyurethane tabletop. Finally, he looks at me. "I was there to visit my father."

The words come out level. Almost bland. But I realize how much he's telling me. He could have simply told me he had a bad day. I would have believed him. Instead, he's keeping his word. He's giving me another glimpse into himself-and he has to know how much that means to me.

"How long has he lived in San Diego?" I ask. I keep my tone conversational, as if there was nothing monumental about this exchange of words.

"I bought him the house when I was fourteen," he says. He takes another sip of water. "That was the year I fired him and hired a new manager."

"Oh." I had missed that on Wikipedia, but I hadn't really been paying attention to the mentions of the people surrounding Damien. Only Damien himself. "It was nice of you to visit him. I'm guessing you two don't have the best relationship."

He looks at me sharply. "Why do you say that?"

I shrug; it seems obvious to me. "Him taking such tight control of your career. Making you play even when you wanted to quit and go to the science academy."

"Right." He leans back against the booth, and I'm struck by the odd sense that he's relieved, but that doesn't make sense.

"It was nice of you to go see him."

"An unpleasant necessity."

I'm not sure what to say to that, but I'm saved by the arrival of our waitress with the meal. As we eat, our conversation shifts to a rundown of our spa adventure. "It was amazing," I say, telling him in great detail everything we did. "I've never had a mud bath before."

"I'm sorry I missed it."

"Me, too," I say, smiling from the heat in his voice. My body clenches, and I'm reminded of the little silver egg tucked away inside me. I feel s.e.xy and decadent-and a bit on edge, since I have no clue when Damien may pull that trigger.

"Did Jamie have a good time?"

"Are you kidding? She thinks you're the world's greatest humanitarian now. Seriously, it was wonderful of you to invite her. She's been having a tough time of it."

"How so?"

"She's an actress," I say, because that pretty much sums it up in Hollywood.

"Has she gotten any work?"

"A few local commercials and some equity waiver stuff. But considering she's been here for years, she's not exactly making progress. She's frustrated. I think her agent's getting frustrated. And I know finances are a concern. She's not, you know, walking the streets in patent leather, but I think she may have actually slept with a few guys just because she knew they'd feed her well or cover her mortgage for the month."

"And now you're living there."

"Well, that takes the pressure off, sure. But still. She has to find work." I finish my steak and take a sip of wine. "What's so frustrating is that she's genuinely talented, and the camera loves her. If she could just get that break ..." I trail off with a shrug. "Sorry. I'm rambling. But I love her and I feel bad for her."

"You want to help her."

"Yeah."

Beneath the table his leg caresses mine. "I know the feeling."

The softness of his words takes my breath away, but I can't meet his eyes. I concentrate instead on my wine and am grateful when he changes the subject, telling me how he found this restaurant when he decided to spend a weekend exploring small California towns. By the time the coffee and creme brulee arrives for dessert, my melancholy for my roommate has disappeared. More than that, I'm having such a good time listening to Damien's stories that I've actually forgotten about the decadent little toy-until it starts to vibrate inside me with no warning at all.

I'm holding a spoonful of dessert, and I gasp a little as it slides over my lips. On the other side of the table, Damien smiles innocently at me. "You're glowing again, Ms. Fairchild. Is that for the creme brulee? Or could there be another reason?"

"You're a cruel man, Mr. Stark. And I think it's time we get the check."

We've been in the restaurant for hours and the downtown area is dark and abandoned by the time we leave. His car is in a paid lot a few blocks away, and we turn into an alley as a shortcut. There's no one around, and I step to one side, tugging Damien with me. "What is it?" he asks.