I blink at him. “Seriously?”

“It’s quite revolutionary, I assure you. The ground is prepped with a high-tensile-strength mesh system that creates an anchored root system providing a surface area with remarkable load-bearing capacity. And because the Malibu hills are prone to mudslides, I’ve taken additional precautions and strengthened the area with a buried grid system into which that root area blends. The result is pretty damned impressive.”

“If you do say so yourself.”

He smirks. “I’m afraid this isn’t one of my projects. Not yet, anyway. I’ve begun talks with the company that holds the patent on the mesh technology.”

“To acquire the company?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe I’ll simply be a silent partner.” He fixes me with a steady look. “Not all of my business ventures involve my fingers in the pie.”

I ignore the unstated message. I want the million that I earned posing for the portrait in order to seed my business—a business I intend to kick into gear once I feel like I’m ready. Damien wants to help me—and he thinks I’m ready now. It’s not a discussion that I’m diving back into now, but he presses on.

“You’re ready, Nikki. You can do this.”

“Surprisingly, I think I’m a better judge of my ability than you are,” I say, more sharply than I intend.

“Willingness, yes. Ability, no. That’s a much more objective criterion, and I see more clearly than you do. You’re too close to the subject in question. Let’s examine the evidence, shall we?”

I cross my arms over my chest and scowl at him, but he presses on.

“You already have two reasonably profitable smartphone apps on the market, fully designed, marketed, and supported by you and you alone. You accomplished that entrepreneurial feat when you were still in college, so that in and of itself indicates the kind of self-sufficiency a successful business owner needs. Your degrees in electrical engineering and computer science are only icing on the cake, but your invitation into PhD programs at both MIT and CalTech demonstrate that I’m not the only one who sees your worth.”

“But I turned down the programs.”

“So that you could work in the real world and gain experience.”

I can see that I’m not going to win this argument, so I do the only thing I can do—I ignore it and kiss him gently on the cheek. “Your car pool’s here, Mr. Stark. You don’t want to be late for homeroom.” I turn to head inside, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back. His kiss is long and deep and makes my knees go weak, but Damien considerately holds me up so that I don’t collapse in a puddle on the flagstone tiles.

“What was that for?” I breathe when he releases me.

“A reminder that I believe in you,” he says.

“Oh.” His voice is filled with so much pride and confidence that I wish I could soak it up like a drug.

“And a promise of things to come,” he adds with a sexy curve to his lips. “I’ll call you when I get back. I’m not sure how late I’ll be.”

“The helicopter’s not as speedy as it looks?” I tease.

“More like my colleagues don’t conduct business as expediently as I’d like.”

“No prob. I should have dinner with Jamie tonight, anyway. I’ve been a best friend in absentia lately.” I start to pull away, but his fingers tighten around mine. “What?”

“I don’t want to go.” His grin is boyish, and I laugh with delight. Damien is so many things, and I am falling hard for all of them.

“But if you don’t, then how can I spend the day looking forward to having you back?”

“You’re a very wise woman,” he says, then presses a fresh kiss to my lips. “Until tonight.”

7

Edward greets me outside by the door of a gracious silver and burgundy car that looks like it belongs on Masterpiece Theatre. “New car?”

“No, ma’am,” Edward says. “Mr. Stark rebuilt her about three years ago.”

“Really?” I look the car over, wondering when on earth Damien found the time. I try to imagine him under the chassis, his hands dirty and a spot of grease on his nose. Surprisingly, it’s an easier picture to conjure than I would have imagined. As I’ve seen time and again, Damien can do pretty much anything. And look damn good doing it, too.

As for looking damn good, the car certainly fits that bill. It’s all soft curves and flowing lines, the epitome of automotive class and grace. It’s almost a crime that Edward wears a simple suit instead of livery, and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if his voice took on a British tinge.

He is oblivious to the way my mind is wandering. “We normally reserve the Bentley for formal occasions, but Mr. Stark thought you might enjoy arriving at your new position in style.”

As he speaks, the helicopter rises from behind the house, far enough away that it barely kicks up a breeze. It’s too far for me to see Damien, but I lift my hand anyway and wave a silent thank-you.

“I need to go home, actually. Not work. But Mr. Stark was right about the rest,” I say as I slide past Edward into the car. “I’m definitely going to enjoy this ride.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Stark was very clear that I am to see you safely to your office.”

“Was he?” I consider pulling out my cell phone and giving Damien a piece of my mind, but that would ultimately change nothing. I consider my options and then nod. “Fine,” I finally say, pushing my irritation aside. “But I do have to go home first.”

“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” He shuts the door, and I’m snug in a leather and wood cocoon, breathing in the scent of luxury.

The windows, I notice, are not electric but instead operate with old-fashioned knobs that appear to be mahogany and are polished to a sheen. The white leather seat is as soft as butter, and the seat back in front of me actually has a tray table. I defy convention and release it from its full upright and locked position. It eases down to form a perfectly positioned writing surface. I’m suddenly overcome with a longing for a quill pen and parchment.

“What year is the car?” I ask Edward as he maneuvers us down the drive.

“It’s a 1960 S2 Saloon,” he says. “Only 388 were produced, and I’m afraid there are very few still on the road. When Mr. Stark ran across this one in a junkyard, he was determined to bring it back to its former glory.”

I’m not at all certain what Damien would have been doing in a junkyard, but it takes no effort whatsoever to imagine his determination. What Damien wants, Damien gets, be it a classic car, a Santa Barbara hotel, or me.

I run my finger over the varnished surface of the desk, the motion reminding me of my earlier whimsy. “You don’t happen to have a paper and pen up there, do you?”

“Certainly,” Edward says. He leans over and pulls something out of the glove box, then passes a folio back to me. I open it and find a fountain pen and heavy linen stationery monogrammed with DJS—Damien’s initials.

I hesitate. I hadn’t really expected that Edward would have the things I asked for, and now that I’m faced with the prospect of putting my thoughts on paper, I am suddenly tongue-tied. Or finger-tied, as the case may be.