“You own this?”
He eases the Jeep through the slowly widening gap in the gate. “I wanted a weekend getaway. Something I could drive to at the last minute. Something out of the way.”
“Palm Springs not appealing? Your Santa Barbara hotel too long a drive?”
“The condo in Palm Springs is on the golf course,” he says, “and since I’m not much of a golfer I let my staff reserve time as a perk. As for Santa Barbara, it’s an exceptional property, but sometimes a man just wants to be alone. Or not alone,” he says, reaching over to squeeze my hand.
I squeeze back, amused. “You know those computer apps where you can put a little flag on a map for every town you’ve lived in or where all your Facebook friends are from, or whatever?”
“Sure.”
“We need to get one of those for all your properties.”
His answering grin is smug. “I’ll get right on that. And then we can start working our way through them, one by one. Only a few of my properties have been properly christened.”
“Is that so? Well, then. Maybe we should start with your Arrowhead property,” I say. “Maybe we should start tonight.”
“I can’t think of a better way to spend the evening. Or the morning. Or the afternoon.”
I grin as I take another look at the massive structure. “This place is huge. I say we christen these rooms first and then we can move on to other locations. That will take us, what? A year?”
“It’s not that big,” he says. “Only nine thousand square feet.”
“Practically an efficiency apartment,” I say, deadpan.
“Eleven thousand if you count the guest house,” he says, pointing to the smaller building that is connected to the main house by a covered walkway. “The caretaker and his wife live there. I told them this was a relaxing and informal week and to leave us to fend for ourselves.”
“Sounds good. I’m all about relaxing.”
“The property has a pool, a hot tub, an outdoor grill, and access to some of the county-maintained hiking trails. It also,” he adds, with a devious grin, “has a number of very comfortable beds. Depending on the kind of relaxing you’d like to do.”
“I’m big on variety,” I say. “A bed . . . a hot tub . . . so long as I’m not relaxing by myself, I’ll be a very happy girl.”
“I do love the way you think.” He kills the engine on the Jeep and turns in his seat to face me. “That’s not the only reason we’re here,” he says seriously. “I thought about what you said. About reality catching us off guard. And I thought that it might be good for both of us to ease slowly back into the real world.”
“We can go as slow as you want,” I say. “You won’t get any complaints from me.” Then I remember my plans, and grimace. “Except that I have to be back in LA by ten Friday morning. That’s when Lisa is going to show me the sublet.”
“Fair enough. Friday marks our return to reality. A sad, mournful day.”
“Don’t even,” I say. “You’re going to fire up that Bluetooth headset and start cooking up some deal before we even get through that door, and you know it.”
“I won’t,” he says with a familiar gleam in his eye. “I have plans for when we walk through that door.”
“Do you? I bet I can guess what.” And I have to confess that I’m looking forward to it. Where Damien is concerned, I’m always looking forward to it.
We get out of the car and walk over the wide wooden bridge to the massive front door. I hang back as Damien opens it, but the second I step over the threshold, I’m accosted by a very loud, very familiar scream—Jamie.
Behind her, a wide white banner hangs across the entrance hall and dozens of helium-filled balloons float and bump up at the ceiling. My eyes meet Damien’s, and I realize that he is as surprised as I am.