“Not yet,” Damien says, and his eyes are dark with promise. “First, I’m going to take you out.”
I shift on the soft, leather passenger seat as Damien maneuvers the sleek and speedy Bugatti Veyron onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Damien has not actually said as much, but I think that of all his cars, this one is his favorite. It’s certainly the one we use the most, and I have even managed—finally—to memorize the make and model. Now it’s “the Bugatti,” not “that unpronounceable car.”
He’s smiling, obviously enjoying putting the car through its paces, leading us away from Malibu to God knows where. He hasn’t told me, and I haven’t asked. Wherever we’re going, I trust that it will be fabulous, and I am happily lost in the pleasure of watching him. Damien Stark, my playful, sexy billionaire. I smile even broader. Mine, I think. That is what he said about me. That I am his.
But is the reverse really true? Is Damien mine? For that matter, can a man like Damien Stark—a man who holds power close, but his secrets closer—ever belong to anyone?
His attention shifts from the road, and his brows rise in question, creating two horizontal furrows on an otherwise perfect forehead. “Penny for your thoughts,” he says.
I force my lips to curve, banishing my worries. “I haven’t taken a look at your balance sheets, but I think you’re worth more than a penny, Mr. Stark.”
“I’m flattered.”
“At my assessment of your value?”
“That you were thinking of me,” he says, taking his eyes off the road long enough to meet my eyes. “Then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. There isn’t a moment that goes by that I don’t think of you.” His words are as smooth as whiskey and just as intoxicating. “Even at the bargain-basement price of a penny, if I was required to pay each time my thoughts turned to you, my fortune would have evaporated days ago.”
“Oh.” My smile is soft and ridiculously, foolishly shy. He has, in that Damien Stark way that he has, completely banished my troubled thoughts. “I guess I won’t charge you, then. I’d hate to see you destitute.” I flash an impish grin as I snuggle back against the soft leather seat. “I like your cars too much.”
“I imagine they make putting up with me more palatable.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “The cars, the clothes, the jet.” I’m counting on my fingers now.
“The paparazzi?” He glances sideways at me, and even in that quick flick of his gaze, I see the concern on his face.
I grimace. “They make me want to pull out my Leica and snap pictures of them. Then we’d see how they like it.” I frown. “On the other hand, I love that camera.” I think back to the day that Damien surprised me with it after I’d told him how I dabble in photography. “I don’t want to soil it by taking pictures of them.” I say the last word as if there’s a nasty taste in my mouth.
“Besides,” Damien says, “no tabloid will pay for a picture of one of them. They want you. And because of that—because of me—you’ve lost a level of privacy.”
I shift in my seat to look more directly at him. Is this the source of his concern? Was that what the telephone call was about? His lawyers warning him about some new picture of us that will appear on the cover of a half dozen magazines next week? Mentally, I flip back through the last week, trying to think what image could be so mortifying that it would cause Damien so much consternation.
Already, the tabloids have gotten hold of a half dozen shots of me in a bathing suit, courtesy of the various pageants I’ve entered over the years. Seeing myself displayed at the grocery store checkout line had been a less-than-fun experience, but I’d taken about a million deep breaths and reminded myself that those pageants had been open to the public and at least two of them had even been televised.
I can’t think of anything else disturbing that could be printed about me or about the two of us together. Certainly there’s nothing that Damien and I have done in public that I’d be embarrassed for my mother to see. And as for in private—well, if the paparazzi have pictures of us in private, they would have to be very brave indeed to face Damien’s wrath and publish them.
But there is the balcony of the Malibu house.
Every day I’ve stood naked and bound in front of that open door, and although Damien owns acres and acres, and the distant beach is a private one, surely a resourceful photographer could—
I can’t even finish the thought. A wave of fear crashes over me, so palpable that I suddenly feel nauseated. And despite the cold that seems to settle over me, I realize that my armpits are damp with perspiration. “They don’t have anything new, do they?” I say, trying hard to make my voice sound normal. I can handle the attention that goes with being Damien’s girlfriend. But nude images of me splashed across papers and the Internet? Oh, dear God …