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.
But this is too sweet an opportunity to squander, so I draw a breath, put the nib of the pen on the paper, and begin to write.
My very dear Mr. Stark,
Before I met you, I never gave any thought to the sensual nature of an automobile. But now, once again, I am surrounded by soft leather, snug in the warm embrace of this graceful, powerful vehicle. It is heady stuff, and I—
I continue to write, pouring out my teasing phrases through the intimate flow of ink onto paper. As I watch my precise handwriting fill the page, I almost regret the tech revolution. How wonderful to have received a letter from a lover. To open it and see his heart on the page, his handwriting bold and strong. There’s an immediacy to texts and emails that can’t be denied, but the intimacy of a letter really can’t be replicated.
By the time Edward pulls up in front of the condo that I share with Jamie in Studio City, I have finished the note. I fold it neatly, slide it into the matching envelope I find in the folio pocket, seal it, and print my return address on the top left corner. I realize then that I don’t know the street address of Damien’s Malibu house. Odd, considering how much time I’ve been spending there. But it doesn’t matter. The letter will reach him just as easily at his office building, which is also where his downtown apartment is located. I print his name and address neatly across the center of the envelope:
Damien Stark, CEO
Stark International
Stark Tower, Penthouse