“Ah, it’s much worse than that,” he says. “This is a Bugatti Veyron. It costs about twice as much as a Ferrari. Nine hundred eighty-seven horsepower, a W16 engine, top speed of two hundred fifty-three, and she’ll go from zero to sixty in under three seconds.”
I force myself to look unimpressed. “In other words, you don’t own a Ferrari?”
“I own three.” Before I can react, he grins and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Watch your head getting in. She’s low to the ground.”
He opens my door, and I slide in. The all-leather interior smells amazing, and the seat hugs me like—well, I don’t know like what, but I could get used to it.
“Where are we going?” I ask, as he gets in behind the wheel.
“Santa Monica.”
The beachside town is maybe thirty minutes away, and that’s only if we hit a ton of traffic. “Oh. So we’re having an early lunch?”
“The Santa Monica Airport,” he clarifies. “That’s where I keep the jet hangared.”
“Of course it is.” I lean back in the seat and decide I’m either going to have heart palpitations or just go with it. The latter seems healthier. And more fun. “And we’re taking the jet where?”
“Santa Barbara,” he says.
“Really? With this car, I’d think we’d just drive.”
“If I didn’t have a meeting at three, we would.” He presses a button on the steering wheel and the car fills with a dial tone, then begins to ring.
“Yes, Mr. Stark?”
“Sylvia, I’m taking the Bombardier out. Call Grayson and get her ready and put in a flight plan for me to Santa Barbara.”
“Of course. Shall I arrange for a car to meet you at SBA?”
“Yes. And let Richard know I’m coming. We’ll be dining on the terrace.”
“Consider it done. Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Stark.”
He clicks off without saying goodbye.
“She sounds efficient.”
“Sylvia? She is. I expect only two things from my employees, loyalty and competence. Sylvia excels at both.”
I am, I realize, slightly jealous of Sylvia and her pert smile and pixie cut hair sitting right there outside Damien’s office every single day. It’s a stupid, petty emotion and I’m ashamed to even entertain it. I console myself with an even pettier truth—that I’m the one he’s taking to lunch.
“Looks like traffic is with us,” he says as he pulls onto the relatively clear Interstate 10. He hits the accelerator, and I immediately see that he didn’t lie. The car is sweet and it rockets up to sixty before I even have time to draw in a breath.
“Wow,” I say.
Beside me, he’s grinning like a teenager. “I’d really open her up, but the cops tend to get testy.”
“Why buy a car like this if you can’t drive her fast?”
He glances sideways at me. “Spoken like a true pragmatist. I didn’t say I never drive her fast. But I’m not willing to risk your life—or the lives of any of the other commuters stuck out here on the 10.”
“I appreciate the courtesy.”
“But if you’re interested, we can take her out to the desert one day and I’ll show you what she can do.”
“Show me? I can’t drive her?”
He eyes me with interest. “You know how to drive a stick?”
“I bought my Honda my second semester at UT,” I say. “It had decrepit upholstery, primer instead of paint, and a standard transmission. I replaced the upholstery, painted it on the cheap, and learned how to work a clutch.” I’d been damn proud, too. When my mother had cut off the flow of money, she’d also taken my BMW. I’d wanted wheels, and I’d scraped together just shy of fifteen hundred dollars to get the Honda. It was a total piece of shit, but it was all mine, and it’s still chugging along.
“In that case, maybe you can drive her.” I hear the heat in his voice. “If you’re very, very good.”
“To have all this power beneath me?” I say, pitching my voice low and breathy. “I think that’s incentive.”
Beside me, Damien groans. “Jesus, Nikki. I thought we were trying to avoid a traffic accident.”