“I didn’t go to college,” he says. “For that matter, I didn’t go to school. I had private tutors from the time I was ten. My coach insisted, and my father agreed.”
An unfamiliar edge sharpens his voice, and although I want to know more, it’s clear I’ve stumbled upon a sore subject. “So, do you know much about photography?” I ask, grappling for a shift in the conversation. I remember the photos in his reception area. “Did you take the pictures outside your office?”
“I know just enough to be dangerous,” he says lightly, and I’m glad of the change in mood. “And no. I tried to find photos that represent my hobbies. Those are done by a local photographer. He has a studio in Santa Monica, actually.”
“He’s very skilled. His use of contrast and perspective is stunning.”
“I agree, and I’m flattered you thought I might be the photographer.”
I shift in my seat to look at him better. “Well, you are a remarkably talented man. And very full of surprises.”
His decadent grin is pure Damien, promising more surprises to come, and I feel an answering tingle between my thighs.
I drop my eyes and clear my throat. “Your hobbies, huh? So there were photographs of the ocean, some mountains, redwoods, and a bike tire. I’m guessing sailing, skiing, I have no idea, and biking.”
“Not bad. The ocean represents diving and the trees are for hiking. Other than that, you got it right. Any of those appeal to you, Ms. Fairchild?”
“All of them,” I admit. “Although I’ve never tried diving. Not many opportunities in Texas.”
“California has excellent diving,” he says. “Though a wetsuit is a bit cumbersome. I much prefer the warmer waters of the Caribbean. There,” he says, pointing out the window.
It takes me a second to switch gears, but then I see that he’s pointing to Santa Barbara.
“I’ll need to put her into the landing pattern soon, but why don’t you take control for a bit.”
“What?” I clear my throat and try that again without squeaking. “I’m sorry, but what?”
“It’s easy,” he says, releasing his hold on the wheel. He reaches over and takes my hand. The contact burns through me—why do I feel this man’s every touch so intensely? Right then, I wish I didn’t, because he’s putting my hands on the wheel and I’m supposed to keep this plane in the air, and he’s making it really hard to concentrate.
“Oh, fuck,” I say as he lets go of my hand. “Shit, Stark! What am I supposed to do?”
“You’re doing it. Just keep her steady. Push in, we descend. Pull out, we climb. Go ahead, pull out gently.”
I do nothing.
He laughs. “Go on. Give it a try.”
This time I do, and then gasp with pleasure as the plane responds to my command.
“I like that sound,” Damien says. “I think I need to hear that sound on the ground.” He puts his thumb on my cheek and strokes it softly. This time, I try very hard not to make a sound. “There you go, baby. Okay, steady it out.”
His hand grazes down my neck and rests on my shoulder. He squeezes it lightly. “Good job.”
My breathing is coming fast, and I’m not sure if it’s the exhilaration from the flight or from the man. “I am flying,” I say. “I am really flying.”
“Yes,” he says. “And you will again.”
We’re the only guests on the terrace dining area at the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel on Bank Street. We’re just a few blocks from the ocean, and from where we sit, we can see the pier at Stearns Wharf and, in the distance, the Channel Islands rising like sea creatures from the water.
I’m sipping a white chocolate martini, and I’m pleasantly full after a lunch of raw oysters and stuffed salmon. “This is amazing,” I say. “How did you find this place?”
“It wasn’t difficult,” he says. “I own the hotel.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. “Is there anything you don’t own, Mr. Stark?”
He reaches out and takes my hand. “At the moment, everything I want is mine.”
I take a sip of the martini to hide my reaction.