“For walking on the beach,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“Anything you want. Anything you need.”
“Not everything can be bought,” I say.
“No,” he agrees, and he’s looking hard at me. “But I stand by my promise.”
His words twist deliciously inside me, and I’m saved from answering by our waiter’s entrance. We return to the table for coffee and a chocolate lava cake that is so perfect I wish I’d let Damien order two instead of insisting that I only wanted a few bites.
“What else did you do this weekend?” I ask him.
“I worked.”
“Earn another billion?”
“Not quite, but the time was profitable. And you?”
“Laundry,” I admit. “And we went dancing Saturday night.”
“We?”
“Ollie,” I say. “And my roommate, Jamie.”
His expression is tense. Is that jealousy? I think maybe it is, and I’m just petty or vain or something enough to be a little bit glad of that.
“Shall I take you dancing this week?”
“I’d like that,” I say.
“Where did you go with Jamie and Ollie?”
“Westerfield’s,” I tell him. “It’s that new place on Sunset close to the St. Regis.”
“Mmm.” He looks thoughtful. I’m guessing that loud clubs aren’t his thing.
“Too wild for you?” I ask. “That harsh beat? Those bright lights?” I know he’s only thirty, but he usually seems so much older. I wonder if he belongs to a ballroom dancing club. Surely they have those in Los Angeles. I consider the idea, thinking of all the movies I’ve watched with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Yeah, I could handle dancing like that in Damien’s arms.
“Did you like Westerfield’s?”
“I did. But, you know, I just left college, and Austin has a lot of clubs. So the loud music and the heavy beat don’t really—” I stop, suddenly aware of the amused expression on his face. I feel my shoulders slope as I figure it out. “You own the place, don’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Hotels. Clubs. What happened to your little technology empire?”
“Empires are often widespread,” he says. “I believe there’s strength in having a varied portfolio. And my empire is not little at all.”
“I pegged you wrong,” I admit.
“Did you?”
“I was picturing us as Fred and Ginger. When you take me dancing, I mean. But I’m okay with a nasty little bump and grind, too.” I give him my most flirtatious smile and am shocked at myself for doing so. I blame it on the martini. Well, the martini and the man.
He smiles enigmatically, then stands and crosses the terrace. I see him fiddling with something on the wall. A moment later, I hear music. It’s “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” one of my favorite Astaire and Rogers numbers. He returns to me with his hand out. “Ms. Fairchild, may I have this dance?”
My throat constricts and my pulse races wildly as he pulls me up and into his arms. I’m not a good dancer, but with Damien leading I feel like I’m floating. We glide over the terrace, his hand on my back as light as a feather. And when the music ends, he pulls me close and bends me backward, smiling down at me with devilish intent.
I’m breathless, my chest rising and falling in his arms. His lips hover over mine, and I find myself unable to think of anything but the way his lips would feel pressed against mine. The touch of his mouth. Of his tongue.
“Is there something on your mind, Ms. Fairchild?”
“No.”
He lifts an eyebrow, and I hear his voice in my head. No lies.
“I just—I was just wondering.”
“Wondering what?” He eases me up, and our bodies are pressed close. Hips touching. My breasts against his chest, my hard nipples revealing my arousal. “Tell me,” he whispers, his lips grazing my ear and making me shiver with desire.
“I was wondering if you were going to kiss me.”
He turns his head slowly, then looks me in the eye. I want to lose myself in the heat I see there, and my lips part in anticipation of a kiss.
“No,” he says, and then he takes a single step away from me.
I blink, confused. No?
His smile is wicked. “No,” he repeats. And that’s when I understand. He’s punishing me for pulling back in his office. “Our week begins when you arrive for your first sitting.”
“Tonight?” I ask.
“At six.”
I nod, disappointed but excited.
His hand slides down the curve of my ass over the thin material of my skirt. “And, Nikki,” he adds, “don’t bother wearing underwear. You really won’t need any.”
I swallow and realize I’m already wet with anticipation.
Oh. Fucking. My.
18
I hang the Leica around my neck, but we leave the rest of our stuff with Richard and exit the back door of the hotel, following a path that takes us past the pool, an outdoor dining area, and then the tennis courts. Two couples are playing doubles, laughing and teasing each other as they miss most every stroke.
“Not a lot of hotels have courts,” I say. “Was that your idea?”
“The courts were here when I bought the place,” Damien says. It may be my imagination, but I think he’s begun to walk faster. I, however, am slowing down. There’s a bench just off the courts, and I pause there, my hands on the backrest. I’m looking at the players, but I’m imagining Damien on the court. His legs taut and tanned. His broad shoulders and strong arms. His jaw tight with determination.