Jamie and I are pressed to the windows now, and she sees the sign first. “Holy shit,” she says. “We’re at the Desert Ranch Spa.”
“Seriously?” I don’t know why I sound so surprised. The Desert Ranch Spa may be one of those insanely expensive resorts where celebrities go for a little alone time, but it’s not like Damien can’t afford it.
“Are we staying the night?” Jamie asks. “Or maybe we’re just here for dinner? God, I hope we’re staying the night. I’ve never stayed in a place like this.”
The limo winds its way to the front entrance, and I gulp down the rest of my wine and slide toward the door, so that I’m ready to go the moment Edward opens it. When he does, there’s a woman beside him in pencil-thin trousers and a silk tank top. “Ms. Fairchild, Ms. Archer. Welcome to Desert Ranch,” she says, with an accent I recognize only as Eastern European. “I’m Helena. Come. I’ll take you to your bungalow.”
Bun-ga-low, Jamie mouths with eyes wide. We follow her down a landscaped path, me doing my Worldly Nikki routine—why, of course I get out of limos and go to expensive desert resorts all the time—and Jamie practically bouncing. “For the record,” she says as Helena opens the door and we get a glimpse of the inside of the bungalow, “I am totally in love with your boyfriend.”
Boyfriend. I grin. I like the sound of that.
The bungalow is small but exceptionally well-appointed, with two bedrooms, a kitchenette, a living room with a comfy couch and chairs, and a fireplace. But the best part is the back porch, which looks out on the mountains without any sign of the resort. “You will have dinner in your room, yes? And then tomorrow we begin at eight.”
I almost hesitate to ask, but I break down. “Begin what?”
Helena smiles. “Everything.”
We’re awakened by gentle alarm clocks at seven-thirty, and it’s surprisingly easy to wake up despite having stayed up late sipping wine and talking after the most amazing dinner of Chilean sea bass and some type of risotto. We mainline coffee, sip orange juice, and put on the spa robes that we’ve been told to wear today.
When our liaisons, Becky and Dana, arrive at our doorstep, we’re eager to see what’s in store for us. As it turns out, Helena wasn’t exaggerating. We start with dips in the mineral waters, then move inside for facials and waxing and—because Becky whispers to me that Mr. Stark requested it—I even submit to a little more intimate wax. Not Brazilian, because ouch, but by the time I leave the waxing room, I have a neat landing strip that looks more professional than the shaving and Nair job I’ve managed all these years. My legs are smooth, my brows are fabulously shaped, and we move on to our choice of mud baths or seaweed wraps.
I go with the mud, because my mother never allowed me to play in the mud as a kid, and the tubs are outside. Jamie does, too, and so we lay back in our squishy beds of mud with glasses of sparkling water in our hands and cool cucumbers on our eyes. We don’t talk—by this time we’re both limp and relaxed—but it’s amazing just soaking up the luxury. So much so that I almost moan in protest when they help us out, scraping the mud off us with things that look like miniature shower squeegees, and then lead us to another mineral spring, which relaxes us even more and cleans us off.
After that, a cold dip wakes us up again, and then Jamie and I are led inside for a delicious lunch. Afterward we get to sit side by side for manicures and pedicures.
The last official spa treatment for the day is a massage. After that, we’re told we can go back to our bungalow or look over the activity list. Everything from hiking to horseback riding to yoga to golf. Fresh clothes will be waiting for us. Linen slacks and tops courtesy of the resort.
We part ways to go to our private massage rooms, and the masseuse, a woman with arms so defined I’m sure she must have been a professional athlete at some time, guides me to the table. She picks out an oil with just a hint of spice and I nod agreement. It’s unusual, but edgy, and it reminds me of Damien.
Oh yes, he is getting such a thank-you for this surprise.
I strip down and slide under the sheet. The table is the kind with a cutout for your face, and I lay limp, eyes closed, my body more relaxed than it’s been in a long time. “Just my back and arms and calves, please,” I say. “Not my thighs.”
“Of course.” She puts on music, and we begin. Her hands are like magic, and as she works the tightness out from along my spine, I’m pretty sure that I’ve gone to heaven.
Her touch is strong, but not so much as to be uncomfortable, and soon I’m drifting. Not really asleep, but not really there, either. I feel it when she takes her hands off me, then hear the clink of bottles as she gets more oil. I hear another click I can’t identify, and I lay still, waiting for her to continue with the massage.
When she puts her hands back on me, they feel different. Larger. Stronger. My body realizes the truth before I do, and my pulse kicks up. Damien.
I smile at the floor but say nothing as his oiled hands glide over me, working the kinks from my body, making me relaxed, making me squirm with desire.
He works my arms, paying attention to each little finger, which turns out to be so desperately erotic that I feel the tug of each stroke between my legs. Then he eases his strong hands down my back and over the towel that covers my ass and thighs. He draws his hands firmly down the back of each leg, then strokes the sole of each foot, and now I do moan with pleasure.
He drives me just a little bit crazy before moving on to each toe and then, finally, turning his attention to my calves. Long, gentle strokes, higher and higher until I feel his fingers grazing the edge of the towel, then easing my legs apart so he can direct his strokes even higher.