“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.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Fairchild. I take very good care of the things I own.”

My cheeks flush, and I’m suddenly very aware of my body, especially the parts below my waist. I savor the feeling, because the truth is that I’m a little afraid he’s going to want to back out of our deal once he gets a full view of the condition of the merchandise.

A man in a tailored suit steps onto the terrace and approaches us. He’s carrying a white shopping bag, which he hands to Damien. “This just arrived for you, Mr. Stark.”

“Thank you, Richard.”

As Richard leaves, Damien passes me the bag. “I believe this is for you.”

“Really?” I put the bag in my lap, peer into it, and gasp. It’s a Leica, shiny and new.

I look to Damien and see his wide, delighted grin. “You like? It’s digital. Top of the line.”

“It’s wonderful.” I laugh. “You’re amazing, Mr. Stark. You just blink and things happen.”

“A bit more than a blink, but it was worth the extra effort. How else will you get shots of the beach today?”

I stand and walk to the edge of the terrace. “I can see the ocean from here, but not much of the beach.”

“The view will be better when we’re walking on it.”

I lift my foot and show off my pumps with the two-inch heels. “I don’t think I’m dressed for the occasion.”

The ankle bracelet sparkles in the sun. He runs his finger over it, the heat from his skin radiating over mine.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Beauty for beauty,” he replies. “The emeralds match your eyes.”

I smile, delighted. “I’m feeling showered with gifts lately.”

“Good. You deserve to be. And that’s not a gift,” he says, brushing his finger over the bracelet. “It’s a bond … and a promise.” He’s looking right at me as he speaks, and my cheeks heat with a blush.

“I don’t want to miss walking on the beach with you,” I admit. My words come out a whisper. “I can go barefoot.”

He chuckles. “You could. But have you looked under the camera box?”

“Under?” I go back to the table and pull out the box. Sure enough, there’s something else there, wrapped in blue tissue paper. I look at him, but his expression gives nothing away. Slowly, I pull out the tissue paper. Whatever’s hidden is flat and firm. I peel back the paper until I reveal a pair of black flip-flops. I look up at Damien and grin.

“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?”