“No,” I whisper, feeling safe and satisfied. “Never.”

25

Because Damien has to spend the next day in San Diego and Blaine is off dealing with some sort of gallery crisis in La Jolla, I’m back at my apartment before eight in the morning, and am surprised to find Jamie already awake.

“What the hell?” she says, by way of greeting. “You just vanished into thin air.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m a terrible roommate, but I’ll make it up to you. Breakfast. My treat.”

“And you’ll tell me everything?”

“Swear,” I say. And I cross my heart for effect.

We end up at Du-par’s on Ventura Boulevard, and after I tell her about Bruce and about what Ollie said and about Damien’s explanation, she proves that she is in fact worthy of best friend status by siding with me one hundred percent. “Ollie’s like an overprotective brother. And Damien’s just too damn hot to stay mad at. Besides, it’s not like he told Bruce to hire you. He just told Bruce about your resume.”

“Exactly,” I say. And since Damien and I worked through our issues rather thoroughly last night—as my soreness this morning can testify to—I shift the conversation. “This is my last week among the unemployed,” I say. “Wanna catch a movie?”

We end up seeing two, because what’s the point of being a lazy bum if you don’t do it up right, then head back to the apartment in a popcorn-and-soda-induced haze.

Jamie immediately heads to her room to change into pajamas even though it’s not yet four. I’m about to do the same when I’m stopped by a sharp knock at the door. “Hang on,” I say. If it’s Douglas, I’m totally shooing him away. For that matter, Ollie will get shooed, too.

It’s neither. It’s Edward.

“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, and though he keeps his professional face on, I see the smile in his eyes. “Mr. Stark asked me to deliver a personal apology that he wasn’t able to spend the day with you in celebration of your new job.”

“He did?” I bite back a grin. We’d done a bit of celebrating last night. Celebration sex. Make-up sex. We’d pretty much run the gamut.

“And may I extend my congratulations on your new job as well?” Edward adds.

“Thank you,” I say. “But he really didn’t need to send you. He already congratulated me when I saw him last night.”

“Yes, but I’m to deliver your gift. Or, rather, deliver you to your gift.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m afraid I have very specific instructions that forbid me from actually telling you.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Let me just tell my roommate.”

“Ms. Archer is invited as well, of course.”

“Really?” This was getting interesting. I give a shout toward her room. “Hey, James. Change of plans. We’re going … somewhere.”

She pops her head out of the door, while still only half in her T-shirt. She tugs it down, and peers at Edward. “Huh? Where are we going?”

“Edward won’t say. But it’s a present. From Damien.”

“And I’m invited, too?”

“Absolutely,” Edward says.

“How fab is that? Well, shit,” she says to me, “I’m not turning down a mystery present from a guy with billions. That’s just not something I’m programmed to do.”

“Fair enough. I guess we’re going,” I add to Edward.

Jamie switches the pj bottoms out for jeans, and we grab our purses and follow Edward down to the limo. I wonder if Damien requested it, or if Edward decided to drive the limo instead of the Town Car simply to give Jamie a thrill. If so, it worked. She’s checking out every seat, poking into the bar, and examining each and every gadget on the console.

“Wine?” she asks, finding a chilled bottle of Chardonnay in a mini-refrigerator. Shows how much I pay attention. I didn’t even know the limo had a fridge. Then again, I was a bit distracted each time I took a ride in it.…

Edward takes us out onto I-10 and then heads east, which surprises me, as I’d been expecting us to head for the beach. “Where do you think we’re going?” I ask Jamie, who’s riffling through the CD collection that I’ve never bothered to look at.

“Who cares?”

I consider that, and decide she has a very good point.

Fifteen minutes later, it’s clear we’re heading out of Los Angeles, I’m on my second glass of wine, and Madonna is belting out “Like a Virgin.”

“So totally retro,” Jamie says, half-dancing in her seat. I consider overruling her choice, but it’s fun and loud and what the hell.

By the time we pass the windmill farms that mark the desert near Palm Springs, we’ve played classic rock, classic country, and a varied selection from current artists. We’ve danced—as much as you can in a limo—and sung and have basically turned the limo into party central. We’ve laughed so hard we’ve almost cried, and I think it’s the best time Jamie and I have had together since we skipped out of Friday classes our freshman year and drove from Austin to New Orleans.

I am so going to show Damien my gratitude when I see him.

Finally, Edward exits the 10 for a smaller highway, then a regular street, then a caliche road. I’m beginning to think that our destination must be a campsite when I see the sunset glowing against the white stucco of a low building nestled near the foothills of the rising mountains. We pass through a security gate, and I realize that what I thought was one building is a collection of several smaller ones, all surrounded by palm trees reaching up to brush the sky.

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.”