“New-car smell. Um, she’s not like some rare classic car that’s irreplaceable, is she?”

He reaches over and slides the key into the ignition. “Drive, Nikki.”

“Drive. Right.” I take a deep breath, punch in the clutch, and fire up the engine.

The motor purrs, and it’s a sweet, sweet sound. Slowly and carefully, I move the car into first gear and ease out of the driveway and onto the caliche road leading up to the resort. “Go left when you hit the street,” Damien says. “There are no other homes or businesses past the resort. I doubt there will be any traffic at all.”

I nod and ease slowly over the caliche. I’m crawling, actually, and I think Damien may be a little frustrated with my snail’s pace, but there is no way I’m risking little rocks flying up and chipping the paint on this baby.

And, yeah, I’m freaking nervous.

When I arrive at the intersection, I pause. “You’re sure about this?”

“Hell yes,” he says.

“What if I strip the gears?”

“I hope you do. I think a striptease would be an appropriate apology for something like that, don’t you?”

I squirm, half-wishing he didn’t have such an intense and immediate effect on me. “Don’t talk like that,” I say. “I need to concentrate.”

He laughs, then takes my hand and puts it on the stick. “All that power in the palm of your hand,” he says, and now I know he’s just trying to make me wet.

“Boys and their toys,” I retort, then ease the car left onto the street. “Here goes,” I say, and accelerate. It takes me a minute to get used to the steering and the speed, but I have to admit it’s exhilarating, and soon I’m all the way into seventh gear—seventh!—and the speedometer’s hovering over one hundred eighty. The ride is remarkably smooth, and I think I could take it even faster, but the foothills are getting pretty big in the front window and I see the road curving up ahead and I’m still nervous enough that I can’t do this on a curve.

I ease up, downshift, and pull over to the side of the road. As soon as the car’s off, I peel myself out of the driver’s seat and climb over the console until I’m straddling Damien. “That was amazing,” I say. “Totally, completely amazing.” I kiss him hard and fast, then press his hand to my leg. “Am I trembling? God, I think my body’s still vibrating just from the speed of this car.”

“Boys and their toys?” he says with raised brows. “I think this qualifies as a girl toy, too.”

“Heck yeah, it does.” I kiss him again, and he opens his mouth, drawing me in. His hands ease up the front of my blouse to cup my breasts, and I moan and reach down for his fly. He’s hard—I can feel him against my leg—but he shakes his head, his grin mischievous. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I think I’m going to make you wait.” I run my teeth over my lower lip, because I don’t want to wait. And yet there’s something tantalizing about the idea of such sweet torture. To be hot and needy and anticipating his touch.

He slides his hand between my legs and strokes me quickly, just one cruel little tease. I buck up and tighten my grip on his leg. “Oh, baby,” he says, “tell me you liked our toy.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I have a new game.”

“Game?”

He kisses me. “I bet I can make you come without even touching you.”

“Let me drive this car a bit longer, and you won’t have to do a thing,” I say.

He laughs. “I don’t want to make myself redundant. Besides, I brought another toy.”

I ease back a bit and eye him. His face is lit with both amusement and passion. He’s got the devious look of a man with a plan, but I haven’t got a clue what it could be. “All right,” I say. “I’m curious.”

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a cloth pouch, then pulls a metal egg from it.

“What is that?”

“I’ll show you,” he says. I’m still straddling him, and he slides his hand between my legs, and as I gasp in surprise, he slips the egg easily inside me.

“What the hell?”

He laughs. “You’ll see.”

“But—”

“How does it feel?”

“I—it’s, um, interesting.” I feel full. And very aware. And very turned on.

“Interesting?” he asks, and before the word has even left his lips, the thing inside me starts to vibrate, teasing me from the inside and making me gasp.

“Holy fuck,” I say, and Damien laughs. Immediately, the vibration stops.

I gape at him. “Remote control,” he says casually, then opens the door and eases me off his lap. He gets out and I take his place. I’m quiet, contemplating this strange, exotic, enticing toy he’s brought for us. I have to admit, it feels nice. The idea is weird, but the effect? Well, I really can’t complain.

He peels back out onto the street with a hell of a lot more aplomb than I did. I’m pretty sure we cross the two-hundred-mile-per-hour mark before we slow down and get back on the interstate. We drive for about twenty minutes, then exit in a small town called Redlands. “There’s a restaurant here I love,” he says, and he drives me past restored Victorian homes and into the quaint downtown area. It’s eight o’clock on a weeknight, and there aren’t many people out. The restaurant itself is only half full. It’s in a refurbished warehouse, and has an air of elegance set against brick and stone and iron piping.

“I like it,” I say.

“The ambience is great, the food even better.”

We’re led to a quiet booth in the corner, and I slide in on one side, expecting Damien to sit next to me. He doesn’t. He takes a seat across from me. “I want to look at you,” he says, but I don’t entirely believe him. He has a remote control in his pocket, and I have a feeling that he has plans for this evening.

I lean forward. “Don’t you dare. This is a nice restaurant.”

But Damien only smirks. And, yeah, he turns it on just long enough for me to jump.

I lick my lips and look around, certain everyone has not only seen me, but knows what we’re doing. But there’s really no one in our line of sight, and none of the staff are looking our way.

I swallow and shift a bit in the seat. I try to focus on my menu, but it’s hard, because any moment Damien might turn that thing on, and I’m both dreading it and anticipating it.

“You’re very easy to read, Ms. Fairchild.”

I scowl at him and focus on my current conundrum of deciding between a martini and a bourbon, straight up.

The bourbon wins. There’s really no contest.

The waitress returns with our drinks and takes our dinner orders—we’re both having steak—then leaves us in our little corner.

“You’re torturing me, you know,” I say.

Damien laughs and holds up his hands as if in self-defense. “Hey, I’m not doing anything.”

“Hmmm.”

“Anticipation is the better part of pleasure,” he says.

“Anticipation is driving me crazy,” I retort.

He reaches across the table for my hand, stroking his thumb over mine. “Tell me about the job. What does Bruce have planned for you?”