“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.
After a moment, I feel him come up behind me. “We should go,” he says. “I want to show you the wharf, and I need to be back in the office by three.”
“Oh. Sure. I forgot.” I take his hand and we continue walking, leaving the hotel grounds and then strolling past the charming stucco houses on Mason Street.
“Do you miss it?” I ask, as we turn right off Mason into a small, green park. Ahead of us is the beach and the Pacific Ocean, shining blue-green in the afternoon sun. “Tennis, I mean.”
“No.” His answer is flat, without any hesitation or guile. Even so, I don’t quite believe him, and I say nothing, hoping that he will elaborate. After a few more moments, he does. “At first, I loved it. But after a while, the fun went out of the game. There was too much baggage.”
“The competition?” I ask. “Maybe you could get the fun back if you just played. I’m terrible, but we could hit a ball around sometime.”
“I don’t play anymore,” he says. His tone is hard and firm, and doesn’t mirror my light suggestion at all.
“Okay.” I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. It’s obvious I’ve touched a nerve, and I’m not quite sure how to get the flirtatious, laughing Damien back. “I’m sorry.”
He looks at me sideways, then exhales, as if in frustration. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He smiles, and I see the ice starting to melt, revealing nice underneath. “It’s just that I’m done with tennis. Like you’re done with pageants. You don’t compete anymore, do you?”
I laugh. “Hell no. But there’s a difference. I never thought it was fun.” Dammit, I should have kept my mouth shut. I don’t want him icing over again.
But he’s not icy at all. He’s looking at me with interest. “Never?”
“Never,” I say. “Well, maybe when I was little I liked the dressing up. I honestly don’t remember. But, no, I don’t think I liked it even then. I can’t remember feeling like anything other than my mother’s personal Barbie doll.”
“And dolls don’t have a life of their own,” he says.
“No, they don’t,” I say, pleased that he understands so well. “Did your parents push you to play?” I’m edging up against a sore point, but I want to get to know this man better.
We’ve reached the end of the park, and he takes my hand as we cross Cabrillo Boulevard. We reach the beach and walk in silence toward the surf. I’ve pretty much decided that I’m not going to get an answer when Damien finally speaks.