“Wow,” I say.

Beside me, he’s grinning like a teenager. “I’d really open her up, but the cops tend to get testy.”

“Why buy a car like this if you can’t drive her fast?”

He glances sideways at me. “Spoken like a true pragmatist. I didn’t say I never drive her fast. But I’m not willing to risk your life—or the lives of any of the other commuters stuck out here on the 10.”

“I appreciate the courtesy.”

“But if you’re interested, we can take her out to the desert one day and I’ll show you what she can do.”

“Show me? I can’t drive her?”

He eyes me with interest. “You know how to drive a stick?”

“I bought my Honda my second semester at UT,” I say. “It had decrepit upholstery, primer instead of paint, and a standard transmission. I replaced the upholstery, painted it on the cheap, and learned how to work a clutch.” I’d been damn proud, too. When my mother had cut off the flow of money, she’d also taken my BMW. I’d wanted wheels, and I’d scraped together just shy of fifteen hundred dollars to get the Honda. It was a total piece of shit, but it was all mine, and it’s still chugging along.

“In that case, maybe you can drive her.” I hear the heat in his voice. “If you’re very, very good.”

“To have all this power beneath me?” I say, pitching my voice low and breathy. “I think that’s incentive.”

Beside me, Damien groans. “Jesus, Nikki. I thought we were trying to avoid a traffic accident.”

I laugh, feeling sexy and powerful. It’s one hell of a nice feeling.

Despite not going close to three hundred miles per hour, it takes almost no time to get to the Santa Monica Airport. Damien pulls up in front of a hangar beside a futuristic-looking jet with wings that seem to extend forever from the belly of the plane and bend upward at ninety-degree angles at each end.

“Wow,” I say. I glance around and see an older man with graying hair and a beard striding toward us. “Is that Grayson? Is he the pilot?”

“That is Grayson,” Damien says. “And he’s the mechanic, flight guru, and all-around grease monkey. Good morning, Grayson. She all ready to go?”

“That she is. Great day for it, too.”

“Grayson, this is Nikki Fairchild, my date for the afternoon.”

“It’s a pleasure,” he says, shaking my hand.

“How long have you been flying?” I ask him.

“Over fifty years,” he says. “My dad used to take me up in his Cessna when I was a little thing and let me control the stick.” He passes a clipboard to Damien, along with something that looks like a test tube. “She’s fueled up and ready, but I know you’re going to give her your own once-over.”

“My bird, my responsibility.”

He takes the clipboard, then walks to the plane. He checks the pressure in the tires, then circles the jet, pausing occasionally to open something so that liquid can drip into the tube.

“What’s he doing?”

“Checking for water in the fuel and for fluid in the lines,” Grayson says. “I’ve been prepping planes for him for five years now, and he’s never once not double-checked me.”

“Isn’t that a little annoying?”

“Hell, no. It’s the sign of a good pilot, and Damien Stark is a damn good pilot. I ought to know. I’m the one who taught him.”

“Pilot,” I repeat, as Damien returns and passes the tube back to Grayson. “You’re flying?”

“I am,” he says. “Ready?”

I glance at Grayson, who chuckles. “You’re in good hands.”

“Very good,” Damien says, but I have a feeling he’s not talking about flying. Or, at least, not about flying in jets.

The access stairs are already down, and Damien gestures for me to go first. I climb up and find myself in a cabin so fine it makes commercial first class look like prison. I aim myself at one of the seats, only to feel Damien’s hand on my arm holding me back. “We’re going left,” he says, and I follow him into the cockpit. Still polished and shiny, but this is a workplace, not an area to kick back with music and a cocktail.

He gets me settled into my seat, then gives the belt a tug, making sure I’m nice and snug before seating himself. “Why not let Grayson fly?” I ask. “Isn’t it a shame to forgo all that luxury and have to do all the hard work?”

“I have comfortable chairs and cocktails on the ground. Flying is where the thrill is.”

“All right,” I say. “Thrill me.”

His grin is wolfish. “I intend to, Ms. Fairchild. In the air, and when we’re back safely on the ground.”

Oh …

He puts on a headset and checks in with the tower. Then we’re taxiing to the runway and Damien is maneuvering the plane into position. “Ready?” he asks, and I nod. I hear the power build before I feel it, and then suddenly we’re moving, racing down the runway. Damien’s hands are on the wheel, firm and in control. And then he pulls back and I feel the ground fall away beneath us. I’m leaning back in my seat and we’re flying.

I gasp. “Wow.” I’m no stranger to commercial airplanes, but somehow the whole experience is different when you’re sitting in the copilot seat.

We climb for a while, with Damien talking back and forth with the tower. Then we level off. When I look out, I see the California coastline far below us, and the mountains rising in the distance. “Wow,” I say again, then rummage in my purse for my iPhone. I take a few snapshots, then turn to Damien. “I wish I’d known we were going to do this. I’d love to get some real shots.”

“I doubt you could get anything decent through the glass. Grayson keeps it clean, but it’s still going to cause some distortion.”

He’s right, and I feel a little better about the missed opportunity.

“Do you shoot digitally or on film?” he asks. Now that we’re in the air, it’s surprisingly quiet.

“Film,” I say. “My camera’s pretty old.”

“Do you develop your own film?”

“No.” I shudder involuntarily and hope that Damien won’t notice. Of course, he does.

“I didn’t realize that was such a loaded question.”

“I’m not crazy about small, dark spaces,” I admit.

“Claustrophobia?”

“I guess. It’s being enclosed in the dark, mostly.” I lick my lips. “And locked rooms. I don’t like feeling trapped.” I look down and realize I’m hugging myself.

He reaches over and presses a gentle hand to my thigh. I close my eyes and concentrate on steadying my breathing. It’s easier now that I have his touch to center me.

“Sorry,” I finally say.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“I should be over it. It’s stupid. Just childhood crap, you know?”

“Things that happen in childhood stay with you,” he says, and I remember what Evelyn said about shit being piled onto him when he was a boy. Maybe he does get it. And right then, I want to share. I want him to see that there’s an explanation for my quirks. Maybe I think that without a reason, I just look weak, and I don’t want to seem weak to Damien Stark.