Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(55)

“Fair enough,” he says. “Until you get it, Edward can drive you.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it today.”

“Today?”

“There are dealerships all up and down the 10, right? So let’s just go home tonight instead of tomorrow morning. I’ll get a car on the way.”

He’s staring at me with an odd expression, as if he’s searching for another argument but can’t find one. The thought sends a little trill of victory coursing through me. Most people do not win arguments with Damien Stark.

“Fine,” he finally says. “Get packed. We can leave whenever you want.”

I nod, then stand to go pull my things together. I hesitate for a moment just to look at him.

“Something else?” His expression is unreadable.

“Just thanks,” I say, and watch as his features shift to something I think is relief.

“Does this mean you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m pissed as hell. But I get where you’re coming from.” I cross my arms over my chest. “But, Damien? Don’t do it again.”

His mouth curves up into a lazy smile. “No promises. Where your safety is concerned, there’s not much room for compromise.”

I just shake my head. This is not a battle I will ever win, but all things considered, I suppose that’s okay.

“Sucks for Jamie,” I say, pausing once more before heading out of the room. “I think she was looking forward to another night.”

“She can have the entire weekend if she wants,” Damien says. “We’ll take the Jeep, but I’ve got a car in the garage. I’ll leave her the keys. Does she know how to drive a stick?”

“Yeah,” I say. “She does. What kind of car is it?”

“A Ferrari,” he says.

I burst out laughing.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Except that you’re one hell of a nice man, Damien Stark.”

By dinnertime on Thursday, I have a new love in my life. And although nothing and no one could ever replace Damien Stark, by the time we get back to LA in my brand-new, shiny red convertible Mini Cooper, I am completely and totally in love.

“I hope you’re not the jealous type,” I tell Damien as I lovingly stroke the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Because I think Cooper and I are about to become inseparable.”

“Interesting,” he says, with a wry twist to his mouth. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have left the Jeep for one of my assistants to pick up. I mean, if you two want some alone time.”

“I know I must seem terribly fickle,” I say airily. “But when true love strikes . . . well, you simply have to go with it.”

“Yes,” he says, looking at me with unwavering heat. “You do.”

I take my eyes off the road long enough to grin at him. We’re almost to my condo, cruising along Ventura Boulevard. I turn on Laurel Canyon, but then drive right past the intersecting street that leads to the place I share with Jamie.

“Joyriding, Ms. Fairchild?”

I run my hand lightly over Cooper’s dash. “A little respect, please, Mr. Stark. We’re bonding.”

“I may have to call Coop out for a duel at dawn,” Damien says. “Because I’m not interested in sharing you. I want you all alone and to myself.”

“Do you? I have to admit, I like the sound of that.”

“I’m very relieved to hear it.”

“Remember what I said about a Lamborghini being almost like foreplay?”

“It will be a very long time before I forget that, Ms. Fairchild.”

“A Mini is, too.”

“Is that so?” Damien says. “I confess I’ve never thought of the Mini as sexy. Cute, absolutely. Eye-catching, most definitely. Sexy, I’m not so sure.”

“Don’t wound Cooper’s ego,” I say. “Besides, it’s not a question of appearance. It’s a question of power.”

“Is that so?”

“Feel that?” I ask, as I shift gears. Cooper does me proud, cruising up the hill toward Mulholland Drive without even the slightest hint of hesitation. “Power,” I repeat. “And endurance. Very important qualities. In a car.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he says. “Responsiveness. Handling.”

“Like I said, all things that turn you on. Ergo, foreplay.”

I turn right and pick up speed as Coop takes control of the famous curves along Mulholland Drive.

“And what turns you on?”

Since I don’t want to go careening off a mountaintop, I don’t look at him. “You do,” I say.

For a moment he says nothing, but I feel the weight of his gaze upon me. Then his voice, rough and demanding. “Pull over.”

“What?” We’ve rounded a curve, and are back on a straightaway, so now I shoot him a quick glance.

“There,” he says, pointing to a dirt-covered area overlooking the valley. It’s the kind of place where tourists snap pictures and teenagers come to park. “Pull over, stop the car.”

I do as he asks. “What on earth—” I begin, as soon as I’ve killed the engine.