Claim Me(104)

At first I can see nothing because my eyes haven’t adjusted to the abrupt change in lighting. But as Damien leads me toward the now open door, I see that this is a garage. A huge garage, to be precise, and as I stand in the doorway and look up and down the long, narrow structure, I count no less than fifteen classic cars all lined up and polished.

The walls are white, as is the concrete flooring. The lights overhead are glaring white as well. For a moment, I feel like I’ve died and gone to car heaven. I turn and gape at Damien. “You have got to be kidding me. You’ve barely finished the actual house, and yet you have a fully tricked out, fifteen-car garage hidden in the hillside?”

“I didn’t want a detached garage to mar the landscape,” he says. “Although to be fair the garage has been on the property long before the house. I built this three years ago while my architect was working out the plans for the residence. And just to clarify, it’s a twenty-car garage.”

I shoot him a bored look. “All this space in the hills and only twenty? And detached from the house? Seriously, Mr. Stark, what happens if it’s raining?”

“I use the tunnel access,” he says nodding toward the far side and a metal door over which is neatly printed the word “Residence” in red block letters.

“You really are a walking cliché,” I say, but I’m laughing.

“Not at all,” he says. “I’m a driving one.” He looks giddy, like a boy playing with his favorite toys on Christmas morning, and the mood is infectious.

“What kind of car is this?” I ask, pausing by the one closest to the door. It is old-fashioned and open, and I can imagine women in flapper gowns riding with the top down, waving at boys and feeling smug in their daring.

“A Gardner touring car,” he says. “But come here, this is my real prize.” We walk down two stalls to an ancient model, so polished and shined that it seems to glow as bright as the room itself. “A Baker Electric car,” he says. “Thomas Edison actually owned this very automobile.”

“Seriously?” I am duly impressed. “That should be in a museum.”

“I offer it on loan quite often,” he says. “But not permanently. I don’t see the point of owning extraordinary toys if I can’t have them around to enjoy. Just as I don’t see the point of having money and not using it to acquire interesting things, if not for myself, then for the people I care about.”

I think about the Monet and the camera and the clothes and all the other gifts he’s showered upon me. “Fortunately for those of us who are the recipients of your magnanimity, you have excellent taste.”

“Indeed I do, Ms. Fairchild.” He holds out his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you our ride for the night.”

We move down the row of cars and stop in front of a low-slung forest-green two-seater with a hood that seems longer than the car itself.

“All right,” I say, unable to stop smiling. “Tell me all about it.”

It’s as if I’ve given him permission to sing. “Jaguar E-Type Roadster,” he begins, then starts to itemize all of the intricate details of this fine automobile that, he assures me, will transport us to our destination in luxury and style.

“I hope there won’t be a pop quiz,” I admit. “Because I didn’t catch anything but the name and the fact that I’m very impressed.”

“That’ll do,” he says.

“Did you rebuild it?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Edward told me about the Bentley. I can’t quite imagine you all covered in grease and oil.”