Damien shoots me an amused glance. “Have you secretly been a NASCAR fan all these years, and I never knew?”
“Jamie mentioned it to me, actually.” My bestie isn’t into racing, but she is into the world of entertainment and gossip. “She pointed him out not that long ago for some reason. Youngest guy to win, and he was still in college at the time. Abby was with us for that conversation. She said he looked like you. Dark and gorgeous.”
A publicity photo pops up on the corner of the screen. “That’s him, right?” The man in the photo has a wide mouth and chiseled features with a strong jawline and hair the color of Damien’s. His eyes are similar, too, wide set and deep, with long lashes and a magnetic quality that definitely plays to the camera. But Ashton Stone’s eyes are a deep blue, like the Caribbean, whereas Damien’s are amber. Well, one is. The other is entirely black, the result of a fight when his famous temper flared while he was still playing tennis professionally.
As I study Stone’s photo, I remember what prompted the conversation with Jamie in the first place. “Apparently he was getting offers for television and movies. At least that’s what Jamie told me.”
“He flirted with acting?” Damien asks. “I didn’t know that.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think he was interested. But look at him—he’s got those sexy Hollywood hunk looks. Almost as good-looking as you, Mr. Stark. And you were only offered cereal boxes.”
I say the last airily. It’s not true, of course. Damien was pretty much offered any and all of Hollywood on a silver platter. He turned it down, and Evelyn and Charles helped him navigate the endorsements that he’d thought appropriate for a sports star who didn’t have his eye on being an action hero.
I expect Damien to respond with a tease of his own, but his attention is still on the screen. “That picture’s from a while back, right? How old is he now?”
“His late twenties. This is an old clip from that race he won.”
“Regretting not sponsoring him?” I’m still wondering what it is about this guy that has drawn Damien’s attention.
“No, just filling in the pieces.” He turns to me. “While it might be fun to own a racing team, at the time he asked, I wasn’t inclined to open the door to more scandal.”
“Scandal?” I lean against the bureau beneath the wall-mounted television so I can face him while we talk.
“It was all very vague, but there were whispers of assault and possibly a murder and a cover-up. Not public, but my people are good at digging. Probably would have turned out to be nothing, but this would have been about the time we adopted Lara and the fallout from Germany was finally fading. It seemed foolish to open the door to more potential scandal, so I declined to sponsor him.”
“You regret it.”
“A bit. The guy is talented. Brilliant, too. But he’s also reckless as hell, like he has something in him he needs to burn out.”
He’s wearing nothing but a towel as he sits on the edge of the bed, and I cross to him, then hike up my skirt and straddle him. His brows rise. “Something on your mind, Mrs. Stark?”
I hook my arms around his neck. “Just that I’m glad you’re not into racing.” Damien loves cars, as our huge underground garage proves. Collecting them, rebuilding them. And while he definitely enjoys opening an engine up on a long stretch of road, racing has never been on his radar. At least as far as I know. “The idea scares me,” I admit.
“Does it? I seem to remember you handling the Ferrari with incredible skill.”
We’d barely started dating when he’d let me open one of his Ferraris on a long stretch of desert road. The speed and the power had been exhilarating—and so had what came after.
I wiggle my hips and feel him harden beneath the towel. “Shall we go for a spin, Mr. Stark? I’m still pretty good at driving a stick.”
“You are indeed. But I believe we have a busy day.”
“True.”
“And no worries. Racing won’t become my new hobby.”
“Very glad to hear it.” I frown, remembering something else. “Didn’t Stone crash?”
“He did. It was bad, too, but he walked away. If I’m remembering right, the official word was mechanical failure, but the whispers all cited Stone’s recklessness. And his temper.”
“He’s lucky he walked away.”
“I think he knew it, because he quit racing after that, though he does the occasional exhibition now.”
“So what’s he do now? Own a racing team?”
“I think he might, actually,” Damien says. “But it’s not his primary focus. Turns out that in addition to being extremely talented behind the wheel, he has an exceptional head for science and technology. He blew through MIT and recently pulled together funding for his own startup.”
I bite back a smile. Apparently Ashton Stone resembles my husband in more ways than one. “He’s working on something that interests you,” I say. “He’s the meeting. The one you mentioned when you got that text earlier.”
“How well you know me. Yes, he’s come up with the design for an automotive power system that intrigues me, especially if the rumors I’m hearing about how far he’s developed it are true. He described it to Noah, and told him he was looking for financing.”
“He knows Noah?”
“Apparently they met at a function. Someplace Kiki was performing,” Damien adds, referring to Noah Carter’s wife, a multiple Grammy Award winner.
“And you either want to buy out his company or license the design.”
Damien grins at me as he puts a hand over his heart. “It’s like you know me.”
“Let me guess, you already have a meeting on the books?”
“Next week, actually.”
“Well, he’d be an idiot not to want to work with you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “But I very much appreciate the endorsement.”
5
I check on the girls and find them in the guest cottage located off the patio with Bree, where she’s biting her lower lip as she holds a curling iron near Anne’s head. With skill reminiscent of a superhero, she pulls it away, releasing my little girl’s head in almost the same instant as Anne turns, squeals, “Mama!” and leaps toward me.
“You are one lucky little rug rat,” Bree says. “What have we talked about moving when I’m curling your hair?”
Anne turns to her, her bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bree.”
Bree meets my eyes, clearly fighting a grin. “It’s okay, princess. I just don’t want to burn your sweet little skin.”
Crisis averted, Anne returns her attention to me. I scoop her up and hug her next to me. “Are you about ready for the party?”
“It’s not a party, Mommy. It’s a wedding.”
“I stand corrected. Where’s your brother?”
Anne points to the bedroom. “He’s in with Lara.”
“I decided to set up the beauty salon in here. That way they could watch cartoons in the back while I’m working on the other ones.”