I glance sharply at his face, but it is carefully blank. “Really?”

I say, working hard to keep my voice casual. I know how long it has been since he’s played tennis. More, I know why he walked away from the game.

“Maybe. I haven’t decided. It’s been so long, and I’m afraid—”

He cuts off his words, his forehead creasing into a scowl.

“—that it won’t be fun?” I suggest, trying to finish his thought.

He doesn’t answer, but I see the affirmation in his eyes.

“Well, if you do install a court, you can teach me how to play.” I speak lightly. “That will ensure that you have fun. I promise. Playing with me will be quite amusing.”

“Amusing?” he repeats, and I’m happy to hear the teasing note in his voice. “I’m imagining you in a tennis dress. Amusing isn’t the word that comes to mind.”

“And will our rules apply then, Mr. Stark? I’m not sure how much tennis will get played if I’m wearing one of those outfits and no underwear.”

“I’m intrigued, Ms. Fairchild. I think you may have made up my mind for me. I’ll start interviewing construction companies in the morning.”

“Very funny,” I say.

“You laugh now,” he says. “But wait until I take you by the ball cage.”

“Now you’re just talking dirty to me.”

He laughs and grabs my hand, and I hurry to keep step beside him. My mood is light, and I’m glad we escaped the party. Whatever drama had been clinging to me has dissipated. It is just me and Damien and the wide night sky.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Maybe I’m happy.”

“Are you?” he asks, his eyes roaming over my face. “So am I.”

“Damien.” I move closer, craving a kiss, but it’s his finger that my lips find. “Ah-ah,” he says. “Start that up and we’ll never get where we’re going.”

“So we are going somewhere? I was beginning to think we were simply taking a hike to Ventura County.”

“Actually,” he says, “we’re here.” We’ve stopped in front of a vine-covered hill.

“Lovely,” I say. “But if you’re planning to ravage me in the flowers, I should say that I would have been just as happy on the stone path.”

“I’ll make a note for future reference,” he says. “But this isn’t our final destination.”

“Oh?”

He doesn’t answer my question. At least, not with words. Instead, he pulls out a key fob, presses a small red button, and a set of wooden doors—camouflaged with vines—begins to rise. Light from the interior emerges, spreading wider and wider as the door lifts higher. I feel as though there should be a soundtrack—“Ode to Joy,” perhaps—as this secret room is revealed.

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?”