Page 12 of Enchant Me

“We only have about an hour before the guests arrive,” I remind him. “Jackson and Syl and the kids will probably come early, so don’t spend too much time searching channels. Charles is on it, right? He’ll let you know if something leaks.”

“I know,” Damien says, but he continues to flip channels as I move to our huge closet/dressing room to change. By the time I come out, now in a pale pink dress and matching flats, he’s tuned back to the race again.

“Since when did you become a NASCAR fan? Stark International doesn’t sponsor a team, does it?” I don’t think so, but my husband’s enterprises are wide and varied, and maybe it’s not been on my radar.

“No, but I was approached by Ashton Stone a few years ago about that very thing.”

“Stone,” I repeat, trying to place the name. It’s only when I hear the announcer say something about Stone that I remember. “Oh, right. He’s a driver. He won the Daytona 500 a while back.”

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.”