Melt Into You

by Lisa Plumley

  When it came to shaking out the cobwebs, there was nothing like having a private racetrack at your disposal. For too long now, Damon realized as he took a curve, he’d been cooped up indoors. He’d been doing TV interviews. He’d been making press appearances. He’d been working hard to bring Torrance Chocolates to the whole sugar-crazed world, one truffle at a time.

  It was working like gangbusters, too. Businesswise, things had never been better. The same was true for him personally.

  Good luck and good things seemed to stick to him like glue, Damon had noticed. Not that he tried very hard to ditch his own personal lucky star … and the friends, women, money, and (to be brutally honest) charmed life that went along with it.

  Officially speaking, Damon had come to Italy to use that magic of his to partner with Bandini Espresso. His mission was to persuade Bandini to join him in Torrance Chocolates’ existing global chain of almost a thousand high-end chocolate boutiques and luxury cafés. If he succeeded in bringing Bandini on board, both companies would expand their product lineups, their customer bases, and their potential avenues for future growth and partnerships. The truth was, Damon wanted that partnership the same way he’d wanted to drive the Ferrari: without reservations.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun while he was at it. So when Giada Bandini had invited him to take a spin around the Fiorano Circuit—where the Ferrari company tested new models and developed its cars for the legendary Suderia Ferrari Marlboro racing team—he’d agreed immediately. After all, he didn’t want to become one of those “all work, no play” guys.

  Besides, Damon had already paid his dues. Just like he’d told Oprah last month during her latest “Favorite Things” episode featuring his company’s cafés, he’d practically grown up behind the counter at Torrance Chocolates. He’d swept floors. He’d cashiered. At their original boardwalk location, he’d discovered a knack for relating to customers. Then, five years ago, he’d taken the company online … and everything had changed.

  Being one of the first companies to offer Internet ordering had put Torrance Chocolates on the map. The “Web” had sparked interest; that interest had led to calls for an IPO and more orders than they could handle. They’d ridden the dot-com bubble to the top. When that bubble had burst, they’d survived and even thrived. Now, five years later, the company was a runaway success—and because he’d helped make it happen, Damon had all the attendant perks and privileges and bonuses he could handle.

  Nah. That was a lie, Damon decided as he brought the Ferrari to a squealing stop. He could handle all this and more.

  More, more, more. More than ever, that was his credo.

  “Damn! That was one fine ride.” Wearing a nonstop grin, Damon caressed the roadster’s steering wheel. His ears still rang with the aftereffects of speed and horsepower. The old-model Ferrari had a candy-apple-red body that hugged the road, abundant curves, and an open top that let its driver feel the Italiana wind racing past every pore. After driving the car once around the course, Damon felt completely fired up. On edge. Ready for action of any kind. “I want to go again.”

  “Screw that. It’s my turn.” To his left in the car’s passenger seat, his friend Jason Huerta gave his shoulder a shove. “Move it, Herbie. I’m not letting you hog all the fun.”

  “I don’t think you have much choice about that.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. I’m bigger and stronger than you are. Also, I have the keys. And my wife isn’t on her way over here—”

  “You don’t have a wife, Bozo.”

  “—but yours is.” Squinting against the sunshine, Damon peered at the crowd of spectators milling at the track’s edge. Farther in the distance stood a group of flag-toting Tifosi—ardent racing fans—but he was more concerned with the petite, blond-haired woman who had separated herself from the throng and was currently headed toward the car with a purposeful stride. Damon aimed his chin in her direction. “It looks as though Amy might have something to say about you having ‘your turn.’”

  Jason looked, too. At the sight of his wife, he gave a sappy grin. Then, already climbing out of the low-slung roadster, he waved at Amy. “Well … she might have a point if she did,” he told Damon as he exited the car. “I spent the morning in business meetings with the Bandini execs and the afternoon playing racecar driver with you. This is supposed to be a romantic first-anniversary trip for Amy, after all.”

  “So? Maranello is romantic!” Damon gestured at the grass surrounding the track, the jumpsuit-wearing mechanics, the asphalt and spare tires. “Speed is romantic. Really romantic!”

  Sadly, Jason shook his head. “You’re woefully misinformed about romance, bro. Sure, speed is sexy. But slow is romantic.”

  “Sexy. Romantic. What’s the difference?”

  “About half an hour, multiple orgasms, and a lifetime of togetherness.” With that laughing pronouncement, Amy arrived. She grabbed Jason the moment his feet hit the racetrack. “I got an amazing picture of you, babe! Are you having fun?”

  Despite Damon’s dire warning, Amy didn’t seem like a woman who was about to quash her husband’s turn at Ferrari driving.

  Pointing out as much with a meaningful over-the-shoulder glance at Damon, Jason nodded. “Hell, yeah! I’m driving next!”

  The two of them embraced. Then they proceeded to full-on kissing, snuggling, whispering, and generally excluding everyone else. It was kind of their thing. Nonstop love-a-rama, 24/7.

  For one wistful instant, Damon gazed longingly at them. It didn’t take a genius-level intellect or twenty-twenty vision to see that what Jason and Amy had together was special. Really special.

  Damon had known Jason since … forever. They’d shared skateboards and video games. They’d bonded over Transformers toys in grade school—and they kept a few (strictly as collectible items) even now. But even the choicest, rarest, most valuable Optimus Prime ’bot had never made Jason one-tenth as happy as Amy did.

  Hell, even calculating the trade-in value of Optimus Prime hadn’t made Jason happier than Amy did, and he was a genuine numbers nerd. He actually liked spreadsheets and formulas and profit/loss ratios. He thought it was fun to estimate his taxes. He understood every variable in his car lease, his insurance coverage, and the mortgage he and Amy had taken out on their tiny two-bedroom house in San Diego’s up-and-coming University Heights neighborhood. If it could be calculated, Jason loved it.

  For his and Amy’s wedding, Damon had treated them both to a trip to Hawaii, leis and all. Afterward, he’d promoted Jason to CFO of Torrance Chocolates. The promotion had been completely deserved. But it hadn’t done what Damon had hoped. It hadn’t brought his longtime friend back to him for the same full-time camaraderie and spur-of-the-moment carousing they used to share.

  “It’s not as though you two have been apart for years or anything,” Damon grumbled from his position in the Ferrari’s driver’s seat. With deliberate effort, he tore away his gaze. “It’s only been a few minutes since we roared down the track.”

  “Actually, your time was 1:47:00. A new course record.” Giada Bandini strolled up with a stopwatch in her hand. Next to her curvaceous body, the technical-looking instrument seemed twice as austere and about ten times less interesting. Giada was a brilliant and gifted businesswoman. She also would have looked right at home in a Botticelli painting. Flirtatiously, she swept her fingertips along Damon’s arm. Sexily, she smiled. “Not bad for an amateur. But if you want to improve your standings, I think I can show you a trick or two.”

  Giada gave him a suggestive glance, making her meaning plain. Damon didn’t need the clarification. He and Giada had spent the morning and part of the afternoon trading repartee, getting to know one another, and recognizing their equivalent interest in coming together … on personal and business levels.

  “I already sent my associates back to the office,” Giada went on. “So for the rest of the day … I’m all yours.”

  And I’m yours, Damon wante
d to say, just the way his libido demanded. But this time, uncharacteristically, he hesitated.

  He glanced at Jason and Amy again, watching as the two of them teased each other. They were bantering about who’d been the better—and worse—driver during their vacation so far. Somehow they seemed absolutely enthralled by one another while doing it.

  All at once, a powerful wave of loneliness hit Damon. In that moment, he wanted what Jason had. He wanted a woman who loved him. He wanted a woman who would be there for him—even if he didn’t have the best racetrack time, the biggest house, and the fastest growing company in California. He wanted a woman he could love back—a woman he could partner with and confide in.

  Into the brooding silence that followed that unwelcome revelation, Giada leaned nearer. “I like it fast and slow,” she confessed. Her breath tickled his ear. “With me, you can have it all—sexy and romantic. You don’t have to choose either one.”

  Her words—and her deliberately provocative, Italian-accented tone—conjured up a whole series of illicit images … images that had the expected effect on him. Damon tried to resist. Giada’s gaze wandered to his lap, then lingered.

  She licked her lips, and Damon gave in. What the hell was going on with him, anyway? Giada was propositioning him, and he was deliberating whether to say yes? When a woman like Giada came knocking, no man turned her down. Not even Damon Torrance.

  He had to be crazy. Maybe he’d had too much delicious Bandini espresso. Maybe he hadn’t had enough. Either way …

  “Hey, you lovebirds! Break it up.” Another of Giada’s guests on the Fiorano Circuit, So Cal media mogul Wes Brinkman, strolled up with a bottle of Cuvée Femme in one arm and a particularly luscious lady racing fan in the other. In a clear signal to party, Wes raised the champagne. “I hear we’ve got a new business partnership to celebrate. To Bandini! And to Torrance Chocolates!” Wes winked. “Long may they prosper.”

  Damon didn’t know Wes very well; they’d just met today. But since Damon recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one—and so did Wes—they’d hit it off immediately. They both liked fast vintage cars, good times, and playing to win. They both appreciated the complexities of women, the mysteries inherent in their smiles, and all the diverse pleasures they offered.

  Even before today, though, Damon had heard of B-Man Media, Wes’s much-buzzed-about mass media company. Everyone had. Wes was a few years further along in his career than Damon was. Wes was older and probably wiser. He’d had an undeniable head start in his career by inheriting a family fortune first.

  But Wes’s very presence there at the Fiorano Circuit—with a woman on his arm and a bottle in his hand and a twinkle in his eyes—assured Damon that it was possible to succeed at work and have fun while doing it. If he’d been looking for a role model to reassure him that the path he was on was the right one—that work and play could coexist—Wes would have fit the bill nicely.

  And if Wes seemed vaguely rough around the edges sometimes … well, the pursuit of pleasure took its toll eventually. Everyone knew that. Besides, Wes was headed toward forty. Nobody stayed invulnerable to excess forever. But living like Keith Richards was better than living like Ward Cleaver, wasn’t it?

  You only get one shot at living, Damon reminded himself. That meant you’d better make it good while you had the chance.

  Pulling himself back to the conversation, Damon eyed Giada. “We have a deal?”

  “Of course!” With a gentle tug, she urged him out of the Ferrari. “Your initial pitch was very impressive. It was evident you knew what you were talking about when it came to etailing, customer engagement, merchandizing, emotional branding, top-of-mind awareness, menu engineering … all those little details we corporate types love so much.” Casually, she ticked off those elements of their previous discussions. “I knew I’d say yes, Damon. I could have told you that over the phone, of course.” Playfully, she smiled. “But where’s the fun in that?”

  Belatedly realizing the truth, Damon regarded her. “You lured me to Italy under false pretenses.”

  Giada shrugged. “You didn’t mind.”

  She was right. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” With a grin, Damon nodded. “I prefer doing business in person.”

  “Proximity definitely has its benefits.” Without an ounce of coyness, Giada grabbed his necktie. She eyed him up and down, then gave him another yank—this time, in the direction of the buildings ringing the racetrack. “We’ll catch up with you later,” she told the others with a toss of her hair. “Right now, Damon and I have a union to broker.”

  Wes gave a knowing chuckle. “Take your time!”

  “Take lots of time,” Amy advised loudly. “Remember—”

  “Remember our flight leaves at ten,” Jason interrupted, perennially attentive and numbers-minded. “Don’t be late.”

  Giada laughed. “You might have to hold the plane.”

  Damon hoped so. Because all at once, as he let himself be tugged along by his necktie, headed for a sexual tryst he knew would be mind-bending, with a woman whose voluptuous hips, winsome smile, and ingenious mind had already entranced him, he began wondering … could Giada be the one for him?

  He could love her, Damon decided as he felt her hip bump enticingly against his. She could love him, he imagined as Giada tossed him a sizzling look. They could make this work.

  The longer he thought about it, the more real it felt.

  Taking charge—of this, of today, of his destiny for all the days to come—Damon pulled Giada into the shadows along the exterior wall of the mechanics’ shop. With the whirr of power tools and the smell of hot metal filling the air, he kissed her.

  It felt good, so he did it again. Against the hard brick wall of the shop, he lost himself in another kiss. When it was over—eventually—Giada grinned up at him. “That’s more like it. For a minute there, I thought you were going to turn me down.”

  “Not a chance,” Damon told her. He kissed her harder.

  Sure, Damon decided as Giada moaned in his arms. This felt like love. It did. If it wasn’t love quite yet, it would be by the time the night was through. He’d make sure of it.

  Because nobody took away what Damon Torrance wanted. Right now, what Damon wanted was love. Sweet, commanding, necessary love. Love like Jason and Amy had. Love that meant adoring looks and holding hands and teasing banter and warm, soft hugs and—

  Oh yeah. And being dragged into a nearby office for a more private make-out session at Giada’s insistence.

  Because, Damon told himself further, a man’s definition of true love had to be flexible. Right now, his definition included whispered terms of endearment in a language he didn’t entirely understand, a stand-up quickie in a sunlit, out-of-the-way vacant office … and a woman who screamed when she came.

  Hey, everyone said love was a many splendored thing. Who the hell was Damon to argue? If this was love, he was in.

  Chapter 4

  June 2007

  San Diego

  Natasha’s first clue that her day might not go well was when she felt her battered Civic swerve sharply sideways. A weird clunking sound came next. Then, as she cautiously pulled into the breakdown lane on I-5, she felt her car dip ominously.

  A minute later, staring at the blown-out treads on her left front tire, Natasha frowned. This was why everyone urged her to spend some money on a new car. Given her escalating salary at Torrance Chocolates, she could—technically—afford to buy herself something a little flashier, or at least a lot more reliable.

  But as Natasha popped open the trunk and wrestled out her trusty jack from beneath her three-year-old son’s beach towels, playground ball, spare bottles of water, and sandcastle-building toys, she knew she wouldn’t do it. Not only was she reluctant to spend money unnecessarily—especially now—but she also knew she felt too sentimental about her car to give it up.

  With grumpy forbearance, she eyed her Civic. The paint was scratched on the driver’s side rear door. That had happened on t
he day she’d started working with Damon and Jimmy. Damon had generously given her some additional up-front vacation days (“The honeymoon should last at least as long as the sunburn,” he’d insisted with a grin while shooing her out of the office), and Natasha had been so eager to meet up with Paul afterward and share her good news that she’d almost taken out one of the support beams of their apartment complex’s covered parking structure.

  Instead, she’d merely splintered the support beam. A little. Which, as Natasha had later explained to her landlord (and mother-in-law), Carol Jennings, had been a blessing in disguise. Because the termite infestation that had been discovered during the beam’s repair would have cost thousands more to deal with if it hadn’t been uncovered until later.

  Fortunately for Natasha, Carol had seen things her way. From that day on, they’d gotten along famously, too—which was saying something, given everything that had happened since then.

  After getting out her spare tire, Natasha ran her fingers over a crunched-in spot on the bumper. It was only noticeable if you looked closely, so she’d assured herself it didn’t need fixing. That particular ding had happened on the day she’d come home early from a business trip—just over four years into her marriage—to find her husband naked with a model in his artist’s studio, indulging his “creativity” in new and unexpected ways.

  Natasha had been so shaken by Paul’s infidelity—especially in light of the way she’d selflessly set aside her own attraction to Damon and devoted herself to her family—that she’d backed out too fast from her parking space and collided with the car adjacently parked by Paul’s favorite “muse.”

  Natasha had offered to pay for the damage, of course. But Paul’s luscious, doe-eyed, twentysomething Mexican muse—freshly in town from Cancun, where she and Paul had met during Natasha and Paul’s honeymoon—had refused to accept (also, of course). But Natasha still thought the incident qualified as poetic justice. She also figured it was smart to remember life-altering events like that one, which was another good reason not to have the dent fixed.