Burned Deep (Burned 1)

I climbed off his lap and snatched my thong. He ducked into what I presumed was the bathroom. I hauled my totes off the top of the dresser and set them and my shoes on the bottom shelf under my hanging clothes.

It was a bit thrilling to have my own little space in his world. At the Lux. At his house.

Thoughts of the hotel brought back my own responsibilities. I had a lot of work to do.

We traveled the hall together and collected our laptop bags.

Dane kissed my forehead and said, “I’ll be in my office until about eight. Make yourself comfortable.”

“I like your great room.”

“Switch for the fireplace is under the mantel. Password for the Wi-Fi is bagan.” He spelled it.

I recalled he’d said it meant to fight. “Are you German?”

“On my dad’s side.”

“How did your parents die?”

His irises darkened. “Not now, Ari.” He kissed me again, then turned to head into his office.

I said, “I’m sorry about them.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks.” As he disappeared into the other room, I wondered if I’d ever get all the facts.

I set my things out on the coffee table, lit the hearth and a few candles before firing up my computer. I accessed the Internet and went into full-on research mode, looking for the perfect Christmas tree. Or trees. I still hadn’t decided on quantity. Size. Shape. Shit.

Shopping around, however, led me in a different direction—budget planning. A thirty-foot Rockefeller Pine would cost us fifteen grand alone. I had a sneaking suspicion Dane would not reuse decorations from year to year but would donate them and have a different theme every Christmas.

I didn’t know this for sure, of course, but from what I’d gleaned thus far—and the fact that packing up all of the unused furniture erroneously delivered to Monaco and having it shipped to the Lux was an unsatisfactory solution—I had a feeling I was pretty close to right with my speculation.

I had an astronomical budget for events. Still … Fifteen thousand dollars for a fake tree. Holy fuck.

Around seven o’clock, my head throbbed from breaking down my allotted funds into an Excel spreadsheet and trying to disperse them adequately across twelve months, taking into account the other holidays and potential functions we’d host. Not to mention all the pre-launch and grand-opening festivities.

I was also starving. I wandered through the house until I located the enormous kitchen, filled with shiny stainless-steel state-of-the-art appliances. There was a large rectangular island in the center, intricately designed with decorative accents. A matching table that sat eight was tucked into the artistic breakfast nook in the far corner, just off the patio, where glass doors revealed another big table and an outdoor grill and cooking station.

My entire townhome could have fit into this one room.

A slow churning started low in my belly. I wasn’t a stranger to the rich and affluent—not when my dad’s career had been red-hot and he’d garnered invitations to lavish parties. But I’d never been intimately involved with someone who owned … all this. And 10,000 Lux.

Curiosity ate at me once more. From where had all of Dane’s money come? Sure, he’d inherited his parents’ fortune. But how vast was it? And what had he done to put himself in the position to build the resort, buy this house, throw down a million and a half on a sports car only twenty-nine other people in the world would own?

I’d learned from my father and some of the cheating scandals in the sports world that the cream did not always rise to the top without some help along the way.

How did all of this belong to Dane Bax?

As I pondered the mystery of him—and shoved aside the notion of any potential scratching and clawing his way to the top—I prowled the kitchen and then raided the fancy Sub-Zero fridge, which was fully stocked. I found fresh salmon and used the stovetop grill to cook the fish. I made up a spinach salad that I drizzled with an olive oil, lemon, and dill dressing and added thick slices of warm French bread on a separate plate. I was just setting everything on the table when Dane joined me, a bottle of white wine in hand.

“Perfect timing,” I said. It was just a few minutes after eight.

“I smelled the salmon down the hall. Delicious.”

“You haven’t tried it yet. I’m no gourmet cook—or five-star chef.”

He kissed my cheek and murmured, “I bet it’s fantastic.”

Uncorking the wine, he poured two glasses. We settled at the table.