A Billionaire for Christmas

Since Damien and I have kid-transport down to a science, it doesn’t take long to get the girls unstrapped and out of the car. Immediately, they scamper to the open door and race inside to find their cousins.

Damien and I move more slowly, enjoying what has become increasingly rare alone time. “I was thinking this morning that it’s a shame I didn’t know Jackson when I designed the house. Ours is good. His is better.”

“Ours is amazing,” I counter, stating what I consider an empirical truth. “And it’s not as though you two hit it off right away. There was that whole period where he thought you were as much of a devil as your father.”

“Mmm,” Damien says, and I’m thankful he doesn’t expand on the topic. The last thing I meant to do was pull Jeremiah Stark into any holiday-related conversation. Or any conversation for that matter.

“Besides, it’s not like you two haven’t made up for lost time. So many projects, and The Domino is topping them all.” The complex is not only at full capacity, it’s won almost every major award for design that exists.

Stark International’s Resort at Cortez—an island development—is another that added a feather to Jackson Steele’s already full cap. But while Damien was personally involved in The Domino, Syl was the Stark representative who took point and worked with Jackson on that.

I bite back a smile.

“What?” Damien asks.

“Just thinking that Syl and Jackson got together working on The Resort at Cortex. What kind of bromance did you two have working on The Domino?”

He chuckles. “The best kind,” he assures me. “The kind where our wives are like sisters, our children are cousins, and where Jackson and I made up for some of those lost years when I didn’t have a clue he existed.”

“You did that before,” I say.

“True. But we lost a lot of years. And we have a lot of time to make up for.”

As if he knew we were talking about him, Jackson steps over the threshold and stands beneath the porte-cochere as we continue down the etched concrete drive toward the stunning contemporary-style home. He’s younger than Damien, but like my husband, Jackson stands with a confident posture that suggests that he owns the world. His hair, as dark as Damien’s, is thick and tousled, and his strong jawline is rough with beard stubble.

But it’s his eyes that are his most striking feature. A vivid blue that can be either as warm as a summer sky or as cold as an arctic sea. Now, they are warm and inviting.

“I was beginning to think you dropped the kids and ran off on your own.”

“Tempting,” Damien says, as Jackson kisses my cheek, then hooks an arm around each of us and guides us into the waiting chaos.

And chaos it is.

While the view of the Steele home from the front may be worthy of Architectural Digest, the interior is a screaming, writhing pit of insanity otherwise known as The Gathering of the Cousins.

“It’s too early for whisky,” Sylvia says, approaching with a flute full of orange liquid. “But a mimosa should take the edge off.”

I take it eagerly, then follow her through the house to the back patio. The kids are ahead of us, and Lara and Ronnie, their oldest at seven, are already clamoring for the swings while three-year-old Jeffery and Anne have plunked themselves down in the sandbox.

“Should we go down?” I’m imagining little eyes stung with sand.

“Moira’s there.” Sylvia points, and I see the pretty dark-haired girl come out from behind the shed with a bouncy ball.

“I was afraid she skipped out on today when I only saw the one car.”

Sylvia rolls her eyes. “She actually sat in the back of that thing. I have no idea how she fit. She’s what, five-ten?”

“Maybe she’s foldable,” I say, and we both laugh.

Syl, I think, would have no trouble curling up in the back of the Ferrari. She’s shorter than me, not petite, but not tall. These days, she’s wearing her hair short again, and the pixie cut suits her. I originally met her when she was Damien’s executive assistant. Now, Damien’s right; she’s like a sister, both by marriage and by friendship.

“I’m sorry Evelyn’s not coming,” I say, thoughts of sisters pushing my thoughts to my own mother, and then veering me quickly away. Elizabeth Fairchild may be tied to me biologically, but Evelyn Dodge is the woman who feels like my mother. And, in fact, she gave me away at my wedding. As Damien’s former agent, she’s been in his life since his tennis career, and I know she loves him as much as I do. More than that, she loves me, too.

“She had something she couldn’t get out of. She’s hoping to get free in time to see us at The Domino.”