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T wo hours later, I’m the proud owner of the small, leather-bound journal into which Vivien Lorainne once poured out her secrets. That simple fact makes me giddy, and I can’t wait to dig in and lose myself in the story hidden within those pages.

Sadly, I don’t yet have it in my hands. The auction’s policy is for each guest to pick up their items as they leave the gala, presumably so as to not interrupt the festivities, and also to prevent the confusion and headache if someone sets an item down and then can’t find it again.

I understand the rule, but now that I’ve won it, I want to hold it. I know I’m just excited by having placed the high bid, but I can’t shake the feeling that once the journal is in my hand, I’ll understand my Hollywood idol so much better. Maybe I’ll even learn all of her secrets.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll find a clue as to why she was murdered … and by whom.

“ Nikki! ”

I turn to see Sylvia—Damien’s former assistant and now sister-in-law—waving as she navigates through the crowd, her silver gown complementing her short, dark hair and giving her a polished, regal look.

“I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you until the brunch tomorrow,” she says, pulling me into a hug. “I’m dying for a look at that journal.”

“Me, too,” I admit. “I’m tempted to tell Damien it’s time to go, just so I can get my hands on it.”

“Well, he’s talking to Jackson.” She nods across the room. “So I’m in the same boat you are.”

I laugh. “Except not literally.” While Damien and I have a suite at the Pavilion, Jackson and Syl are actually staying the night on The Veronica , the yacht on which he lived when he first moved to Los Angeles.

“We decided to do a long weekend with the kids,” she’d told me a few days ago during one of our frequent late-night calls. “They think the boat is cooler than a hotel suite.”

“Is Ronnie in charge right now?” I ask, referring to their eldest daughter.

“I’d trust her,” she says. “That kid’s been the most responsible one in the family since the day I met her. But, no. I conned my brother into the job. After brunch tomorrow, we’re going to do a family adventure and explore the island. By both land and sea.” She shrugs. “Then we’ll head back to the mainland around sunset.”

“Why not just stay another night?”

“Jackson’s got a meeting about a project in Dubai.”

I nod, not the least bit surprised. As one of the world’s most sought-after architects, he works with clients from all over the globe.

A waiter passes with custom cocktails, and we each take one that is pink and fruity, then sip it as we continue to talk, catching up on gossip about our friends—Jamie and Ryan are smitten with baby Maia, Jane and Dallas are pregnant again, Matthew Holt is still single, and will probably stay that way, and on and on and on.

We’re deep into planning a girls’ night when I see a familiar face. A lanky blond man with piercing eyes and a slightly crooked smile that is currently aimed at me.

“What?” Syl asks as I lift my hand in response to his wave.

“Help me out,” I say as the guy approaches. “I can’t recall his name.”

“Nikki!” the Mystery Man says, easing up beside me and brushing his fingertips down my arm.

Syl’s brows lift, but she extends her hand. “I’m Sylvia. Nikki’s sister-in-law. And you are…?”

“Greg Keeler,” he says, and right then, I could kiss Sylvia.

“I’m so sorry, Greg,” I say. “I should have jumped right in to introduce you two. Greg was almost a client,” I tell Sylvia. “He decided to go on to bigger and better things.”

Greg chuckles, then slides his arm around my shoulder in a casual, we’re-all-buds-here manner. I give Sylvia the look , and she takes a step in the opposite direction—clearly hoping Greg will follow—as she says, “Okay, spill. Because that sounds like a story.”

Greg stays planted firmly at my side as he explains that he’d come to me about doing some custom software for his startup. But he abandoned the startup when he was offered an excellent position at a well-established company.

“Bigger and better things,” I quip, twisting for my purse and, in the process, shaking free of him. I’d mostly forgotten Greg, but now I recall with great detail the wash of relief that had flowed through me when he’d told me we wouldn’t be working together.

He’s a nice enough guy. But the man is a toucher. Not just me. Everything and anything. It got to the point where I would move anything I didn’t want fiddled with from my office before we had a meeting.

Unfortunately, at the moment, his constantly busy hands and fingers have targeted me, and I sigh with relief when I see Damien and Jackson across the ballroom.

I lift a hand, urging them to join us. By the time they do, Greg’s made his goodbyes and taken his busy fingers toward the display cases. Where, I’m sure, he’ll drive the staff crazy by trailing his fingertips on the glass and asking for an item to be taken out of the case—and toyed with.

“Who was that?” Damien asks, and all thoughts of Greg’s busy fingers go out of my head as Damien’s arms go around my waist.

“Greg Keeler,” I say. “I know him from work.”

“Hmm,” Damien says in a tone I know quite well.

“Stop it,” I say, laughter in my voice. “He’s not remotely interested in me.

“The view I had suggests otherwise.”

I hear the humor in his voice and tilt my head back. “Jealous, Mr. Stark?”

“Always,” he teases. He knows as well as I do that jealousy is pointless. For me, there’s only Damien, for now and for always.

His arms tighten around me, and a sensual buzz cuts through me along with the unspoken message— you’re mine.

As I revel in Damien’s touch, Jackson steps in behind Sylvia, his hands resting on her shoulders as she leans against him.

Like Damien, Jackson has dark hair, a striking jawline, and a way of standing and walking that conveys both confidence and power. They’re friends now, as well as brothers, but the early months after Damien learned of Jackson’s existence were tough on all of us. Thankfully, that’s all in the past. Now, Damien and Jackson and Syl and all of our kids make up the core of the close-knit family I’d always wanted, but never believed I would have.

“They’re shutting things down,” Damien says, opening his jacket so I can see the plastic-wrapped journal tucked safely into an interior pocket. “Shall we grab a drink in the lobby?”

“They’re going to say no,” I say, with a nod toward Jackson. “Kids waiting on the boat.”

“The kids should be asleep on the boat by now,” Jackson says, moving to Sylvia’s side and hooking her arm through his. “I think a nightcap sounds great. We can make plans for a longer get-together when we’re all back home.”

“Perfect,” Damien says. He brushes a kiss over my forehead. “And after that, Mrs. Stark, I have a surprise for you.”

“You sure you’re okay to walk?” Damien asks as we stand with Syl and Jackson—all of us now slightly tipsy—in the Pavilion’s ornate lobby to say our goodbyes.

“I’m fine,” I assure him.

“It’s not far,” he promises.

“This is why women wear heels and have the babies,” Syl says, shooting a grin in my direction. “At the heart of it all, they’re the ones who are wimps.”

Jackson chuckles, and he and Damien share a look. “Sounds fair,” Damien says with a shrug.

“Very astute assessment,” Jackson agrees, making Syl and I break into a fit of giggles that probably has more to do with the cocktails we drank than the actual humor of our banter. We’ve just managed to control ourselves when someone across the lobby calls out, “Mrs. Steele!”

I turn in that direction as Sylvia waves. “Dr. Hart! I didn’t know you were here.”

Dr. Hart turns out to be Dr. Franklin Hart, who Sylvia introduces to us as a Los Angeles-based psychologist. “And an occultist,” Damien adds. “It’s good to see you again, Franklin.”

I look between the three of them. Dr. Hart doesn’t look at all like a man who cavorts with ghosts. Sylvia and I have had Tarot readings for fun, but I didn’t think she was into the occult. And while Damien is fascinated by everything, I doubt he’s been using a paranormal consultant to help build Stark International. Which boils down to my question: “How on earth do you all know each other?”

“Sophia,” Damien says flatly, referring to the woman who had almost been a sister to him—and had once tried to kill me. “She had regular sessions with Dr. Hart for a few years,” he says.

I only nod. I’ve forgiven Sophia a lot, but as far as I’m concerned, the sessions never did her much good.

As for Syl, she explains that they met through her lifetime bestie, Cass, who has a bit of a woo streak. “She dragged me to a lecture—sorry, Dr. Hart, but it’s true. I was all prepared to be bored and unconvinced.” She grins. “But it was fascinating.”

“We’ll have to come to one of your lectures,” I say, glancing at Damien, who doesn’t look convinced but smiles politely.

“I’d love to hear your impressions,” he says, and Sylvia adds that she’ll send me the info to sign up for Dr. Hart’s newsletter.

“Were you at the auction?” Damien asks.

“I was. In fact, I bid against you on that journal.”

I stand up a little straighter. “I thought your voice was familiar. I couldn’t see who else was bidding.”

“Why would you want the journal?” Syl asks, voicing what would have been my next question. “Is there something odd about it?”

“I’m a collector of Hollywood memorabilia,” he says. “But to be honest … well, yes. The journal holds a special interest for me because of its connection to her house.”

I nod. “You mean the rumors that her house here on the island is haunted.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Hart says. “If she wrote that journal while in a haunted house, some of that energy might have been absorbed.”

“Oh.” I glance toward Damien, feeling suddenly as if the journal inside his jacket is emitting protoplasmic waves. Or whatever kind of a vibe haunted things give off.

Damien squeezes my hand, stepping closer. “You actually believe that house is haunted?”

“It does have that reputation.”

“I think gossip and tourism are the more likely source of those rumors. She was beaten almost to death in that house, and we know she’d had many arguments inside it with her husband. Surely, it’s that drama that fueled the haunted house stories. That and the vacation company that owned it for the last few decades pushing the Haunted Hollywood narrative.”

Dr. Hart grins. “Just because they pushed it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

I can’t help but agree with Dr. Hart, but Damien just shakes his head. “At any rate,” he says, “it was a pleasure meeting you. Are you staying on the island for a while?”

Dr. Hart nods. “Since I was here for the auction, I thought I’d stay for a few days of relaxation. I have a room here at the Pavilion.”

“Enjoy that,” Damien says.

“We’ll be here for a few days as well,” I tell him. “Maybe we can have coffee one morning. I’d love to hear some of your ghost stories.”

He chuckles. “They’re not all ghosts, but I’d be happy to share. And yes, you can reach me here.”

“Us, too,” I say, though when I look at Damien’s face, I wish I’d kept quiet. I can’t quite read it, but I’m afraid I may have just interfered with his plans for a romantic weekend in our suite.

But if that’s the case, I’m sure Dr. Hart will understand if we wait on coffee until we’re back in Los Angeles.

We promise to touch base, then part ways, with Dr. Hart passing Damien his card before he steps back into the hotel. I watch as Syl and Jackson head toward the pier. As they fade from sight, Damien starts to walk in the same direction along Crescent Avenue. I tilt my head. “You have plans, Mr. Stark?”

He shrugs, looking almost boyish. “Just hoping to take an evening stroll with my wife.”

“In that case, Mr. Stark,” I say as I hook my arm through his, “lead the way.”

We walk in silence for a bit, enjoying the night and the simple pleasure of each other’s company. After a few blocks, he nods toward my feet. “You’re really okay walking in those?”

“I’m fine for now,” I say. “And while I’m enjoying this,” I say, then add a tinge of heat in my voice, “I should confess that I was looking forward to going back to our room.” I smile up at him. “This walk is probably great for my thighs and ass, but I had a different kind of workout in mind.”

“Did you?” His voice is low and a little growly in a way that has my body responding in all sorts of wonderful ways. And makes me all the more frustrated that we’re still going in the wrong direction.

“As far as I’m concerned,” he says, “your thighs and ass are already perfect.” He stops, then faces me, reaching around to squeeze the ass in question. “Yup. Perfect.”

“What are you up to, Mr. Stark?” I ask as our walk continues—in the wrong direction. I’m pretty sure I already know—the beach. Where else could we be going? And while I’m very fond of my dress, I’m more than willing to sacrifice its hem to a walk in the surf with Damien.

But just as I’m certain we’ll be veering off to the water, he turns in the opposite direction and starts leading me up a hill. That’s when I have to admit, if only to myself, that I haven’t a clue what my enigmatic husband has in mind.

Still, I’m not worried. Damien never fails to please. Because even if he does make a misstep, he makes up for it in the most delicious of ways.

I defer to the hilly terrain and take off my shoes with their impractical heels.

“You’re okay on the pavement?”

“This late? It’s cool enough.” I dance forward a bit, enjoying the way my skirt brushes my thighs, not sure if I’m buzzed on champagne or Damien.

Damien . Definitely Damien.

We’ve been married for over a decade and have three kids. And yet, I still feel like a girl in my twenties falling desperately, helplessly in love.

“Hey,” I say, taking his hand and tilting my face for a kiss.

“Hey, yourself,” he whispers, his soft kiss so full of heat that I want to melt right then.

We hold hands as he leads me into a neighborhood. “Have you checked in with Evelyn?” I ask, in a complete non-sequitur.

“I have,” he says. “The kids are having a grand time with Gran and Gramps.”

“Evelyn insists she hates that,” I say, fighting a laugh.

Damien shakes his head. “I think she loves it.” Evelyn Dodge has been a fixture in Damien’s life since childhood when she acted as his agent during his years as a professional tennis player, both as a kid and as an adult. She’s been my friend and pseudo-mom for years, and a huge improvement on the woman who biologically has that title.

And since she’s now married to my father, I can legitimately call her Mom. And my kids call her Gran. Damien’s right, of course. Brassy and bold, Evelyn will go to her grave pretending that she’s still too young to be “Grandma,” thank you very much. While all the time, she’s giddy inside.

I’ve seen the look in her eye.

I glance up to tell Damien all of that, and only then do I notice a street sign.

Metropole Avenue.

“You brought me to Metropole?” I pause to look at him, my mind whirring. “Are we heading to Hollywood House?”

I can’t keep the eager note out of my voice. Hollywood House is what the vacation rental company that bought Vivien Lorainne’s house after her death named the property. And, of course, they listed it in the Haunted Mansions subsection of their catalog.

At less than two thousand square feet, the house isn’t actually a mansion. From the pictures I’ve seen and the things I’ve read, it’s a cute little blue cottage with white trim. It has a covered porch, a huge back patio with a view of the ocean, three bedrooms, a living room, and a dining room. The cottage was Vivien’s favorite place in the world, and she lived there permanently, leaving it only when she was filming or traveling.

“If we’re staying overnight, I wish you’d told me,” I say, my secretly aching feet no longer aching. “We could have brought our luggage.”

“I’m not giving away anything,” he says. “Besides, I think I’m insulted that you don’t trust me to have taken care of that.”

“You make a good point, Mr. Stark.”

He chuckles as we round a bend. “Eyes on the pavement, okay?”

“I already figured it out,” I say, but he simply stares me down.

“Fine,” I agree, far too giddy to argue. I let him guide me the rest of the distance, then draw in a breath when he moves behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “We’re here.”

It’s exactly as I’ve seen it in photographs. Only one thing is different—there’s a For Sale sign in the yard. And hanging from it is a smaller sign, bright red with white letters: SOLD.