by J. Kenner
"Don't know. I haven't seen her since. I'm staying away from temptation." He doesn't quite meet my eyes.
"There shouldn't be temptation," I say. "Not if Courtney really is the one."
"Is that really true?" He looks hard at me. "Or is that just a romantic myth?"
"It's true," I say, holding an image of Damien tight against my heart. "It's the truest thing in the world."
"Maybe you're right," he says, and my heart breaks a little because those words shouldn't make him sad. Not when he's about to get married.
He shakes his head as if clearing out cobwebs, then polishes off the rest of his drink. "I'm going to go lay on my bed, close my eyes, and feel the earth rotate. How about you?"
I think of Damien. If I go back, I'll want to touch him, if only to reassure myself that he is there and real. But he needs to sleep, and right now that is the only thing I am capable of giving him.
"I'm going out," I say. "I'm in need of some retail therapy."
Chapter Five
I exit the hotel and turn left, then wander aimlessly down this polished street that I have walked so many times with Damien. Like Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue, Maximilianstrasse has its own rhythm, its own pace. And like those equally famous streets, it also has the pristine sheen of money. Last week, I held Damien's hand as we strolled and shopped. This street was like a magical place, banishing the dark gloom of the trial and giving us a few moments of light all wrapped up with a bright, shiny bow of luxury.
Today, I desperately want to return to that state of mind. To let the polished brass door handles and crystal clear windows with ornate displays fill my head so that there is no room for my worries. It's not working, though, and this street that held fun and fantasy when Damien's hand was in mine now seems like nothing more than a crush of grasping, gaping people who are pushing and shoving, moving through the world with too much time and too little to do.
Dammit. I should be celebrating. Hell, Damien should be celebrating.
I walk a few blocks, past Hugo Boss and Ralph Lauren and Gucci until I reach a small gallery that Damien and I had popped into on my third day in Munich. The manager, a reedy man with an easy smile, greets me immediately. Considering he'd flirted shamelessly with Damien but essentially ignored me, I'm surprised he recognizes me. "Fraulein! It is so good to see you. But why are you not celebrating? And where is Mr. Stark? I was so pleased to see that he has been cleared."
"Thank you," I say, and I can't help but smile at his effusiveness. This is the kind of reaction I'd hoped to see from Damien. "He's asleep, actually. It's been an exhausting couple of weeks."
The manager nods knowingly. "And what can I do for you?"
I had entered on autopilot, but now that I'm here, I realize that I've come with a purpose. "You can ship, right?"
"Of course," he says, and he's polite and well-trained enough not to scoff at my idiotic question.
"I want to look at those black-and-white prints," I say, pointing toward the room where Damien and I had spent over an hour gazing at the brilliantly executed photos from a local Munich photographer.
I followed Damien to Germany so quickly that I forgot to bring my own camera, and even though this is hardly a trip that rates a flurry of souvenir snapshots, there have been moments when I regretted not having it. For years, a camera has been my security blanket. First, the Nikon that my sister Ashley gave me during my freshman year of high school. More recently, the digital Leica that Damien presented me in Santa Barbara, an amazing gift that reflected just how well the man understood me--and how much he wanted to please me.
Now, it is Damien I want to please. Though he isn't comfortable behind the camera, he has excellent taste in the resultant images, and we had both been impressed by the astounding composition and ethereal lighting of this series of photographs.
I pause in front of one that shows the sun descending behind a mountain range. Bands of light seem to shoot out from the image, and though the shadows are deep, every nuance of the stony mountain face can still be discerned. It is beautiful and dark and romantic and edgy. It reminds me of Damien. Of the times that he has held me close and softly whispered that between us, the sun is never going down.
Now I want to give him this photo. I want to hang it in the bedroom of his Malibu house, a reminder of all that is between us. I want us both to know that even in the dark there will always be the light, and that no matter what, we will continue on forever. I want an image that says I love you.
"It is a beautiful print," the manager says from behind me. "And a limited edition."
"How much?"
He quotes me the price and I come genuinely close to having heart failure. But except for the Lamborghini rental, I have spent none of my million on frivolous things, and besides, this image isn't frivolous. As I turn once again to look at the photograph, I realize that it feels strangely important, and I know that if I walk away I will regret it every time I look at the walls of the Malibu house and see that it is not there.
I shift again to smile at the manager, but end up looking out the window instead. A woman stands there, the brim of her hat pressed against the glass as if she is trying to peer into the gallery. There's nothing intrinsically odd about that--after all, most people do look through gallery windows--but there is something about her that looks familiar. And there is something in her stance that suggests that it's not the photographs she is looking at, but me.
I shiver, suddenly and unreasonably disturbed.
"Fraulein?"
"What? Oh, sorry." I turn my attention to the manager, but my eyes dart back to the woman. She pulls away from the window and walks on. I exhale with relief, then mentally shake myself. I am being ridiculous. I aim a smile at my companion. "Yes," I say firmly. "I'll take it."
The manager only nods his head in polite acquiescence, but I am struck by the thought that inside he is leaping with glee, and I can't help my grin.
"The photographer will be in town this weekend. Would you like me to have him sign it to you and Mr. Stark?"
"That would be wonderful. Do you have a piece of paper?"
He does, of course, and while he inflicts serious damage on my credit card, I write out the shipping address and the notation that I'd like the artist to add.
"Have a good day, Fraulein," he says as I leave. "And please tell Mr. Stark how happy I am for him."
"I will," I say, stepping back out onto the Maximilianstrasse. Less than an hour ago, this spectacular street had seemed gloomy. Now, everything seems a bit brighter. I continue my walk, this time paying more attention to the stores I'm passing. I pause in front of windows to look at purses and dresses and suits for Damien. Twice, I think I see the woman in the hat, but when I turn to look, I see no one. I frown, because I'm not prone to seeing phantom women, so I am certain that I am not imagining her.
I doubt very seriously that it is truly me that is of interest to her. Instead, I'm betting that she's a reporter. And she knows that if she follows me long enough, eventually, she will find Damien. I consider marching up to her and telling her that I don't appreciate the stalker vibe, but though I pay attention to the faces on the street and the reflections in the windows, I don't see her again.
I wander the main avenue and side streets for almost three hours before I can't take it any longer. I know that Damien needs to sleep, but I also need Damien. Selfish, yes, but I have held back for as long as I can.
I've almost reached the hotel when I remember a small boutique that Damien and I had noticed one evening as we were walking back from dinner, and I decide to squeeze in one more stop before returning. I wave to the valet as I pass in front of the Kempinski, then hurry across the street and down the two blocks to Marilyn's Lounge, a high-end lingerie store. I don't know if sexy lingerie will help wrest Damien from his funk, but I doubt it will hurt.
As I reach the store, I catch a quick glimpse of raven-black hair. Damien? I hesitate, then lift myself up on my toes, trying to see more clearly over the
crush of people on the street, but I see no sign of him.
Still, Damien and the unidentified woman have become juxtaposed in my thoughts, and I can't shake the strange sense of foreboding. I frown, feeling foolish, and push through the door and into Marilyn's Lounge.
A willowy blonde with cat-like eyes approaches me right away, and when I tell her I'm looking for seductive sleepwear in which I don't intend to actually sleep, she flashes a brilliantly white smile. "You have come to the right place, Ms. Fairchild."
I manage not to react. By now, I really should be used to the celebrity factor.
She devotes her full attention to me, leaving her dark-haired companion to scurry between the half dozen other women who are eyeing these tiny bits of satin and lace. Some wear expressions of shocked interest. Others have the bland faces of veterans to the art of seduction. The youngest is looking only at white baby-doll nighties, and I immediately peg her as a bride.
I do not have time to bond with my co-shoppers, however, because my tour guide is a strict task mistress. She whips out a measuring tape and orders me to stretch out my arms. Then she moves in and gets more intimate than anyone except Damien has in a long time. She announces my bra size--which I already knew--and proceeds to lead me through the store, plucking up camisoles with matching skirt-style garter belts, open cup bras, body stockings, baby-doll nighties, and even a variety of retro lingerie that makes me think of Rita Hayworth or the other classic movie pinup queens.
By the time she finally sweeps me into a dressing room that resembles a small hotel room, I have decided that I am not the expert shopper I always thought I was. She has completely exhausted me, and it is with both amusement and relief that I eye the bucket of ice that holds an uncorked bottle of champagne. There are two crystal flutes on a nearby marble table, along with a pitcher of orange juice. The juice is clearly to remedy the extreme drop in blood sugar brought about by too much exertion. The champagne is to loosen the wallet.
While I pour myself a mimosa--after all, my wallet was loose when I walked through the door--my personal shopper hangs negligees, nighties, and sultry camis on a bar. She places the monogramed canvas shopping basket on the floor. It is full to the brim with what might appear at first glance to be mere scraps of material, but actually constitutes a variety of sexy underthings. And should I become exhausted from climbing into and out of such decadent clothing, I can relax on the chaise lounge that dominates the back half of the dimly lit room.
If the lingerie business starts to stall, Marilyn's can just rent out their dressing rooms as high-end housing.
The first outfit is made from a sheer black material that is so soft it feels as though I am wearing a cloud. It's a little bit longer than a baby-doll style, hitting me just a bit higher than mid-thigh. It boasts a swishy skirt and a fitted bodice that manages to make my breasts--which aren't too shabby to begin with--look even bigger and perkier. I hold the thong-style panties up to see the effect, and I have to admit I like it. And though I'm technically failing Lingerie Etiquette 101 by doing it, I go ahead and step into the thong. Why not, since I've already decided to buy the outfit?
The thong is little more than a tiny triangle of material held in place by a stretchy black string. I twirl slowly, checking out the look in the Hollywood diva style three-way mirror that stands in one corner of the room. Honestly, it doesn't look half bad. More important, I think Damien will like seeing me in it--and seeing me out of it.
I'm grinning, and about to extricate myself from the bodice so that I can try on the next outfit, when the salesgirl taps on the door. "I found something else you might like. May I come in?"
"Sure. Thanks." I tug the top back down so that I'm fully covered--at least as fully covered as one can be wearing a see-through, low-cut, semi-baby-doll nightie--and watch as she opens the door. I expect frills and lace and silks and satins. What I see instead is Damien.
"Oh!"
His eyes are fixed on my face, the near-black one seeming to reach all the way into my heart, and the amber one so soft with apology that I think I'm going to cry. He steps inside the room and my head goes weak, as if all the air has been sucked out of the space. "I thought you might need a second opinion," he says, his mouth curving into a half-smile.
"I--yes. That would be great." I am a tongue-tied mess. My gaze darts to the salesgirl, who grins and backs away, shutting the door behind her. "Um, are you allowed to be here?"
"Apparently I am." He takes a step toward me, full of that Damien-esque arrogance I know so well.
I grin. In relief, in excitement, in joy.
"I'm sorry." His simple words seem to burst with emotion.
"You don't have anything to be sorry for," I say. His face doesn't change, but I see the smile touch his eyes, and my relief grows exponentially. "How did you know where to find me?"
He moves forward again, this time stopping only inches from me. My body thrums merely from his proximity. I want to launch myself into his arms, but I stand motionless. Today, it must be Damien who makes the first move.
"I've told you before that I'll always find you." His words are as soft as the silk on my body, and just as intimate. It occurs to me that the valet probably mentioned seeing me, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now except the desire that burns in his eyes. It is more dangerous than the wildest flame, but I don't care. On the contrary, I am craving the heat. He may have doused that fire back in the hotel, but it is back tenfold now, and all I want is for it to burn free. To engulf the two of us and render us to cinders.
Slowly, his gaze skims over me and this barely-there outfit. He doesn't touch me, but that doesn't matter. My skin tingles anyway, and the tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise from the charged energy that crackles in this room. It's a good thing I'm buying these panties, because I am already wet simply from being near him. "We're going to end up in the tabloids again," I whisper.
He shakes his head. "I can be very persuasive when I try. She won't say a thing."
"Is that a fact? Just how persuasive were you, Mr. Stark?"
"Persuasive to the tune of a thousand euros." His eyes crinkle as he grins. "She'll ensure our privacy. From the press and from her own curiosity. Of course," he adds as he finally reaches out to touch me, "the more interesting question is what does she think is going on in this small, private room?"
"I'm sure she has a very vivid imagination," I say dryly.
"Really?" Damien appears to consider the possibility. "Maybe she thinks I'm touching you like this," he says as his fingertip moves slowly over the swell of my breast. I draw in a sharp breath, fighting the riot of sensations that threaten to overwhelm me. The black nightie is designed for maximum lift, and is cut so low that it barely contains me. I'm breathing hard, and that only increases the illusion that I'm about to spill out over the cups. My nipples are hard beneath the material, and when he slides his hands down and catches them between his thumbs and forefingers, I have to bite back a small cry of pleasure.
"Or maybe she's imagining my mouth on your breasts," he murmurs, his lips caressing me in potent illustration of his words. "Or maybe she's a bit more naughty, and she's picturing my hand sliding down your abdomen, your skin quivering beneath my fingers, your breath coming faster and faster until my fingertip finds the tiny bit of elastic that is holding those panties up."
His fingers slip ever so slightly under the band of the thong, and my breath hitches. "Damien." His name is barely a word. It's a sigh, a groan. Hell, it's a demand.
His hand is inside the thong now, the other supporting me at the small of my back, because without that insistent pressure, I will surely collapse. "Does she wonder if I'm easing my hand down, if my finger is skimming lightly over your damp pubic hair? Does she know how hard your clit is, how turned on you are?"
My body shudders in silent answer.
He bends forward, his finger still teasing my clit as his lips brush my ear. "Does she know how wet and ready you are for me? Does she know how muc
h you want to come for me?"
In time with his words, he thrusts his finger inside of me. I cry out and arch back, my body tightening around him. "Is this what she's imagining?" he asks, his voice as erotic as his touch. "My fingers inside you, playing with you, making you just a little bit crazy?"
I can't answer. I can barely think past the electrical storm that is building inside me, much less form words. I am lost to his touch, lost to the rising pressure of an inevitable and explosive release. I'm so close, and Damien's hands upon me--his finger stroking me--feels so good. I want to stay like that, lost in this sensual limbo, and at the same time I want the crescendo. I want to explode in the circle of Damien's arms.
"Come on, baby," he demands. "Come for me."
His mouth closes over mine as his finger slides deeper inside me, the pressure of his thumb upon my clit increasing. It's as if he's hit some magic combination, and I feel the hot sparks of my orgasm shooting through me, so wild and violent I wonder if I will spontaneously combust.
Slowly, he withdraws his fingers, and I can't help but whimper. "Was that what she's been imagining?" he whispers. "That salesgirl who knows there's something naughty going on behind this door?"
I shake my head, forcing uncooperative words to my lips. "Not quite," I say. "She's imagining your hands on her, not on me."
"Is she?" His brows lift slightly as if the possibility hadn't even occurred to him. I can't help but laugh. Damien knows damn well the effect he has on women. "Well, she can have whatever fantasies she wants." He pulls me closer and holds me tight. "You're my reality."
"And you're mine," I say, feeling right then like the luckiest girl on the planet. Damien is safe and this afternoon's funk seems like nothing more than a bad dream. Most of all, I am in his arms. There may be other shit going on, but all that can wait for later. For right now, I am content.
"Of course, there is one small matter we need to discuss," Damien says, his voice suddenly stern. I look up, not certain if he's serious or teasing, but his eyes reveal nothing. He hooks a finger under the elastic and lightly snaps the band of my thong. "I seem to recall a certain agreement that ensured unfettered access whenever and however I wanted."