Stark After Dark (14 page)

I release what I hope sounds like a snort of disapproval, but is really laughter. And just to show him up, I make my way to the back, adding a little more swish to my hips as I go.

I pause outside the stateroom and look back. He is watching me, his expression full of love and longing, passion and heat.

I breathe deeply, feeling calm and centered. Yes, there's a lawsuit, and yes, that sucks. But that's just a blip. A chapter in the book of my life. Hell, a footnote.

Damien is the whole story. And our life together is epic.

As it turns out, we don't just take a limo to the hotel. We first take a helicopter from the airport to a helipad in the city center. I've done many things with Damien, but so far we've not commuted over Paris by helicopter. And, yeah, I'm a little giddy.

I lean toward the window, one hand on the glass, the other tight in Damien's hand, and watch as the pilot brings the bird down gently. After just a few more moments, the staff has unloaded our bags and is escorting us to a waiting limo. It's smooth and seamless and definitely one of the perks of traveling with Damien.

The limo's interior is completely frosty, but I barely notice it. I'm too busy gazing out the window at the city that is passing by us. The Arc de Triomphe, the stunning architecture, and even a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I feel like a little girl with her nose pressed to the window, not a woman who recently returned from a very similar trip.

All too soon, our drive ends. The limo pulls up in front of what looks like a private residence, but the uniforms on the two men standing by the door make it clear that this is a hotel.

The two livery-clad bellmen hurry forward to retrieve our bags, then whisk them away while Damien and I walk more slowly into the hotel. A distinguished man with a small mustache hurries to greet us. I learn that he is the manager of the Hôtel Margaritte, and that this exclusive hotel just off the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré has only twenty rooms and was once an eighteenth-century private residence.

Damien and I will be staying in the penthouse.

The manager escorts us there, taking us through the lobby, which is still furnished as it would have been centuries ago, with tapestry and gilt, crystal and elegance. I walk with my head in constant motion as I look this way and that, trying to take it all in.

But whatever awe I feel for the lobby fades when we reach the penthouse. It is, in a word, incredible. Taking up the entire top floor, it is luxury personified, with no detail overlooked in the beautiful furnishings, the antique mirrors, the modern kitchen well-concealed behind decorative, period-style doors.

The real showstopper, however, is the huge bay window that arches up into a skylight, giving the living room the illusion of being outdoors. And, as if to remind us that we are in Paris, we have a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower.

“This room was the conservatory at one time,” the manager says. “Mademoiselle Margaritte, the hotel's namesake, kept it filled with flowers.”

“It's lovely,” I say, thoroughly delighted.

He finishes giving us the tour, then leaves us in privacy. Only then do I realize we never stopped at the front desk. That pedestrian form of checking in is apparently one of those pesky things that only those who don't have the means to own small countries have to put up with.

“Do you own this place?” I ask Damien when we are alone.

“I don't, no. Why? Do you think I should?” He pats his pockets. “Let me check my wallet. Maybe I have enough cash….”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “You can laugh. But I've seen you buy some pretty amazing things on the spur of the moment.” When we were in Italy, he'd heard about an authentic Michelangelo that was going to be put up for auction. He'd contacted the seller, made the kind of deal that couldn't be refused, and then donated it to a Los Angeles museum on the condition that he could take it on loan for two months out of every year to tour his properties, kept under watchful guard in the lobbies of his offices all over the globe, and thus giving the general public a chance to come view a masterpiece.

“True,” he concedes. “But I rarely buy real estate on impulse.”

“There's always a first time,” I say lightly. “But seriously, why aren't we staying at one of your hotels? You have one not far from here. Or at least Stark Properties, a wholly owned subsidiary of Stark International, does.”

For a moment, he looks confused, then he grins. “You've been reading my corporate magazine.”

“Maybe,” I admit, because there were a few copies on the plane. “But it would still have been a good guess. Because, honestly, where
don't
you own property?”

“Greenland. At the moment, I'm completely without holdings in Greenland.”

“Ha-ha.” I turn to examine the suite some more, taking in the plush furniture, the wide-open spaces, even the grand piano that I have absolutely no idea how to play. “I'll admit this place is exceptional, but why not stay at one of your own?”

“Because this is our time,” he says. “No one knows us personally. No one will knock on the door if there is a crisis. It's not possible to be entirely anonymous with you,” he adds, taking my hand and tugging me toward him, “but I'd like to at least try to be invisible.”

I lean back against him, then close my eyes as his hands tighten around my waist. We stand like that for a moment, swaying slightly, the top of my head tucked under Damien's chin.

“Are you tired?” he asks.

“Mmm. That depends on why you're asking.”

His low chuckle rumbles through me. “That's definitely one reason to stay awake. But I confess that I was thinking of something a bit more public.”

I turn in his arms. “What about being invisible?”

“I'm sure we can blend,” he says. “Maybe I'll even buy you a hat to go with your dress.”

“Un chapeau,”
I correct, “and I'd like that.” The dress I chose on the plane is a vintage style shirt-dress, with buttons running the entire length and a belted waist that creates a very full skirt. I'm feeling rather Audrey Hepburn, and a hat would be just the thing.

“You're the one who'll be recognized,” I point out. “I've only become a celebrity by default.” Damien, however, has been in the spotlight since he was a kid, and he played enough tennis and did enough commercials in Europe that I doubt I'm exaggerating the chances of him being noticed. Especially when you factor in how widespread the coverage of his recent trial was.

“I have a disguise.” He grins as he says it, then crosses to the leather backpack that doubles as a briefcase when he travels.

I watch, amused, as he pulls out a white cap with a French flag imprinted on the front.

I laugh and shake my head. He's still Damien, no question about it, and I think he looks damn hot. But on the whole it's not a bad disguise. He rarely wears caps, and if he adds some sunglasses—and if we both carry daypacks—we'll look like any two tourists out exploring the city.

“So do I look like just an ordinary guy?”

“You'll never be ordinary,” I say. “But close enough.”

The hotel is located near dozens of high-end shops, but it's only just past eight in the morning, so nothing much is open yet. Damien promises me a day of shopping later, and I am fine with that. I may be hesitant to use my husband's money to fund my business, but I am not so proud as to turn down designer clothes.

Right now, though, we stay primarily on the side streets, enjoying the local ambiance. We are holding hands, and though I feel as though we are wandering aimlessly, Damien assures me that he knows where we are going.

“So what is on our agenda?” I ask. “It's Paris, after all. There are about a million things I want to do.”

“What's on your list?” he asks, as an amazing yeasty scent draws us off the street toward a tiny café with charming outdoor seating.

I start to rattle off everything I can think of, from the Louvre to the catacombs to the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. “And Versailles,” I add as we take a seat at one of the tables. “And Montmartre. And the Left Bank and the Metro and—oh, hell, I don't know. How does everything sound?”

His smile is indulgent. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

When the waitress arrives he orders two
café crèmes
and two
pains au chocolat.
I'm impressed, but not surprised, when he orders in what I assume is perfect French.
Stark International,
I think, and grin. Why wouldn't he speak French?

“I'm not quite fluent,” he admits as we sip our coffee and watch the people on the charming avenue. “But I can get by.”

After we've finished our pastry and coffee, we meander down small streets and alleyways until we cross a wider, busier avenue, then follow a half-hidden path into a lovely garden.

“It's like an oasis,” I say. I had grabbed my camera on the way out of the hotel, and now I make Damien stop as I take a few shots. It is as if we have wandered into a fairy tale, and I want to capture the magical aura on film.

“This is one of my favorite shortcuts,” Damien says, as he leads me down a tree-lined path. “And for exactly that reason. It's an escape. A respite from the crowds and the noise.”

“So where are we?”

“It's called the Jardin de la Nouvelle France. I think it was set up in anticipation of the 1900 World's Fair, but don't quote me on that. I come for the way it looks, not the history.”

As interesting as the history might be, I have to agree, and as we follow the path—taking a few side trips just for the sake of adventure—I can't deny the joy I feel simply being in this cool, green space. I keep my camera out, delighting in the play of light and shadow, and taking so many pictures that I will undoubtedly have to buy new memory cards before this trip is over.

We wander farther in and find a lovely little bridge, not to mention an actual waterfall.

“Here,” Damien says, taking my hand at one point when I'm certain that we've managed to get horribly turned around. “I'll show you my favorite place to sit.” He leads me to a small pond shaded by a weeping beech. There is a small stone bench, and we sit for a moment, his arm around my waist and my head upon his shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“For what?” he asks.

“You said you were giving me the world. Thank you for giving me these hidden treasures, too.”

When we finally stand to continue on our way, I'm surprised to realize that it's after ten thirty.

“Slow and easy,” Damien says when I comment on the time. “Just like a honeymoon should be.”

I take his hand and squeeze. Because, really, I can't argue with that.

We emerge from the park onto the Cours la Reine
,
and follow that street for a while before crossing at the avenue Winston Churchill. That road goes to the Seine, and turns into the Pont Alexandre III.

“Are we crossing?”

Damien shakes his head. “We can take the stairs down and walk along the water for a while or stay on street level and check out some of the sights. We'll pass the Louvre in a few more blocks.”

“Can we go in?”

“We can,” he says, then kisses my forehead. “It's already on today's agenda. But there's someplace else I want to take you first. You still okay with walking? We can catch a cab.”

“I'm great,” I say, meaning it. There is nothing I enjoy more than walking in a new city, unless it's walking in a new city with Damien.

We stay on the street level until we've passed the Place de la Concorde and I've
ooh
ed and
aah
ed over the Obelisk and taken a dozen more pictures. Then we go down the stairs and walk along the Seine until we reach the Pont des Arts. We head back up the stairs, begin to cross the bridge, and then I stop, confused by the odd appearance of the bridge's railing.

“What's that—locks?” I've stepped to the side, and Damien is beside me, as I realize that the odd metallic jumble I'm looking at is in fact a collection of padlocks that are attached to the bridge railing like barnacles.

I tilt my head to look up at Damien. “What on earth?”

“This is the bridge for lovers,” he says. “You've never heard of it?”

I shake my head even as I look farther down the bridge, not able to fathom just how many lovers have come here to pledge their devotion.

“They come. They write their names on a lock. They attach it to the bridge, and they throw the key into the Seine.”

“For luck?” I ask, and he nods.

“Is that why you've brought me here?”

“It is,” he says, and those two words warm my heart. “But I want to switch it up just a little.”

I frown a bit, confused, but nod.

“Not too long ago, part of the bridge fell off—it collapsed under the weight of the locks.”

My eyes widen. “Love is a heavy burden,” I quip, then immediately frown. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, but even so. I thought we could start our own tradition. Carry our own weight, you might say.”

I cock my head, smiling as I wait for him to explain.

He draws a small box from his pocket, then opens it to reveal a silver charm in the shape of a lock. I pick it up, and see that it has our names engraved on it. “And it has a key, too,” he says, lifting the velvet to reveal the tiny key. “It's for you, from me. And once I put it on your bracelet, I thought we could throw the key into the river.”

My chest swells and my throat is thick with tears. I nod stupidly because I can't get the words out. It is romantic and sweet, and I lift my wrist for him, the little Eiffel Tower dangling there as he attaches the lock charm next to it.

“I love you,” I say as he puts the key in my hand.

“And I love you.” He cups his hand over mine. “On three?” he asks, and we start to swing our joined hands. Once. Twice. On the third time, we let go, and the tiny key goes flying.

“Forever,” Damien says.

“Forever,” I agree.

The rest of the afternoon feels just as soft, just as romantic.

We wander along the Seine, looking at the street vendors' wares, taking silly pictures of each other, and holding hands. Once or twice I see people looking at us—a few even snap pictures—but I tell myself that it is nothing. That if there are less than a dozen people who recognize us, then we are having a good day.