“Right. Charles agrees with my dad, actually. He’s pissed as hell at me for making that statement outside Garreth Todd’s party, even though I reminded him that the longer the whole thing drags on, the more billable hours he earns.”
He smiles without humor. “To be honest, I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m not accustomed to acting rashly, and it was rash to make that statement.”
“Why did you?”
“Because it’s the truth. Because that center shouldn’t be named after him. And because I’m tired of the world thinking that I admired that son of a bitch.”
“Then you did the right thing.”
“Maybe. But sometimes even the right thing has unpleasant consequences.”
“It’s that bad?” Worry snakes through me. “One of your companies is in that much trouble?”
Damien hesitates. “It has the potential to be very bad,” he finally says. “But I don’t think it will get that far. I still have a few strings left to pull.”
I nod, somewhat appeased. If Damien isn’t worried, I won’t be, either.
“Come here,” he demands, and I comply eagerly. I slide into his arms, and let the strength of his embrace push out the remaining wisps of worry. All I want is Damien, and I drift off to sleep in the comfort of his arms.
17
The shrill buzz of a doorbell startles me awake. I sit up, confused. I didn’t even know that hotels had doorbells, but apparently the I’m-richer-than-Midas executive suites do, because that is definitely a bell—and it is definitely not being answered.
“Damien?” I expect to hear his reply from the bathroom, and when it doesn’t come, I slide out from under the downy spread and stand up, my body both languid and sore, as if it’s not entirely sure how it’s supposed to feel after last night’s adventure.
Another buzz makes me jump, this one followed by a brisk voice announcing, “Room service!”
The thought of coffee gets me moving. “Just a sec,” I call back, then cast about for something to wear. I spy a robe draped neatly over the back of a chair, which is good considering the state of my dress. Damien put it there for me, of course. But where the hell is he?
I hurry out of the bedroom and through the dining area to the door. Although the waiter must have been out there for at least five minutes, he’s not in the least bit ruffled. “Good morning,madam,” he says as he wheels the cart in and starts to distribute the food to the now clean-and-tidy dining table. Damien really has been busy this morning.
The waiter is uncovering each plate as he moves it from cart to table, and I realize that I am starving. There’s coffee, orange juice, eggs, toast, a waffle, fruit, and enough bacon to feed a small army. There’s not enough silverware or cups for an army, though. In fact there’s one coffee cup, one juice glass, and only one bundle of silverware wrapped in a black cloth napkin.
I may be slow this morning, but I’ve finally clued in on reality—Damien has skipped out on me.
“Will there be anything else?”
“No,” I say. “Thank you. Do I need to sign a check or something?”
“No, ma’am. But I do have this for you.” He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a small envelope and hands it to me. “Mr. Stark asked that this be delivered with your breakfast.”
“Oh.” I take the note, surprised but pleased. “Thank you.”
I hold on to the envelope until he’s gone. The paper is thick linen, and the name of the hotel is embossed on the back flap. It’s sealed, and I unroll the silverware and use the knife to loosen the flap. I pull out a small sheet of the same linen paper. It’s folded over, and when I unfold it I see Damien’s neat, precise printing.
My darling Ms. Fairchild,