“No, thank you.” I’m about to hang up when I realize there is something. “Wait!” I catch him before he clicks off, then inveigle his help with my plan to distract Damien from whatever nighttime demons urged him from our bed and down to the lobby.
I dress quickly, literally grabbing the first thing I see. We’ve spent a few hours escaping reality over the last few days by shopping on Munich’s famous Maximilianstrasse, and I have acquired so many shoes and dresses I could open my own boutique. Last night, Damien had been far too cavalier when he peeled a stunning trompe l’oeil patterned sheath off me. Considering that dress cost more than my first car, I thought it deserved more than a careless toss across the back of an armchair.
Now, though, I’m glad it’s there. I let the robe drop where I stand and pull the dress on, then run my fingers through my hair. I force myself not to go into the bathroom to primp and freshen the make-up that has surely rubbed off. It’s more challenging than it sounds; the mantra that a lady doesn’t go out unfinished has been beaten into my head since birth. But with Damien at my side I have thumbed my nose at many of the tribulations of my youth, and right now I am more concerned with finding him than with applying fresh lipstick.
I shove my feet into a nearby pair of pumps, grab my bag, and hurry out the door toward the elevator. Despite the age of the building and the elegance of the interior, the hotel boasts a modern feel, and I have come to feel at home within these walls. I wait impatiently for the elevator, and then even more impatiently once I’m in the car. The descent seems to take forever, and when the doors finally open to reveal the opulent lobby, I aim myself straight for the old English style bar.
Despite the late hour on a Sunday, the Jahreszeiten Bar is bustling. A woman stands by the piano softly singing to the gathered crowd. I barely pay her any heed. I don’t expect to find Damien among the listeners.
Instead, I wander through the wood and red leather interior, shaking off the help of a waiter who wants to seat me. I pause for a moment, standing idly beside a blonde woman about my age who is sipping champagne and laughing with a man who might be her father, but I’m betting is not. I turn slowly, taking in the room around me. Damien is not with the group at the piano, nor is he sitting at the bar. And he does not occupy any of the red leather chairs that are evenly spaced around the tables.
I’m starting to worry that perhaps he was leaving as I was coming when I remember the fireplace. The last time we came down here, we drank Glenfiddich and talked about all the things we were going to do when we returned to Los Angeles. But tonight, I see no fireplace.
I move to the left and realize that what I thought was a solid wall was actually an optical illusion created by a pillar. Now I can see the rest of the room, including the flames leaping in the fireplace set into the opposite wall. There is a small loveseat and two chairs surrounding the hearth. And, yes, there is Damien.
I immediately exhale, my relief so intense I almost use the blonde’s shoulder to steady myself. He is seated in one of the chairs, his back to me and the rest of the room as he faces the flames. His shoulders are broad and straight, and more than capable of bearing the weight of the world upon them. I wish, however, that they didn’t have to.
I move toward him, the sound of my approach muffled by both the thick carpet and the din of conversation. I pause a few feet behind him, already feeling the familiar pull I experience whenever I am near Damien, as if he is a magnet and I am inexorably drawn to him. Across the room, the singer is now crooning Since I Fell For You, her voice cutting sharp and clear across the room, as if she is serenading Damien and me alone. Her voice is so mournful that I’m afraid it is going to unleash a flood of tears along with all of the stress of the last few days.
No. I’m here to comfort Damien, not the other way around, and I continue toward him with renewed resolve. I press my hand to his shoulder, and bend down, my lips brushing his ear. “Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?”
I hear rather than see his answering smile. “That depends on who’s asking.” He doesn’t turn to face me, but he lifts his arm so that his hand is held up in a silent invitation. I close my hand in his, and he guides me gently around the chair until I am standing in front of him. I know every line of this man’s face. Every angle, every curve. I know his lips, his expressions. I can close my own eyes and picture his, dark with desire, bright with laughter. I have only to look at his midnight-colored hair to imagine the soft, thick locks between my fingers. There is nothing about him that is not intimately familiar to me, and yet every glance at him hits me like a shock, reverberating through me with enough power to knock me to my knees.
Empirically, he is gorgeous. But it is not simply his looks that overwhelm. It is the whole package. The power, the confidence, the bone-deep sensuality that he couldn’t shake even if he tried.
He is exceptional. And he is mine.