“Well,” I say, after my body stops quivering. “I think I’ve got one hell of an appetite now.”
“Funny,” he says. “I’m still only hungry for you. But I suppose nutrition counts for something.” He gently lifts me off him, then reaches for my robe to clean us both off. I raise my eyebrows and he chuckles. “You don’t need to put it back on. I’ll toss it in the laundry bin later. And I rather like the idea of watching you walk naked to the stateroom.”
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.
Chapter 9
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 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 H?tel 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.