“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.”