“Damien—”
“In,” he says, backing me in, then jamming his finger on the button to close the elevator door before pressing the button to ring security.
“I think they’re gone,” I say. “Whoever did that to our room, I think they’re gone.”
“I’m not taking chances with you. Come here. You’re shaking.”
I fall into his outstretched arms and burrow close as he wraps me tight against him.
When the elevator doors open on the ground floor, we are met by hotel security. A team has gone up in the main elevator already, we are told. We wait, and I can see from the tightness in his cheek and the stiffness of his body that waiting is not sitting well with Damien. He wants to be up there. He wants to know what is happening. He wants action. And the only reason that he is not already in full motion is because of me.
Static bursts from a walkie-talkie, followed by a string of French much too fast for me to catch even a single word. The guard responds, looks at Damien, then at me. “The perpetrator is no longer in your room,” he says in clear but formal English. “We cannot at this time determine what is missing other than the … intimates.”
“Intimates?” I repeat.
He clears his throat. “It appears that whoever broke into your suite took intimate apparel. Underwear, bras.” His nose goes a bit pink and he makes a point not to look at me. “There may be more, of course, but …”
Damien stands beside me, rigid with fury. As for me, I don’t know if I’m going to laugh or cry. I think the laughing will win, but I’m not sure if that’s humor or hysterics.
No one speaks as we return to the room. When we arrive, we see that our things have been stacked neatly. The order doesn’t lessen the feeling of having been violated.
“How did this happen?” Damien says, his words sharp and clipped. I know what he means, and it is clear that both the guard and the hotel manager who have joined us also understand the unspoken part of Damien’s question—how the hell did someone get into our room in a hotel of this caliber with the kind of security that Damien demands when he travels.
“I assure you, Mr. Stark, we will be interviewing staff throughout the night, and will have answers for you by morning.”
By morning, I am certain, our underwear will be all over eBay. I catch Damien’s eye and see that his expression mirrors my own. Fuck.
“In the meantime, if there is anything that you require—”
“Privacy,” Damien says, and the manager is astute enough to know that now is the time to stop with the platitudes and just get the hell out of there.
Damien’s facade remains intact until the manager and his staff leave. The perfect embodiment of a wealthy man who is very put out. Only I see the volcano boiling beneath, and as soon as the elevator doors have closed behind them, Damien picks up a decorative metal bowl and hurls it across the room to shatter the huge mirror that hangs behind the dining table.
As it breaks apart, I release a breath I have been holding. I do not begrudge him his anger. On the contrary, I want to toss a bowl myself. Except I don’t. Not really. What I want is to fall to the ground. What I want is to grasp one of those shards. What I imagine is the sting of glass against flesh—and dammit, I don’t want to feel that or imagine that or be that girl. And yet there it is, laid cold and harsh all because the paparazzi are fucking with us and Sofia is a stone-cold bitch.
“No.”
Damien’s voice seems to reach me through a tunnel. It starts far away and then it is right beside me. The voice and the man. I am standing still, a bit shell-shocked, and suddenly his hands are on my arms. He spins us around until my back is against the wall and his mouth is on mine.
One hand slides between my legs, cupping my sex through the material of my skirt. Not sensual, but hard. Demanding.
Wild.