Claim Me: A Novel (29 page)

“No,” he amends. “I do know. The tennis center is owned by a sports conglomerate based out of Germany. Powerful company, powerful people on the board.”

“I don’t understand. Is your father involved with the conglomerate?”

“No. And my father couldn’t care less whether I endorse a tennis center or a pet store. It’s all about trading favors. I lend my name to the tennis center, and maybe those powerful people will pull a few strings in Germany.”

“The indictment I keep hearing about?”

“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.

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.

I am smiling so wide it hurts, and I hug the letter to my chest and sigh, then collapse onto the bed and replay every decadent moment of last night. Then I spend the rest of the morning doing as Damien suggested. There’s a darling floral-print sundress for me in the closet, along with a cute pair of Yellow Box flip-flops. I wear those downstairs and have a mani/pedi at the spa. Once my nails are dry, I wander the lobby and buy both Damien and myself oversized Beverly Hills T-shirts and matching baseball caps.

After that, I sit by the pool with a magazine and drink two Bloody Marys while I read all about the latest celebrity antics in what will surely turn out to be a futile attempt to impress Jamie with my Hollywood knowledge. The magazine has only one small picture of Damien and me, and I immediately decide that this particular publication is a million times more responsible than its competitors.

At eleven, I still haven’t heard from Damien, so I go back to the room to wait. The vodka goes to my head and I must drift off, because the next thing I know the mattress is shifting, and I’m opening my eyes and seeing the most gorgeous sight ever.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi, yourself. What have you done so far today?”

“Very little,” I admit. “It’s been heaven.”

“Would you object to going out? I have someplace I’d like to take you.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Rollerblading on Venice Beach,” he says, and I burst out laughing—at least until I realize he’s serious.

“Really?”

“It’s fun. Have you ever done it?”

I have to admit that I haven’t, and Damien tells me that it’s high time I tried.

“In that case, I have the perfect accessories.” I unwrap the shirts and caps, then pull my shirt on over the dress and shove my hair into a cap. “The more we look like tourists, the less anyone will recognize us.”

“Not to mention the fact that you look pretty damn cute.”

I look at myself in the full-length mirror and decide it could be worse. It’s not a fashion statement, but I look like a girl having a lazy, touristy Sunday afternoon.

Damien, of course, looks hot as sin in the gray T-shirt that hugs his body and the black baseball cap that accentuates his chiseled jaw and brilliant smile.

He has a leather backpack, and he offers to hold my wallet and phone. “Leave everything else,” he says.

“Don’t we have to check out?”

“It’s my room,” he says. “Well, the company’s. We keep this suite permanently leased for visiting clients and execs from out of town.”

Not a bad deal
, I think, as we head down to the valet stand. Soon we’re in the Jaguar and heading west down Santa Monica Boulevard.

Damien knows the small streets of Venice well and soon he has the car settled in an attended garage and we’re sitting on a bench strapping on rented Rollerblades, kneepads, and helmets.

Twenty minutes later, we’re back on the bench, taking them off and returning them to the little rental stand.

“I told you I’d be horrible,” I say.

“You were pretty bad,” he acknowledges. “I’m not sure how someone so graceful can actually have no balance whatsoever.”

“I can balance,” I say. “Just not on tiny little lines of wheels. What about bicycles?”

He eyes me dubiously.

I cock my head and raise my brows. “Yes. I can ride a bike.”

We find a rental stand and then I spend the next two hours proving to him that I have in fact retained this childhood skill. Although, to be honest, it’s not a childhood skill at all. My mother was too worried about potential scrapes and bruises. So I didn’t learn to ride a bike until college.

“Another missing piece of your childhood,” Damien says, when I tell him as much.

“That’s okay. I’d rather one day biking with you on the beach than an entire summer as a kid.”

“For that, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

We park the bikes by a bright-blue painted ice-cream stand and order single dip cones with sprinkles. Then we put our flip-flops in Damien’s backpack and walk down to the water’s edge. Since it’s the Pacific, the water is freezing even in the summer, and I am amazed that the people actually playing in the water haven’t turned blue.

We walk in the breaking waves, letting the sand slide out
under our feet, holding hands and eating ice cream. A teenage girl is tossing a stick for a big yellow dog, and I tell Damien how I always wanted a puppy and how, surprise surprise, my mother repeatedly refused. He tells me how he brought a stray Lab home one night, but his father wouldn’t let him keep it.

“Considering how often I traveled, it was for the best,” Damien says. “The poor dog would have been kenneled all the time.”

“But wasn’t that the point? You were telling your dad you wanted the dog because you wanted off the circuit. You wanted home. You wanted the dog. And you didn’t want the traveling.”

Damien looks at me with a curious expression. “Yes,” he finally says. “That was it exactly.”

“Did you ever get a dog? Once you quit tennis and became Mr. Business Dude, I mean.”

“No,” he says, and his brow furrows. “No, I never have.” He nods playfully toward the girl. “Think she’ll sell me hers?”

“I’m gonna say no.”

We return to the bikes and head in the opposite direction, toward Santa Monica. We take it slow, watching the tourists and locals, talking, enjoying the day. When we reach the mall, we lock up the bikes and walk down the Promenade toward the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Armed with frozen mochas, we continue to stroll the shopping street until Damien says he’s starving for real food and it’s time he buys me dinner.

He suggests The Ivy, which even I know is a see-and-be-seen kind of place. “One, I don’t think they’d even let us in dressed like this,” I say. “And two, it’s not exactly the best place to avoid the paparazzi.”

“Pizza by the slice it is,” he says, and we end up eating foldable slices of pepperoni pizza at tiny metal tables.

“There’s no way The Ivy could be better than this,” I say, and right now, for this day, with this man, I absolutely mean it.

I glance at the sky once we finish our pizza. “It’s getting dark. Should we take the bikes back?”

“Soon,” Damien says. “I want to show you something.”

What he wants to show me is the Pier, though I tell him that I’ve been before. “But have you ridden the Ferris wheel?”

“No,” I admit. “Is that where we’re going?”

“Man of mystery, remember? I can’t share my secrets.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“That’s one of the things I most admire about you. Your cunning intellect.”

I grin as we walk the rest of the way, then get in line for the ride. It’s surprisingly short, and we only have to wait through two rounds of passengers before we’re shown into our own little basket. Then the attendant shuts the door and up we go.

I laugh, delighted. Not only have I never been in this Ferris wheel before, I’ve never been in any Ferris wheel. It moves slowly, but the basket sways, which would be unnerving except for the fact that it’s Damien beside me, Damien with his arm around me. And now—as the basket stops at the very top—Damien reaches for the backpack he set on the floor beneath his feet.

“What are you doing?” I cry. “Don’t let go!” I glance out at the world around us. The sun is down now, and the lights from the Pier glow. It’s like living inside a fairyland. A little too high up in a fairyland, actually. “Why aren’t we moving?” I ask.

“Passengers are loading and unloading below,” Damien says. He’s upright now and holding two wrapped presents. One about the size of a pack of index cards. The other slightly bigger. More like the size of an external DVD drive.

“You brought me gifts?”

“I did,” he says.

I am speechless. “I didn’t get you anything.”

He points to the hat and the shirt.

“I charged those to your room.”

“It’s the thought that counts. But if you don’t want the gifts …” He bends over, pretending to put them back.

“No, no,” I say. “It’s all good.”

We grin at each other. “The small one first,” he says, handing it to me. As he does, the Ferris wheel starts to move again. I carefully peel back the paper to reveal a small gold box. When I pull off the lid, there are four chocolate truffles inside. “You’ve had the fondue,” he says. “But the truffles are our specialty.”

“Your company?” I ask. “The one in Switzerland?”

“I told you I’d have Sylvia order some for you.”

I can’t help the wide grin that tugs at my mouth as I pull one out. “Want a bite?”

He shakes his head. “They’re all for you.”

I take a bite and moan with ecstasy. These are easily the chocolate equivalent of nirvana.

I finish the truffle and hand the box back to Damien to carry in his pack. “Thank you,” I say. “You really do amaze me.”

“Because I bought you chocolates?”

“Yes,” I say sincerely. “And so many other reasons as well.”

He kisses me sweetly, then passes me the larger package.

“Now this one.”

I unwrap it carefully, then gasp when I see what it is. An antique brass frame with a stunning picture of the two of us in evening wear. Damien had taken me to the opera, and the paparazzi had been buzzing all around. This picture ran in the paper—I have a digital copy in my scrapbook file. But this looks like the original.