“There shouldn’t be temptation,” I say. “Not if Courtney really is the one.”
“Is that really true?” He looks hard at me. “Or is that just a romantic myth?”
“It’s true,” I say, holding an image of Damien tight against my heart. “It’s the truest thing in the world.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, and my heart breaks a little because those words shouldn’t make him sad. Not when he’s about to get married.
He shakes his head as if clearing out cobwebs, then polishes off the rest of his drink. “I’m going to go lay on my bed, close my eyes, and feel the earth rotate. How about you?”
I think of Damien. If I go back, I’ll want to touch him, if only to reassure myself that he is there and real. But he needs to sleep, and right now that is the only thing I am capable of giving him.
“I’m going out,” I say. “I’m in need of some retail therapy.”
Chapter Five
I exit the hotel and turn left, then wander aimlessly down this polished street that I have walked so many times with Damien. Like Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue, Maximilianstrasse has its own rhythm, its own pace. And like those equally famous streets, it also has the pristine sheen of money. Last week, I held Damien’s hand as we strolled and shopped. This street was like a magical place, banishing the dark gloom of the trial and giving us a few moments of light all wrapped up with a bright, shiny bow of luxury.
Today, I desperately want to return to that state of mind. To let the polished brass door handles and crystal clear windows with ornate displays fill my head so that there is no room for my worries. It’s not working, though, and this street that held fun and fantasy when Damien’s hand was in mine now seems like nothing more than a crush of grasping, gaping people who are pushing and shoving, moving through the world with too much time and too little to do.
Dammit. I should be celebrating. Hell, Damien should be celebrating.
I walk a few blocks, past Hugo Boss and Ralph Lauren and Gucci until I reach a small gallery that Damien and I had popped into on my third day in Munich. The manager, a reedy man with an easy smile, greets me immediately. Considering he’d flirted shamelessly with Damien but essentially ignored me, I’m surprised he recognizes me. “Fräulein! It is so good to see you. But why are you not celebrating? And where is Mr. Stark? I was so pleased to see that he has been cleared.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I can’t help but smile at his effusiveness. This is the kind of reaction I’d hoped to see from Damien. “He’s asleep, actually. It’s been an exhausting couple of weeks.”
The manager nods knowingly. “And what can I do for you?”
I had entered on autopilot, but now that I’m here, I realize that I’ve come with a purpose. “You can ship, right?”
“Of course,” he says, and he’s polite and well-trained enough not to scoff at my idiotic question.
“I want to look at those black-and-white prints,” I say, pointing toward the room where Damien and I had spent over an hour gazing at the brilliantly executed photos from a local Munich photographer.
I followed Damien to Germany so quickly that I forgot to bring my own camera, and even though this is hardly a trip that rates a flurry of souvenir snapshots, there have been moments when I regretted not having it. For years, a camera has been my security blanket. First, the Nikon that my sister Ashley gave me during my freshman year of high school. More recently, the digital Leica that Damien presented me in Santa Barbara, an amazing gift that reflected just how well the man understood me—and how much he wanted to please me.
Now, it is Damien I want to please. Though he isn’t comfortable behind the camera, he has excellent taste in the resultant images, and we had both been impressed by the astounding composition and ethereal lighting of this series of photographs.
I pause in front of one that shows the sun descending behind a mountain range. Bands of light seem to shoot out from the image, and though the shadows are deep, every nuance of the stony mountain face can still be discerned. It is beautiful and dark and romantic and edgy. It reminds me of Damien. Of the times that he has held me close and softly whispered that between us, the sun is never going down.
Now I want to give him this photo. I want to hang it in the bedroom of his Malibu house, a reminder of all that is between us. I want us both to know that even in the dark there will always be the light, and that no matter what, we will continue on forever. I want an image that says I love you.
“It is a beautiful print,” the manager says from behind me. “And a limited edition.”
“How much?”
He quotes me the price and I come genuinely close to having heart failure. But except for the Lamborghini rental, I have spent none of my million on frivolous things, and besides, this image isn’t frivolous. As I turn once again to look at the photograph, I realize that it feels strangely important, and I know that if I walk away I will regret it every time I look at the walls of the Malibu house and see that it is not there.
I shift again to smile at the manager, but end up looking out the window instead. A woman stands there, the brim of her hat pressed against the glass as if she is trying to peer into the gallery. There’s nothing intrinsically odd about that—after all, most people do look through gallery windows—but there is something about her that looks familiar. And there is something in her stance that suggests that it’s not the photographs she is looking at, but me.
I shiver, suddenly and unreasonably disturbed.