“I could tell you that.” I hear the hint of a tease in his voice. “I could probably even make it happen, though it would be an expensive proposition. Another couple has rented this bungalow, and I believe they’re scheduled to arrive in just under five hours.”
I roll over in his arms. “Another—”
“And if you never move again we’d undoubtedly miss our plane. Not to mention the honeymoon I’ve planned.”
I sit up, enjoying the way the cool air caresses my heated skin.
“Well,” Damien says. “I do like this view.” He traces his finger lightly over my breast, and my already erect nipple becomes even tighter.
“Honeymoon?” I repeat. “I thought this—” But I cut myself off. Of course this isn’t our actual honeymoon destination. While I had been planning our wedding, Damien had been planning the honeymoon. But our decision to elope had been last-minute, and Damien had taken care of that, too. Only now do I realize that I had been assuming the two destinations were one and the same. Clearly, that assumption sat somewhere to the left of reality.
“Okay,” I say after making all the necessary mental readjustments. “Where are we going?”
“Where? Were you not listening earlier? Honeymoon tradition. Remote location. Intense seduction.” He draws a lazy pattern on my bare breasts, leaving a trail of heat and renewed desire.
“I’m all for intense seduction,” I admit. “But if you’re expecting to get me out of bed, you’re going at it all wrong.”
“You may have a point.” There’s laughter in his voice, and he’s sporting a smug grin as he eases off the chaise lounge. “I can’t tell you, but maybe a hint.”
I watch as he moves back inside, then returns moments later with a small jewelry box. He hands it to me, and I open it slowly, wanting to savor the surprise. Inside is a delicate bracelet with a single silver charm.
The Eiffel Tower.
I gasp, then throw my arms around Damien’s neck. “We’re really going to Paris?”
“We really are,” he says.
I laugh, delighted. “Merci,” I say, drawing on my rusty high school French. And though he knows it already, I add, “Je t’aime. Beaucoup.”
“I love you, too,” he says. “So very much.”
Chapter 5
The buttery leather of the Bombardier’s passenger seat envelops me, and I breathe deep, frustrated by how antsy I am despite feeling at home in Damien’s private jet. Correction, one of Damien’s private jets. As best I can tell, he has a fleet of them.
Correction again—our private jet, as Damien keeps reminding me. I never aspired to own a jet—and I have a sneaking suspicion that Damien’s accountants and lawyers and other Big Important Advisor Types would say that I still don’t—but I can’t deny the coolness factor. After all, not so long ago I was driving a battered Honda with an equally battered transmission. I think a private jet definitely constitutes a step up in the world.
Damien had flown us out of the resort in the prop plane, and we’d met up with Grayson, who was now in the cockpit, along with Damien and the co-pilot. Damien has co-piloted the jet before, but that is not on the agenda today. Instead, he’s only gone up front to attend to something, and I am anxious for him to return.
I press my hand onto the leather of the seat beside me and am comforted by its warmth. With Damien beside me, I was fine. But now the dream has moved back in, small wisps of fear that Damien’s simple presence had battled back, but which can run free and wreak havoc when he is away from me. Intellectually, I know that he is only discussing the flight plan with Grayson and generally making sure that all of our travel arrangements are in place and confirmed. But even knowing that, I can’t help but think that my dream was a portent, and that no matter how desperately we might want our honeymoon to be a romantic bubble, the world is going to put up a fight.
I grimace and tighten my grip on the stack of magazines in my lap. Yeah? Well, bring it on. Because together, Damien and I can face anything.
“Is there anything you need, Mrs. Stark?”
I jump, startled, and look up to find Katie, the fleet’s senior flight attendant, smiling at me. I glance down at my hands, and see that my knuckles are white against the dark cover of this month’s Wired magazine. I try to relax. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Of course,” she says, and though her face remains perfectly polite, I can’t help but think I hear a hint of amusement in her voice, and my cheeks heat in response. I’m a newlywed, after all. “The stateroom is made up for you now.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly. I’ve flown on this jet a number of times now, so I’m perfectly familiar with the stateroom, and often spend the trip back there once we’ve reached altitude. What I’m wondering is why I’m going there without Damien.
My question must be all over my face, because now Katie does smile. “Mr. Stark said that he’d join you there momentarily.”
“Right,” I say, feeling a little foolish. I tuck my stack of magazines under my arm, then ease out of the plush seat and head toward the back of the plane. I think of Katie’s promise that Damien will be coming soon, and my body warms with pleasant anticipation. The flight to Paris will take approximately ten hours. Considering how hard and fast we’ve been going since we left Los Angeles, I know that we should get some sleep if we don’t want to pass out from jet lag and exhaustion right there on the rue de Rivoli. But even if we crash for a full eight hours, that still leaves two delicious hours all to ourselves.
I hurry the rest of the way, but when I open the door I see that once again, Damien Stark is ahead of the curve. The room glows with candlelight, an unexpected reality that makes me laugh out loud. Who but Damien would think of candlelight on an airplane?
Of course, these are faux candles, but the illumination is just as romantic, and the flickering light from dozens of scattered candles gleams off the room’s polished wood and casts dancing shadows that under other circumstances could seem menacing, but tonight are both inviting and comforting.
The narrow bed is still made, the pristine white duvet covered with rose petals. I smile, thinking of the tub back in our Mexican bungalow. Our honeymoon, it seems, has a theme.
There is no champagne, but the small bedside table is topped by a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan next to two crystal highball glasses, and I grin. Before meeting Damien, my drink of choice was bourbon. More recently, though, I’ve discovered the pleasures of single malt Scotch.