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  He doesn't comment on my obfuscation, and yet I think he knows. How could he not? This is the man who can see into my heart.

  He watches me for a moment, then nods. I tuck my feet under me and rest my head on his shoulder, exhaustion suddenly overtaking me as the adrenaline rush fades. I know that I would be more comfortable in the stateroom, but my body is limp and heavy and I doubt I can move. Damien brushes his lips gently over my temple. "We still haven't had dinner."

  "Feed me in France," I mumble, so tired I'm barely able to form words.

  "It's a date." He tucks an arm around me and pulls me closer. "Sleep now," he says.

  And I do.

  Chapter 8

  Skin against skin.

  A brush. A stroke. The butterfly touch of lips against my ear.

  And a voice, soft but firm.

  "Nikki. Sweetheart, we're landing in less than an hour. Time to wake up."

  "Mmm. Sleep," I protest.

  "Food," he says, trailing his fingers lightly over my lips. "And clothes. Parisians are pretty open-minded, but I think registration at the hotel might go more smoothly if you're wearing more than a bathrobe."

  His words seem to float over me. I know he's right, and yet I want to stay here in this soft place between sleep and dreams. There are heavy things out there--scary things--and right now I know only vaguely that they exist, and that for this brief time I have escaped them. I am safe here in sleep, with only Damien's voice to blanket me and the gentle caress of his fingers to soothe me.

  "Five more minutes." My words are a soft mumble, and I shift a bit closer to him.

  He says nothing, and once again the thrum of the jet's engines starts to draw me down into the sweetness of sleep, safe beside this man that I love.

  My descent is halted, however, by the soft stroke of his hand. His fingers ease down my neck in a gentle caress that makes me shiver. He tugs the shoulder of my robe down, exposing my skin. He kisses me there, gentle touches designed to sweetly tease me. Then he slides his hand down, moving slowly over my breast, making me gasp in delight and then sigh in regret when his hand continues on, having merely teased my nipple into tight, sweet arousal.

  "Damien." I'm not sure if the word is a protest or an exultation. All I know is that he has loosened the tie of the robe and now spreads it open. "Damien," I say again, but this time the word is little more than breath, because his hand has slipped farther down and he is stroking me, playing me. I close my eyes and sigh as I let the power of my husband's touch send sparks scattering through my body.

  I'm aware of every part of me, as if every cell is crying out for more contact, and in answer to my own desires I raise my hands to my breasts, teasing my nipples, then tugging harder as the pressure of Damien's touch increases, as the storm gathers, coming closer to releasing all of its fury inside me.

  "Tell me you like this," he demands.

  "Yes," I say as I raise my hips, urging him not to stop. To touch me harder, faster, deeper. To take and take until I am turned completely inside out. "God, yes."

  "You're close, sweetheart," he says, and I make some sort of noise in response. "Close," he repeats, gently removing his hand and making me gasp at this sudden withdrawal of pleasure. "But not ready."

  I moan in protest and frustration. "Clearly you're not familiar with the definition of ready."

  "Then educate me," he says. "What are you ready for?"

  "You."

  His smile is wide and satisfied and wonderfully sexy. "I like that answer. Stand up."

  I hesitate only a moment, because now I understand. "Yes, sir." I stand, then move to the middle of the cabin so that I am right in front of where he sits on the love seat, his back to the side of the plane and a row of windows open to the night. I hope we don't hit turbulence, but I am not overly worried. There are worse things than stumbling into Damien's arms.

  "Take off the robe." He is wearing loose khaki shorts and an ancient Wimbledon T-shirt. His arms are spread out along the back of the couch, giving him a casual air. His legs are slightly spread, and I can see the tight muscles of his thighs. He's been working out more and his always exceptional body is even more toned.

  But even though his posture is casual, his expression is anything but. He is watching me with something that can only be described as hunger. And I am all too happy to be devoured.

  "The robe," he says, making me jump. I haven't yet complied. I've been too caught up with watching my husband. Now I hesitate for different reasons, my attention turning toward the front of the plane and the now-closed door to the galley. It's one thing to be naked under a robe that I can yank closed. It's another to be naked altogether.

  "Is there a problem, Mrs. Stark? I believe I told you to ditch the robe."

  I start to speak, but force the words back. I think about Katie. About the privacy of the stateroom. And about this wide-open cabin, separated from the crew's area by just one thin door.

  But this is Damien. He'll push my boundaries--I know that. But he won't cross them.

  I let the robe fall to the floor, my eyes never leaving his. "Yes, sir," I say, and see the heat of fire in his eyes, then feel it burn my skin as he slowly lifts his gaze from my feet to my head, examining every inch of me, and making me even wetter in the process.

  "Good girl." His voice is rough, and I can hear the need. I glance down, and feel a wave of satisfaction upon seeing the unmistakable bulge of his erection straining against his shorts. "Now tell me what you want."

  I almost sag with relief, because what I want is what I always want. Where Damien is concerned I am insatiable.

  I want him inside me. I want it hard and wild and just a little bit crazy. I want there to be room for nothing inside me except Damien. Not my dream, not the lawsuit, not any of the realities of the world that have started to seep back into my mind now that wakefulness has caught me.

  Damien, I think. All I want is Damien.

  I start to say as much, but then stop myself. Because as much as I want him--and oh, dear god, do I want him--that isn't all I want.

  No, I want him just as crazed as me. I want to make him desperate. I want to hear him beg. I know that he needs me--I stopped doubting that long ago--but I want to see that need in his eyes, and I want to see the satisfaction of his desires when he explodes inside me.

  I take a step toward him.

  "Tell me," he repeats. "Tell me what you want."

  "I'd rather show you." I walk toward him as I talk, my eyes never leaving his. One step, then another. I see his expression shift, wariness edging toward pleasure.

  And then, as I kneel in front of him, there is understanding. Mostly, there is desire.

  He starts to speak, and though I don't know if he intends to protest, I don't wait to find out. I press my finger to his mouth and gently shake my head. "No. My turn. Not a word."

  He nods, just a small movement of his head, but I revel in the power. I just might be the only person on the planet to whom Damien Stark will willingly submit.

  I lean forward and with slow, deliberate motions, I unbutton the shorts and then lower his zipper. I slip my hand in and stroke his cock through his briefs. He is hard as steel, and when I let my eyes dart up to his face, I see that his jaw is tight and know that he is fighting for control.

  I draw his cock out, steely hard and incredibly thick. Damien makes a low noise like a growl of need, and my stomach quivers in response. My entire body throbs with want of him, but not yet. Not until I taste him.

  I lick the very tip of his cock, and am rewarded by the way he arches back and the way his fingers reach for me and twine tightly in my hair. Feminine power surges through me, and I look up to see muscles in his chest straining against the shirt. He looks like a man on the precipice, aroused and wild and ready. And I am the woman who took him there. Who will take him further.

  I lick him, cupping his balls and following the vein that bulges in his cock up to the tip. He shudders under my touch, then gasps when I open my mouth
and take him in, sucking and licking as I try to take all of him, wanting the sensation of making him go over like this, lost to my whim and the pleasure I am giving. I can't manage, though. He's too big and I am not at a good angle. More than that, I am driving myself crazy, because as much as I want to take him there, the truth is that I am craving the feel of him inside me. And the more I imagine the feel of him deep within me, the more I know that I have to have him. Dear god, I have to have him now.

  "Straddle me."

  The words are little more than a whisper, but they wash over me with the force of an answered prayer. I tilt my head back and find him looking at me with such intensity it seems to burn. "I need to be inside you," he says.

  "I know," I say as I rise. "I need it, too."

  I hold on to his shoulders and put my knees on the love seat on either side of him. With my eyes never leaving his, I position myself, teasing the tip of his cock and then--oh, dear god, yes--impaling myself on him. Deeper and deeper until I feel like I will lose him inside of me, and me inside of him.

  "Christ, Nikki, you feel so good." His hands cup my breasts as I arch back and we rock together, slow and sensual moments that swirl pleasure around us, as heady as a cocktail.

  "I can never get enough of you," he says. "I know you so intimately, and yet never stop discovering you."

  I close my eyes, surrendering myself to the wonder of his touch and the power of his words.

  "There is never a time when I don't see you and lose myself utterly to you. You're mystery, Nikki, and you're truth. Look at me," he says, and I hear the change of tone in his voice.

  I open my eyes and see the intensity on his face.

  "We're together now." His voice is firm and thick with meaning. "Neither of us is alone. We're one. And whatever you have to face, I will face it with you. Whatever battles you have to fight, I will fight them with you. I will see us through this."

  I swallow, thinking of how I wanted nothing more than to stay asleep, hiding from whatever new horror awaited me out in the world. Hiding from Damien, too, even as I felt protected in the shadow of his arms. I should have known better. I should have known he would see right through me--and that he wouldn't let me hide.

  "Do you understand?" he asks.

  "Yes."

  "Does that bother you?"

  I think about it, then shake my head. "No," I say truthfully. "It makes me feel safe. I have no more secrets from you." I'm not entirely sure that Damien can say the same thing. And, yes, there was a time when that would have bothered me, but no more. I will happily spend the rest of my life peeling back the layers of this man.

  He watches my face for a moment, as if trying to convince himself that I am being forthright. Then he nods. "I'm going to have my attorneys deal with this bullshit."

  "Damien--"

  "No. It's your lawsuit, and I get that. But you don't have a litigator on retainer, and I have an entire team. I am not coddling you, but I am helping you." He cups my chin. "Okay?"

  I glance down to where our bodies intersect, then look up at him with a cocked eyebrow. "You pick the strangest times to have these conversations."

  "It's the mark of a good businessman." The corner of his mouth curves up. "Find your opponent's weakness and exploit it."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Okay?" he asks. And because I am not a fool, I nod.

  The truth is, before, I simply wanted to hide. To make it all go away. But Damien has reminded me that I am not alone. More than that, he's reminded me that I'm stronger than I think.

  Even better, I am stronger with him.

  I want to say all that to him, but instead I simply say, "I love you."

  He pulls me forward to catch me in a kiss, and I take the opportunity to shimmy a bit on his lap. "What was it you said about how we were going to be landing soon? Maybe I should stay like this for touchdown. Might be interesting."

  "Maybe you should," he says, and for a moment, I think he means it.

  Then he pinches my ass. "Then again, that probably violates some FAA regulation. Best not to tempt fate. Besides, I believe Katie's been keeping dinner warm for us."

  Again, I'm reminded that she is just past that little door and could come in at any time.

  Once again reading my mind, Damien glances up, silently reminding me of the privacy button. It has ensured that she didn't come in. But at the same time, my cheeks heat with the certainty that she knows exactly what is going on in here.

  "We are newlyweds, after all," Damien says. "And to be honest, I don't think I'm quite finished working up an appetite."

  "Oh, really?" I say, lifting myself a bit and then lowering, slowly at first and then gradually increasing speed. "And what is it you're hungry for, Mr. Stark?"

  "Funny you should ask." He takes my hips and guides me, increasing the tempo and impaling himself deeper and harder inside me. "Right now, the only thing I'm interested in is you."

  "Good." I put my hands on his shoulders, letting our rhythm build and our passion grow. Our eyes are locked, and neither of us looks away, both too entranced by the storm that we are building in each other.

  "There," he says, as if he feels what I feel. As if he saw within me that electrical sensation spreading down my inner thighs, a precursor to the explosion.

  But I see it inside him, too. More, I feel it in the way his cock hardens, in the quickened rhythms of his thrusts. My body responds in kind, tightening around him. Giving as much as I am taking and moving faster and faster in a sensual dance that breaks us both into a frenzied explosion of light and passion.

  "Damien." His name is a cry, a prayer, and as I cling to him, my body shaking as the storm rips through me, I hear my name, too, as Damien's release fills me, and then there is silence as his mouth closes over mine and he kisses me feverishly until we both pull away, spent and gasping for air.

  "Well," I say, after my body stops quivering. "I think I've got one hell of an appetite now."

  "Funny," he says. "I'm still only hungry for you. But I suppose nutrition counts for something." He gently lifts me off him, then reaches for my robe to clean us both off. I raise my eyebrows and he chuckles. "You don't need to put it back on. I'll toss it in the laundry bin later. And I rather like the idea of watching you walk naked to the stateroom."

  I release what I hope sounds like a snort of disapproval, but is really laughter. And just to show him up, I make my way to the back, adding a little more swish to my hips as I go.

  I pause outside the stateroom and look back. He is watching me, his expression full of love and longing, passion and heat.

  I breathe deeply, feeling calm and centered. Yes, there's a lawsuit, and yes, that sucks. But that's just a blip. A chapter in the book of my life. Hell, a footnote.

  Damien is the whole story. And our life together is epic.

  Chapter 9

  As it turns out, we don't just take a limo to the hotel. We first take a helicopter from the airport to a helipad in the city center. I've done many things with Damien, but so far we've not commuted by helicopter. And, yeah, I'm a little giddy.

  I lean toward the window, one hand on the glass, the other tight in Damien's hand, and watch as the pilot brings the bird down gently. After just a few more moments, the staff has unloaded our bags and is escorting us to a waiting limo. It's smooth and seamless and definitely one of the perks of traveling with Damien.

  The limo's interior is completely frosty, but I barely notice it. I'm too busy gazing out the window at the city that is passing by us. The Arc de Triomphe, the stunning architecture, and even a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I feel like a little girl with her nose pressed to the window, not a woman who recently returned from a very similar trip.

  All too soon, our drive ends. The limo pulls up in front of what looks like a private residence, but the uniforms on the two men standing by the door make it clear that this is a hotel.

  The two livery-clad bellmen hurry forward to retrieve our bags, then whisk them away while Damien and
I walk more slowly into the hotel. A distinguished man with a small mustache hurries to greet us. I learn that he is the manager of the Hotel Margaritte, and that this exclusive hotel just off the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore has only twenty rooms and was once an eighteenth-century private residence.

  Damien and I will be staying in the penthouse.

  The manager escorts us there, taking us through the lobby, which is still furnished as it would have been centuries ago, with tapestry and gilt, crystal and elegance. I walk with my head in constant motion as I look this way and that, trying to take it all in.

  But whatever awe I feel for the lobby fades when we reach the penthouse. It is, in a word, incredible. Taking up the entire top floor, it is luxury personified, with no detail overlooked in the beautiful furnishings, the antique mirrors, the modern kitchen well-concealed behind decorative, period-style doors.

  The real showstopper, however, is the huge bay window that arches up into a skylight, giving the living room the illusion of being outdoors. And, as if to remind us that we are in Paris, we have a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower.

  "This room was the conservatory at one time," the manager says. "Mademoiselle Margaritte, the hotel's namesake, kept it filled with flowers."

  "It's lovely," I say, thoroughly delighted.

  He finishes giving us the tour, then leaves us in privacy. Only then do I realize we never stopped at the front desk. That pedestrian form of checking in is apparently one of those pesky things that only those who don't have the means to own small countries have to put up with.

  "Do you own this place?" I ask Damien when we are alone.

  "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.