Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(19)

I doubt very seriously that it is truly me that is of interest to her. Instead, I’m betting that she’s a reporter. And she knows that if she follows me long enough, eventually, she will find Damien. I consider marching up to her and telling her that I don’t appreciate the stalker vibe, but though I pay attention to the faces on the street and the reflections in the windows, I don’t see her again.

I wander the main avenue and side streets for almost three hours before I can’t take it any longer. I know that Damien needs to sleep, but I also need Damien. Selfish, yes, but I have held back for as long as I can.

I’ve almost reached the hotel when I remember a small boutique that Damien and I had noticed one evening as we were walking back from dinner, and I decide to squeeze in one more stop before returning. I wave to the valet as I pass in front of the Kempinski, then hurry across the street and down the two blocks to Marilyn’s Lounge, a high-end lingerie store. I don’t know if sexy lingerie will help wrest Damien from his funk, but I doubt it will hurt.

As I reach the store, I catch a quick glimpse of raven-black hair. Damien? I hesitate, then lift myself up on my toes, trying to see more clearly over the crush of people on the street, but I see no sign of him.

Still, Damien and the unidentified woman have become juxtaposed in my thoughts, and I can’t shake the strange sense of foreboding. I frown, feeling foolish, and push through the door and into Marilyn’s Lounge.

A willowy blonde with cat-like eyes approaches me right away, and when I tell her I’m looking for seductive sleepwear in which I don’t intend to actually sleep, she flashes a brilliantly white smile. “You have come to the right place, Ms. Fairchild.”

I manage not to react. By now, I really should be used to the celebrity factor.

She devotes her full attention to me, leaving her dark-haired companion to scurry between the half dozen other women who are eyeing these tiny bits of satin and lace. Some wear expressions of shocked interest. Others have the bland faces of veterans to the art of seduction. The youngest is looking only at white baby-doll nighties, and I immediately peg her as a bride.

I do not have time to bond with my co-shoppers, however, because my tour guide is a strict task mistress. She whips out a measuring tape and orders me to stretch out my arms. Then she moves in and gets more intimate than anyone except Damien has in a long time. She announces my bra size—which I already knew—and proceeds to lead me through the store, plucking up camisoles with matching skirt-style garter belts, open cup bras, body stockings, baby-doll nighties, and even a variety of retro lingerie that makes me think of Rita Hayworth or the other classic movie pinup queens.

By the time she finally sweeps me into a dressing room that resembles a small hotel room, I have decided that I am not the expert shopper I always thought I was. She has completely exhausted me, and it is with both amusement and relief that I eye the bucket of ice that holds an uncorked bottle of champagne. There are two crystal flutes on a nearby marble table, along with a pitcher of orange juice. The juice is clearly to remedy the extreme drop in blood sugar brought about by too much exertion. The champagne is to loosen the wallet.

While I pour myself a mimosa—after all, my wallet was loose when I walked through the door—my personal shopper hangs negligees, nighties, and sultry camis on a bar. She places the monogramed canvas shopping basket on the floor. It is full to the brim with what might appear at first glance to be mere scraps of material, but actually constitutes a variety of sexy underthings. And should I become exhausted from climbing into and out of such decadent clothing, I can relax on the chaise lounge that dominates the back half of the dimly lit room.

If the lingerie business starts to stall, Marilyn’s can just rent out their dressing rooms as high-end housing.

The first outfit is made from a sheer black material that is so soft it feels as though I am wearing a cloud. It’s a little bit longer than a baby-doll style, hitting me just a bit higher than mid-thigh. It boasts a swishy skirt and a fitted bodice that manages to make my breasts—which aren’t too shabby to begin with—look even bigger and perkier. I hold the thong-style panties up to see the effect, and I have to admit I like it. And though I’m technically failing Lingerie Etiquette 101 by doing it, I go ahead and step into the thong. Why not, since I’ve already decided to buy the outfit?

The thong is little more than a tiny triangle of material held in place by a stretchy black string. I twirl slowly, checking out the look in the Hollywood diva style three-way mirror that stands in one corner of the room. Honestly, it doesn’t look half bad. More important, I think Damien will like seeing me in it—and seeing me out of it.

I’m grinning, and about to extricate myself from the bodice so that I can try on the next outfit, when the salesgirl taps on the door. “I found something else you might like. May I come in?”

“Sure. Thanks.” I tug the top back down so that I’m fully covered—at least as fully covered as one can be wearing a see-through, low-cut, semi-baby-doll nightie—and watch as she opens the door. I expect frills and lace and silks and satins. What I see instead is Damien.

“Oh!”

His eyes are fixed on my face, the near-black one seeming to reach all the way into my heart, and the amber one so soft with apology that I think I’m going to cry. He steps inside the room and my head goes weak, as if all the air has been sucked out of the space. “I thought you might need a second opinion,” he says, his mouth curving into a half-smile.