Have Me (Stark Trilogy, #3.6)(21)
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 H?tel Margaritte, and that this exclusive hotel just off the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré 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.
“True,” he concedes. “But I rarely buy real estate on impulse.”
“There’s always a first time,” I say lightly. “But seriously, why aren’t we staying at one of your hotels? You have one not far from here. Or at least Stark Properties, a wholly owned subsidiary of Stark International, does.”
For a moment, he looks confused, then he grins. “You’ve been reading my corporate magazine.”
“Maybe,” I admit, because there were a few copies on the plane. “But it would still have been a good guess. Because, honestly, where don’t you own property?”
“Greenland. At the moment, I’m completely without holdings in Greenland.”
“Ha-ha.” I turn to examine the suite some more, taking in the plush furniture, the wide-open spaces, even the grand piano that I have absolutely no idea how to play. “I’ll admit this place is exceptional, but why not stay at one of your own?”
“Because this is our time,” he says. “No one knows us personally. No one will knock on the door if there is a crisis. It’s not possible to be entirely anonymous with you,” he adds, taking my hand and tugging me toward him, “but I’d like to at least try to be invisible.”
I lean back against him, then close my eyes as his hands tighten around my waist. We stand like that for a moment, swaying slightly, the top of my head tucked under Damien’s chin.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
“Mmm. That depends on why you’re asking.”
His low chuckle rumbles through me. “That’s definitely one reason to stay awake. But I confess that I was thinking of something a bit more public.”
I turn in his arms. “What about being invisible?”
“I’m sure we can blend,” he says. “Maybe I’ll even buy you a hat to go with your dress.”
“Un chapeau,” I correct, “and I’d like that.” The dress I chose on the plane is a vintage style shirt-dress, with buttons running the entire length and a belted waist that creates a very full skirt. I’m feeling rather Audrey Hepburn, and a hat would be just the thing.
“You’re the one who’ll be recognized,” I point out. “I’ve only become a celebrity by default.” Damien, however, has been in the spotlight since he was a kid, and he played enough tennis and did enough commercials in Europe that I doubt I’m exaggerating the chances of him being noticed. Especially when you factor in how widespread the coverage of his recent trial was.