Have Me (Stark Trilogy, #3.6)(22)

“I have a disguise.” He grins as he says it, then crosses to the leather backpack that doubles as a briefcase when he travels.

I watch, amused, as he pulls out a white cap with a French flag imprinted on the front.

I laugh and shake my head. He’s still Damien, no question about it, and I think he looks damn hot. But on the whole it’s not a bad disguise. He rarely wears caps, and if he adds some sunglasses—and if we both carry daypacks—we’ll look like any two tourists out exploring the city.

“So do I look like just an ordinary guy?”

“You’ll never be ordinary,” I say. “But close enough.”

The hotel is located near dozens of high-end shops, but it’s only just past eight in the morning, so nothing much is open yet. Damien promises me a day of shopping later, and I am fine with that. I may be hesitant to use my husband’s money to fund my business, but I am not so proud as to turn down designer clothes.

Right now, though, we stay primarily on the side streets, enjoying the local ambiance. We are holding hands, and though I feel as though we are wandering aimlessly, Damien assures me that he knows where we are going.

“So what is on our agenda?” I ask. “It’s Paris, after all. There are about a million things I want to do.”

“What’s on your list?” he asks, as an amazing yeasty scent draws us off the street toward a tiny café with charming outdoor seating.

I start to rattle off everything I can think of, from the Louvre to the catacombs to the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. “And Versailles,” I add as we take a seat at one of the tables. “And Montmartre. And the Left Bank and the Metro and—oh, hell, I don’t know. How does everything sound?”

His smile is indulgent. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

When the waitress arrives he orders two café crèmes and two pains au chocolat. I’m impressed, but not surprised, when he orders in what I assume is perfect French. Stark International, I think, and grin. Why wouldn’t he speak French?

“I’m not quite fluent,” he admits as we sip our coffee and watch the people on the charming avenue. “But I can get by.”

After we’ve finished our pastry and coffee, we meander down small streets and alleyways until we cross a wider, busier avenue, then follow a half-hidden path into a lovely garden.

“It’s like an oasis,” I say. I had grabbed my camera on the way out of the hotel, and now I make Damien stop as I take a few shots. It is as if we have wandered into a fairy tale, and I want to capture the magical aura on film.

“This is one of my favorite shortcuts,” Damien says, as he leads me down a tree-lined path. “And for exactly that reason. It’s an escape. A respite from the crowds and the noise.”

“So where are we?”

“It’s called the Jardin de la Nouvelle France. I think it was set up in anticipation of the 1900 World’s Fair, but don’t quote me on that. I come for the way it looks, not the history.”

As interesting as the history might be, I have to agree, and as we follow the path—taking a few side trips just for the sake of adventure—I can’t deny the joy I feel simply being in this cool, green space. I keep my camera out, delighting in the play of light and shadow, and taking so many pictures that I will undoubtedly have to buy new memory cards before this trip is over.

We wander farther in and find a lovely little bridge, not to mention an actual waterfall.

“Here,” Damien says, taking my hand at one point when I’m certain that we’ve managed to get horribly turned around. “I’ll show you my favorite place to sit.” He leads me to a small pond shaded by a weeping beech. There is a small stone bench, and we sit for a moment, his arm around my waist and my head upon his shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“For what?” he asks.

“You said you were giving me the world. Thank you for giving me these hidden treasures, too.”

When we finally stand to continue on our way, I’m surprised to realize that it’s after ten thirty.

“Slow and easy,” Damien says when I comment on the time. “Just like a honeymoon should be.”

I take his hand and squeeze. Because, really, I can’t argue with that.

We emerge from the park onto the Cours la Reine, and follow that street for a while before crossing at the avenue Winston Churchill. That road goes to the Seine, and turns into the Pont Alexandre III.

“Are we crossing?”

Damien shakes his head. “We can take the stairs down and walk along the water for a while or stay on street level and check out some of the sights. We’ll pass the Louvre in a few more blocks.”

“Can we go in?”

“We can,” he says, then kisses my forehead. “It’s already on today’s agenda. But there’s someplace else I want to take you first. You still okay with walking? We can catch a cab.”

“I’m great,” I say, meaning it. There is nothing I enjoy more than walking in a new city, unless it’s walking in a new city with Damien.

We stay on the street level until we’ve passed the Place de la Concorde and I’ve oohed and aahed over the Obelisk and taken a dozen more pictures. Then we go down the stairs and walk along the Seine until we reach the Pont des Arts. We head back up the stairs, begin to cross the bridge, and then I stop, confused by the odd appearance of the bridge’s railing.