Claim Me(108)

“Tip the young man, darling,” I say, once I’m standing upright again. Then I turn and head into the hotel, making sure to swing my hips so that the skirt swishes as I walk.

I’ve not been in this hotel, and it’s stunning. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, but I find both the registration desk and the lobby bar. I go to register first, smiling at the clean-cut man who greets me. “I’m checking in. Nikki Fairchild.”

He taps at the computer screen, then looks up at me with an even wider smile. “I see that you’re in our penthouse suite. Can I have someone take up your luggage?”

“Thank you, but no.” I don’t bother mentioning that I have no luggage.

“One key or two?”

“Just one,” I say. I am, after all, a woman alone.

I consider going up to the room and lying naked on the bed, but Damien has told me to have a drink, and I am intrigued by both his plan for the evening and the thought of an excellent martini.

Mostly, though, I don’t want to give Damien any cause for punishing me. Because I am certain that my punishment would be abstinence, and that is not something that is on my radar tonight.

It’s late, but the bar is full. There are very few women, and the men are mostly in suits. Considering the business attire, I’m guessing that there is a conference going on, because almost every table is full. I take a seat at one of the bar stools as Damien said and order a dirty martini. As I wait for the bartender to fix it, I glance out across the lobby, but so far, there is no sign of Damien.

I’m not sure what to expect, and I have to fight the urge to pull out my phone and call him. Instead, I tell myself that patience is a virtue. Not necessarily one of my virtues, but a virtue nonetheless.

“You look distracted. Anything I can help you with?”

The voice belongs to a nice-looking man who sits one seat over from me at the bar. I finally see Damien, and am about to tell the man that no, I’m fine, when Damien meets my eyes, then very deliberately takes a seat at a nearby table with three other men.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

The bartender puts the martini in front of me. I take a sip, confused, and wonder what happens next.

The man moves to the stool next to me, then leans even closer into my personal space. I consider sliding one stool over myself, but decide to remain put, my posture rigid, my body language very, very clear.

Apparently, though, the guy is illiterate in the body language department.

“Here for the conference?” he asks, and I can smell the liquor on his breath.

“No,” I say. “I’m looking for some time alone.”

“Lucky you,” says the man who cannot take a hint. “Insurance regulations. Hours and hours of continuing education.”

“Hmm,” I say. I have my Coldly Polite face on, but he’s apparently blind as well.

He leans in closer still, and now he’s at such an angle that he has to grip the bar itself or risk sliding to the floor. I give in to temptation and lean in the opposite direction. “I can think of better ways to spend a late night,” he says, his voice low and his intent unmistakable. “And we are in a hotel. You do the math.”




“I was never particularly good at math,” I lie. I consider moving to a table, but Damien specifically told me to stay at the bar. And no matter what else, I am following his rules tonight.

“You look like you’d be good at a lot of things,” the man says, staring at my tits.

I turn back to the bar to find the bartender sliding a new martini in front of me. “From the gentleman,” he says, nodding toward Damien.