Claim Me(15)

I manage a very unladylike snort. “Hardly. The idea is to punish you, not me.”

“I see.” He moves his hand away from the button. “No need to bother Sylvia this late, then. I’ll have her order your chocolates in the morning.”

I laugh. “So far the chocolates are in the lead in my assessment of your assets. But I’m also impressed by your fabulous taste in restaurants. That’s a hint, by the way.”

“I applaud your subtlety.”

“I try.”

“And I’ll reward you with the news that we’re almost there.”

“Really?” I’ve been ignoring the world outside the car, but now I look through the passenger side window. We’ve been on the road almost half an hour, the dark Pacific with the moon-crested waves rippling to my right as we head south. Now I see that we’ve arrived in Santa Monica, and after a few turns and stops at traffic lights, we are on Ocean Avenue between Santa Monica and Arizona.

Damien pulls up in front of a sleek white building that, as far as I can tell, has no hard angles, only sweeping curves. It’s several stories tall and mostly dark, but when I press my nose to the window and look up, I can see that the top floor is brightly lit.

There is a valet stand a few feet away, and a guy not much younger than Damien hurries to my door. Just as quickly, Damien presses the button that locks the car. I look at him curiously, but he provides no explanation. Just gets out from his side and walks around the Bugatti to where the valet stands helplessly.

I’m struck by the difference between the two men. I’m guessing the valet is twenty-six, just two years older than me and only four years younger than Damien. And yet Damien carries himself with such confidence that he seems ageless. Like a mythic hero, his tribulations have strengthened him, giving him a sexy self-assurance that is so attractive it almost outshines the physical beauty of the man.

At thirty, Damien has already conquered the world. The valet, who now stands confused without a door to open, probably has trouble conquering the rent. I don’t feel bad for him—he is like so many young people in Los Angeles. Struggling actors or writers or models who’ve moved to the City of Angels in the hope that the town will make them over. It is Damien who is the exception. Damien doesn’t need this town; Damien needs nothing but himself.

Once again, I feel that unwelcome twinge in my heart. Because if my meanderings are true, then what does that say about me? I know he wants me—I see that desire every time I look into his eyes. But I have come to need Damien as potently as the air that I breathe, and I sometimes fear that while our desire is mutual, my need is one-sided.

My melancholy thoughts evaporate the moment Damien opens the door and I see him smiling down at me with such a fiercely protective set to his jaw that I can’t help but sigh. He holds out his hand to help me from the car, his body positioned so that there is no way that the valet will get a gander at my private parts, even if my attempts to ease out modestly are foiled by this very low-to-the-ground car.

I manage the maneuver successfully, thank goodness, and Damien releases my hand and slips his arm around my waist. It is summer, but this close to the beach the air is cool, and I lean against him, relishing his warmth. Damien tosses the keys to the valet, who I think is going to weep with joy at the prospect of sliding behind the wheel of that exceptional car.

“Let me guess,” I say, as we wait for our rather inefficient valet to get a ticket for Damien. “You own the building.” I glance at it as we speak. Only the entry is well lit, and in the shadows, I see clusters of people. Couples talking together. Men wearing everything from swim trunks to business suits. I suppose that’s normal. After all, the beach is just across the street.