Complete Me(27)

“The photographer will be in town this weekend. Would you like me to have him sign it to you and Mr. Stark?”

“That would be wonderful. Do you have a piece of paper?”

He does, of course, and while he inflicts serious damage on my credit card, I write out the shipping address and the notation that I’d like the artist to add.

“Have a good day, Fr?ulein,” he says as I leave. “And please tell Mr. Stark how happy I am for him.”

“I will,” I say, stepping back out onto the Maximilianstrasse. Less than an hour ago, this spectacular street had seemed gloomy. Now, everything seems a bit brighter. I continue my walk, this time paying more attention to the stores I’m passing. I pause in front of windows to look at purses and dresses and suits for Damien. Twice, I think I see the woman in the hat, but when I turn to look, I see no one. I frown, because I’m not prone to seeing phantom women, so I am certain that I am not imagining her.

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.