being tucked away behind drapes—and pick one of the lounge chairs near the waterfall.
The area around the pool is beautifully landscaped with native plants and tropical flowers transplanted to make the area look lush. There are only a few of us out here this early, and I smile as I pass an elderly man in a golfing shirt reading a Harlan Coben novel and drinking a Bloody Mary.
I’m about to sit down when I see a flash of dark hair rounding the corner near one of the changing rooms. A woman. And though I do not recognize her, I am once again struck by the feeling of having seen someone familiar.
I consider getting up and following her, but I didn’t see enough to be sure and, truly, if it’s someone I know then I’ll leave it to them to come say hi.
Once I’m settled, I peel off my T-shirt to reveal the bikini top I’d worn in the hope that the weather would feel just this nice.
I keep my skirt on, though. Not only is it not quite warm enough to strip all the way down to a bathing suit, but I don’t do bikini bottoms in public. With Damien, I am no longer self-conscious about the scars that mar my hips and inner thighs. But that doesn’t mean I want to invite the entire world to take a peek.
I pull today’s Los Angeles Times out of my tote bag and set it on the table next to me. Then I wave my hand to signal a nearby waiter, who hurries over.
He looks to be a few years younger than me, and I guess that he’s working his way through college. I order a bagel with cream cheese, coffee, and orange juice, then put my sunglasses on and tilt my head back, enjoying the feel of the still-rising sun against my skin.
I don’t intend to doze, but I didn’t get much sleep last night, and my eyelids are heavy, especially under the weight of the sun. I let myself drift, and suddenly it’s not just the sun that is heating my skin. It’s the memory of Damien’s words in my ear last night.
For a brief moment, I regret not simply dining on the balcony that opens off my bedroom, because the temptation to slide my hands between my legs is very, very strong. I don’t, however, want to give my nearby golfer a hard-on. Or, god forbid, a heart attack.
I hear the waiter’s return and ask if he could bring me a glass of ice water.
“A little warm, Ms. Fairchild? From looking at you, I would have thought you were slightly chilled.”
I open my eyes to find Damien smiling down at me. At my breasts, actually, and my rock hard nipples, very evident under my bikini top.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m enjoying the view.” He takes a seat on the lounge chair beside me. “Thinking about last night?”
“Every delicious minute,” I admit, and then swallow a smile of satisfaction when I see his eyes heat with my unexpected answer.
“And you?” I ask. “What are you doing this morning? Besides staring, I mean?”
“Staring, Ms. Fairchild?” His eyes flick up to my face, and then he draws his gaze down my body, moving so slowly and with such purpose that my skin tingles in the wake of his inspection, as if he is trailing a fingertip down the entire length of my body.
“Staring?” he repeats. “No, I’m studying. And planning.”
“Planning?” I repeat. “Now I’m very intrigued. Do tell.”
“Oh, just analyzing various strategies. How I’m going to touch you. What I’ll do to take you to the absolute heights of exquisite pleasure. To get you close but not let you go over, so that you are reduced to whimpering in my arms and begging me for release.” He looks at me blandly. “Things like that.”
My mouth has gone dry, and all my blood has pooled between my thighs. But even so, I manage to latch onto one key point. “In your arms, Mr. Stark?”
“Noticed that, did you?”
“I’m a very good listener.”
“I hoped that you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner.”
I tilt my head, considering. Tonight is our last night. If I want to take this flirtation to the next level, it really is now or never. And, yeah, I want to see what he has planned.
“Are you going to behave?”
“That’s highly doubtful.”
I laugh, because that is absolutely the perfect answer. “In that case, Mr. Stark, I’d love to have dinner with you.”
—
“How