HOLIDAY ROYALE (7 page)

“Luce...”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“I have absolutely no idea what the question was.”

“Did you like kissing me?”

Now he was the one gulping like some green boy. “Didn’t
you
already answer that for me?”

“I did, yeah. But I would also like to have you answer it for yourself.”

He wanted to get up and walk out of the room. But more than that, he wanted what she kept insisting
she
wanted. He wanted to take off her floppy sweater, her skinny jeans and her pink canvas shoes. He wanted to see her naked body. And take her in his arms. And carry her to his bed and show her all the pleasures she was so hungry to discover.

“Dami. Did you like kissing me?”

“Damn you,” he said, low.

And then she said nothing. That shocked the hell out of him. Lucy. Not saying a word. Not waving her hands around. Simply sitting there with her big sweater drooping off one silky shoulder, daring him with her eyes to open his mouth and tell her the truth.

He never could resist a dare. “Yes, Luce. I did. I liked kissing you. I liked it very much.”

A small pleased gasp escaped her. She clapped her hands. “Then there’s no problem. It’s all going to work out. We’ll have our weekend. We’ll see how it goes.” God, she was something extraordinarily fine. So eager and lovely, her eyes shining with anticipation at the possible pleasures to come.

And who did he think he was fooling? He was who he was. When confronted with temptation, he inevitably found a way to surrender to it. She was right. He knew that he wanted her now, and that changed everything.

He only prayed that when it ended, he could still be her friend.

Chapter Five

F
ive hours later Damien sat across from her at a small round corner table in his favorite café, a narrow window-fronted shop on a side street in the mostly residential ward of La Cacheron.

“I love it here,” Lucy declared. She was looking amazing, as usual, in a short ruffled skirt, a white schoolgirl blouse, black suede boots and a bright yellow sweater. Amazing and wonderfully young, he thought, so fresh faced and glowing after staying up most of the night battling first with her brother and then with him.

“What, exactly, do you love?” he asked, so that she would continue talking and waving her hands about.

She put out both arms to the side, palms up. “I love the black-and-white linoleum floor, the dark wood counters, the waitresses in their little white aprons, those plain shirtwaist dresses and sensible shoes. They look like they’ve been working here all their lives.”

“Most of them have.” He sipped his café au lait and nodded at their server, Justine, who was tall and deep breasted with steel-gray hair. “Justine has been serving me since before I could walk. Gerta, our nanny, used to bring us here at least twice a week.”

“Us?”

“My brothers, my sisters and me. Sometimes my mother or my father would bring us. They’ve always loved it here, too. The croissants are excellent and Justine and the others always knew to wait on us without a lot of fanfare so we would be comfortable and able to enjoy just being a family out for a treat.”

She ate the last bite of her croissant. “Um. So good.” A flaky bit of pastry clung to her plump lower lip.

He imagined leaning across and licking it off. “Finish your coffee,” he said a little more gruffly than he meant to.

She dabbed at her lip with her napkin and then sipped her coffee slowly. “Are we in a rush?”

“We don’t want to miss the Procession of Abundance.”

“Ah, yes,” she answered airily. “I read the guidebook. It’s an age-old Montedoran tradition that always occurs on a Friday at the end of November. A parade of farmers and vintners marching the length of the principality to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Sorrows in order to have their seeds and vines blessed, thus ensuring bountiful crops in the year to come.”

He nodded approval. “Very good. But don’t forget the donkeys.”

She pressed a hand, fingers spread, across her upper chest. “I can’t believe I forgot the donkeys. The farmers and vintners all ride on donkeys.”

He gave another nod. “As did our Lord on Palm Sunday and Mary on the way to Bethlehem, the donkey symbolizing loyalty and humility and the great gift of peace, which brings the possibility of abundance. Ready to go?”

She set down her white stoneware cup. “I just want to look at the pictures first.” And she swept out her left arm to indicate the sketches and paintings that jostled for space on the dark wood-paneled walls. A moment later she was up and strolling the length of the shop, her gaze scanning the framed oils, watercolors and pencil drawings created by local artists over the years.

He left the money on the table and got up and went with her. She stopped opposite three drawings grouped together on the back wall. One was a street view of the café’s front window, one of a slightly younger Justine, in profile, bending to set a cup on a table. The third was the front window again but seen from inside. A fat cat sat on the window ledge looking out.

Lucy said, “I do like these three. The cat reminds me of Boris.” Boris was her fat orange tabby.

“Is Boris still in California?” When he’d taken her to New York, they’d had to leave Boris behind in the care of Hannah Russo, Lucy’s former foster mother, who was now Noah’s housekeeper.

Lucy shook her head, her gaze on the cat in the drawing. “Hannah brought him to me a few weeks ago. He likes it in Manhattan. He sits in the front window and watches all the action down on the street—very much like this cat right here.” He knew she’d already checked for and found the scrawled initials, DBC, in the lower left-hand corners of each of the sketches. Lucy was always after him to dedicate more of his time to painting and drawing. She added, “These are so good, Dami. When did you do them?”

He slid his arm around her waist, allowing himself the small, sharp pleasure of touching her, of feeling the warmth of her beneath the softness of her cashmere cardigan with its prim row of white buttons down the front. “Years ago. I was studying briefly at Beaux-Arts in Paris and drawing everything in sight. I came in for coffee, had my sketchbook with me. Justine gave me a box of pastries in exchange for these.”

She leaned into him a little. He caught the scents of coffee and vanilla—and peaches. Today she smelled of peaches. And she scolded, as he’d known she would, “You should spend more time drawing and painting.”

It was delicious, the feel of her against his side. “Life is full of diversions and there aren’t enough hours in a day.”

“Still...”

He turned her toward the door. “Let’s go. The Procession of Abundance won’t wait.”

* * *

After the parade, they strolled the Promenade in the harbor area, not far from where he’d told stories to the children the day before.

She chattered gleefully about her upcoming first semester at the Fashion Institute of New York. She’d been to the school and pestered some of her future instructors for ways she might better prepare for the classes to come. As a result, she was designing accessories and working with fabrics she hadn’t used before.

And then, again, she brought up his painting. “I know you have a studio here in Montedoro. I want you to take me there.”

He teased, “Never trust a man who wants to show you his etchings.”

“But that’s just it. You
don’t
want to show me. You keep putting me off.”

He took her soft, clever hand and tucked it over his arm. “I’ll consider it.”

She bumped her shoulder against him and flashed him a grin. “And I’ll keep bugging you until you give in and let me see what you’ve been working on.”

“But I haven’t been working on any of that. I’m a businessman first. And you know that I am.”

“You’re an artist, Dami,” she insisted. “You truly are.”

“No, my darling.
You
are. Now please stop nagging me or I won’t take you to the holiday gala at the National Museum tonight.”

Her big eyes got wider. “Oh, that’s right. I’d almost forgotten about the show at the museum. There will be an exhibit of that new car you’ve been working on, the Montedoro, won’t there?”

“You make it sound as though I built the car personally.”

She put on an expression of great superiority. “I know how to use the internet, believe it or not. I read all about the new sports car and how you helped design it.”

“So, then, we’re agreed.”

She sent him a look. “Agreed about what?”

“You’ll go with me to the gala tonight. We’ll drink champagne. I will dazzle you with my knowledge of Montedoran art. And you’ll stop giving me grief about how I should spend more time in my studio.”

* * *

Lucy wore red to the gala that night. Her own design, the dress was strapless, of red satin, with a mermaid hem and a giant jeweled vintage pin in the shape of a butterfly at the side of her waist. She felt good in that dress—comfortable and about as close to glamorous as someone everyone considered “cute” was ever going to get.

Dami said, “Wow,” when he saw it. And she had to admit, the way he looked at her, all smoldering and sexy, had her convinced that the dress was just right.

The National Museum of Montedoro filled a very old, very large rococo-style villa perched on a hillside overlooking the harbor. Dami’s sister Rhiannon, who was a year older than Alice, worked there. Rhia oversaw acquisitions and restorations. She greeted the guests as they entered the museum.

Seven months pregnant, wearing royal-blue satin, Rhia had that glow that so many pregnant women get. She kissed Lucy on the cheek and said that Alice and Noah were expected any minute now. Lucy shared a glance with Dami over that. He frowned a little, probably doubting that Noah would behave himself. Lucy flashed him a confident smile. Noah would behave himself, all right. If he didn’t, he’d get another middle-of-the-night visit from his little sister.

Rhia said, “Follow the Hall of Tapestries. The Montedoro Exhibit is in the South Gallery. You can’t miss it.”

They proceeded down a long hallway hung with beautiful tapestries, some of them very old, to a large two-story room with tall windows overlooking the harbor. The second floor was a balcony rimming the space. Guests could stand at the railing up there and gaze down on the action below.

The gallery was already milling with people in full evening dress sipping champagne. A jazz quartet played on a stage near the windows. A sleek red sports car gleamed under spotlights in the center of the room.

“It’s so beautiful,” she told Dami at the sight of the new car.

“It has to be,” he said. “After all, it’s called the Montedoro.”

They made their way around the exhibit. Lucy took her time, studying the photographs and scale drawings and reading the descriptions that detailed the creation of the new car. The Montedoro would be available to exclusive individual buyers that coming May and offered for sale in upscale auto dealerships all over the world in the fall. Many of the drawings were signed DBC.

Evidently, Dami saw her checking out his initials. “See? There’s more to life than painting and sketching fat cats in windows.”

“Noah told me that you took a degree in mechanical engineering and design.”

“I like to keep busy.”

“You’re way too modest.”

“Oh, no, I’m not.” He leaned closer and his warm breath brushed her temple. “I have a lot of interests. And I become bored very easily.”

“You hide your abilities behind your jet-setter facade.”

“Does anyone actually say
jet-setter
anymore?”

She drew her shoulders back. “I do. It’s a perfect way of saying shallow-rich-people-who-fly-all-over-the-place-in-their-private-jets. Just IMO, of course.”

He pretended to hide a yawn. “I hope this isn’t the beginning of one of your lectures concerning my wasted artistic talent. I thought we had an understanding about that.”

“You’re right.” She did her best to look contrite. “We do. And I didn’t mean to insult rich people with too much time on their hands.”

“As opposed to hardworking rich people, you mean?”

“Well, you have to admit, a hardworking rich person is much more admirable.”

“Spoken like an American.”

She scolded, “And would you please stop telling me how easily you get bored?”

He leaned even closer and whispered, “Done.”

She breathed him in. He did smell wonderful. “Terrific.”

He touched her hair, tracing the line of it along her temple and cheek then following the shell of her ear. A little shiver of pleasure went through her and he whispered, “Not bored now. Not with you....”

They were sharing a lovely, intimate smile when she heard the disturbance by the wide arch that opened back onto the Hall of Tapestries. Dami was facing the entrance. He could see what was happening. His tender look turned to a scowl. Lucy followed his gaze to the stunning woman surrounded by admirers and eager photographers just entering the exhibit.

It was Vesuvia.

And she looked even more magnificent than she did on the covers of all those glamorous fashion magazines, with magnetic almond-shaped eyes, cheekbones to die for and lips so full they should be X-rated. She was very tall, with shapely shoulders and long, graceful arms. Her lion’s mane of tawny hair fell to the middle of her back and her perfect round breasts seemed to defy gravity. She wore a low-cut white gown that clung lovingly to every curve and was slit high on the right side to reveal a whole lot of toned golden-skinned leg and a pair of Grecian-inspired metallic sandals with the straps wrapping halfway up her otherworldly calves. She laughed and tossed her acres of hair and the photographers went into a frenzy of picture taking, calling encouragements to her and begging, “Vesuvia, this way!” and “Vesuvia, over here!”

Dami leaned close again, “Don’t stare, Luce. It only encourages her.”

Lucy turned back to him, feeling slightly dazed, the way you do when you stare directly into the sun. “Sorry, Dami. How can I help it? She’s pretty amazing to look at, you know?” She glanced again at his ex-girlfriend just as the woman raised her golden arm to send Dami a little wave, a come-and-get-me smile on those impossibly large lips. And that had Lucy whipping her head back to catch Dami’s reaction.

But his gaze was waiting for her. “You look as though you’re watching a tennis match.”

She didn’t deny it. “Am I?”

“Not on my part. I’ve conceded that game.”

Are you sure?
she longed to ask. But no. Maybe later when they were alone, if it felt right, they might talk about his ex. Because they were friends and they trusted each other.

But to get into all that now, well, uh-uh. Time and place, it wasn’t. Plus, Lucy found she felt... Well, not jealous, exactly. How could she be jealous? She and Dami didn’t have that kind of thing going on.

But at a disadvantage. Yes, that was it. Like suddenly she was walking around blindfolded in an unfamiliar room, groping at the furniture, trying to find her way.

Vesuvia and her posse were headed for the scale model of the Montedoro in the center of the exhibit. A man and a woman broke from the group. The woman wore a black sheath cocktail dress and the man a dark suit. Both had on ear-to-ear smiles. They came right for Lucy and Damien.

“Watch out,” Dami warned. “Ad executives.” He named a major international advertising company.

“Your Highness,” fawned the woman. “How
are
you?”

Dami nodded. “Wonderful to see you.” He introduced Lucy. She murmured a hello.

The woman gave her a quick nod and got right to the point. “I wonder, a few pictures? You and Vesuvia and the Montedoro? Is it possible, do you think?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll be right over.”

The man said, “Excellent.”

The woman said, “Perfect.”