Complete Me (37 page)

“It’s not empty,” he says, then nods toward my bed.

“I’m leaving it,” I remind him. I hardly need a bed at any of Damien’s houses, and Jamie rented the place furnished, so I’m sure the tenant won’t mind.

“Not the bed,” he says. “The package on it.”

I look more closely and see the flat white box sitting on the white duvet. I glance between him and the box. “What is it?”

“I’m going to suggest you take a walk on the wild side and open it.”

“Funny,” I say, but I hurry to the package. I open it and find a fold-up map of Europe with tiny colored stickers already affixed to Munich and London.

“We faced reality and told it to go fuck itself,” Damien says. “So now I think we should slide back into that bubble. One month. Europe. A limo. Five-star hotels. And you.”

“Doing whatever you want, whenever you want it?” I ask happily.

His smile is slow and decadent. “Ah, baby, you know me so well.”

“I can’t wait,” I say.

“We can go back for round two later,” he says. “Right now I can only take a month if I’m going to be back for the gala.”

“Of course,” I say. The first gala fund-raiser for the Stark Children’s Foundation is only five weeks away. It’s Damien’s newest charitable organization, the primary mission of which is to help the recovery of abused children through play and sports therapy.

“Just the continent?”

Damien nods. We will not be going to the UK. I’m not surprised. I don’t care if I never see Sofia again, and he’s not ready to see her, either. For that matter, her shrink probably wouldn’t let him.

Sofia had OD’d on the roof of the Richter Tennis Center in West Hollywood about two weeks after Damien went public with the story of his abuse. Because of the timing of the overdose and the certainty that she would be found, the shrink considered it a cry for help, and the courts concurred, both in California and Britain. Now she’s in a rehab facility, but this time under court order. I expect that someday Damien will want to see her. In the meantime, he’s continuing to support her financially. I don’t blame him for that; they have a history, however fucked up.

“I’d like to spend a few days in Germany, too,” Damien says, breezing over the specter of Britain that seems to hang in the room. “We didn’t get to explore it before. And speaking of Germany,” he adds, pulling a small box out of his pocket. “I bought this for you before the trial got underway. I planned to give it to you after I was acquitted, but I got a little sidetracked.”

“Can I open it?”

“Of course,” he says, with an odd twinkle in his eye.

I open the box only to find a smaller velvet box inside. My chest starts to feel a bit tight, and my skin feels all tingly. I tell myself not to jump to conclusions as I pull out the velvet box, open the hinged top, and gasp when I see the platinum-set diamond solitaire winking in the lights.

My knees go weak, and I’m glad of the door frame at my back. “Damien,” I whisper, terrified of reading more into this than simply a beautiful ring. Another fabulous gift. “You bought this before the trial?”

“I told you,” he says gently. “I never truly believed I could lose. Not the trial. Not you. Now I know better than to take anything for granted.”

The words are still hanging in the air when he drops down on one knee. He takes my hand, and I get chills. I feel the pull of my facial muscles, but I fight it—I’m simply too scared to smile.

“There’s only one woman in the world who can bring me to my knees. So tell me, Ms. Fairchild. Will you do me the greatest honor? Will you be my wife?”

My smile breaks free in a burst of glorious, delighted laughter. I beam at him, this man I love. And as I draw him to his feet and into my embrace, I say the only word I’m capable of speaking, the only word that matters. “Yes.”

About the Author

J. Kenner loves wine, dark chocolate, and books. She lives in Texas with her husband and daughters. Visit her online at www.jkenner.com to learn more about her and her other pen names, to get a peek at what she’s working on, and to connect through social media.