by A. Faris
And perhaps, neither was Damien.
“Por favor, can we forget about him?”
“Of course.”
If only it were as easy as that to forget.
Chapter Two
Damien watched Elizabeth's cousin drag her away as if the hounds of hell were on their heels. It'd be funny, if she did not matter so damned much. Tall and skinny, she did not have the curves he usually preferred on a woman. His gaze lingered on her long legs that didn’t need the wedge heels she wore, and he revised his opinion. He wanted those legs wrapped around him.
It had been ten years—ten years too many—and for his patience, fate had rewarded him with a fine mate.
And, damn, she was fine, with her brown hair, falling in glossy curls over her shoulders, and green eyes. He had always been a sucker for green eyes. She got his jokes, which was a major plus. And she did not think he was crazy. Which was an even bigger plus. In fact, she didn’t seem to know who he was. Dunkirk had to be the boondocks of Europe. Although, her cousin was likely filling her in right this minute.
Elizabeth glanced back at him and he lifted a hand. Her smile was all kinds of sweetness.
Hmm, she's not scared off yet. Bonus points.
Her cousin handed her a piece of paper which made her blush. Interesting. She missed her mark in her haste to put it away and it fell to the ground. When the pair had gone out of sight, he jogged to the spot and swiped it, feeling like a besotted idiot.
What the hell, I am a besotted idiot.
He unfolded the piece of paper and chuckled.
A piece of luck, finally.
Digging his phone out of his jeans pocket, he searched for Evangeline’s number. It took some doing to look for the accent marks on the touch screen but habit compelled him to text his old school friend in French.
In Madrid. Met a girl. All legs and skittish. Need your help.
Less than a minute later, he got his reply. A curt Oui?
Busy? Business must be good. Must be if you’ve got a gorgeous girl like my Elizabeth signing up for your lonely hearts service. As it is, I am very willing to provide my services.
Non.
Damien chuckled. As he had expected. Time to use his trump card.
You owe me a mate.
After all, he had gone lone because of Nancy, whom Evangeline had practically pushed onto his lap in her youthful enthusiasm.
I am not omniscient. I cannot tell if things would work out between any two people. That's up to them. I only know if they could belong together. I could not have known she'd go back to Kevin.
He had to grin at the sudden verbosity.
Well, well. Still feeling the guilt, eh?
I'm not going to foist YOU on that innocent girl because of a debt I owe you.
What's wrong with me? I'm a nice guy.
And I'm only a matchmaker.
Not the greatest one on earth. Cheap shot, he knew, even as he sent the message. The long time lag told him it had hit the mark.
I have someone lined up already.
He managed to keep his teeth-baring to a minimum, mindful of the gaggles of tourists around him.
You do know what will happen to your guy, don't you? I’m thinking all guts, no glory. See if you can get another sucker after I am through with him.
I will try to see if you two suit. That's all. Sometimes I wish I'd never gone to school with you.
Damien laughed under his breath at Evangeline's grumble.
You did, and now you have to deal with this pain in your ass.
Long minutes passed, and Damien entertained himself with scenarios that all ended with a happily-ever-after with his mate. Maybe even children in the future; Lisbeth looked like the nurturing sort.
You are both not what the other needs right now.
That gave him pause. He shook his head as he typed.
Don't sidestep the issue. We are right for each other. And you know it.
The Castillo. Garden Suite. You'll need a key to go up. Get it from reception. Give them your name.
Eternally grateful. Thanks.
He did not expect a response, but another text came through.
Play nice!
“I’m always nice,” he protested aloud. But all he typed was a cheeky Yes, Madame.
Damien put away his cell phone, exulting inside. He had a date—and mate—to keep.
***
“Shouldn't you be getting ready?”
Elizabeth turned down the volume of the television. “Sofia, I....”
“You're not going through with it.”
“I lost the confirmation slip. I'm sorry.”
“No problem. I can print it again.”
“Sofia. I truly appreciate your gesture...but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the idea of having sex with a stranger.”
Sofia sat down next to Elizabeth. “It's a lot more comfortable than your affair with Pierre, if you ask me.”
Elizabeth regretted telling her about that messy affair. Sofia had caught her at a weak moment and she had found herself telling her all about it.
“Unless you enjoy that sort of exciting. Duels are not quite the fashion nowadays, Lisbeth. The best we can offer you is a brawl.”
“There is nothing exciting about duels.” Elizabeth stared at the couple kissing onscreen. Only heartbreak and disillusionment.
“Look, you don't have to sleep with the guy if you don't want to. The idea is for you to have a good time. Go, and if you don't like the guy, just tell him you don't want to go through with it. No hard feelings. No one's going to force you...I just wanted you to have a fun time, Lisbeth. And replace a bad experience with a better one. C'mon, it's your last night.”
She rested her forehead against her knees. Perhaps this philosophy of transient pleasure would serve her better than the false promise of love.
“All right.” She lifted her face. “What should I wear?”
Sofia squealed in excitement. “You won't regret it.”
Elizabeth hoped she would not.
***
“Fun. This is fun.” Elizabeth paced up the length of room, glancing at the wide expanse of bed to her right. She repeated to herself Sofia's parting words. “Fun!” She bared her teeth. “This is not my idea of fun!” She took off the heels Sofia insisted were killer—so far, they were only killing her feet—and flung them away with force.
A split second later, she leapt for the heels, and managed to catch them before they gouged a hole into the rose-and-gold papered wall.
The bells chimed at a low volume, but to her sensitive ears, they fair well resonated. Clutching the shoes to her chest, she ran to the outer chamber for the door.
Flabbergasted into forgetting her intended dismissal of her partner in this folly, she stared at the smartly-dressed man on the other side. In a gray suit, unbuttoned to reveal a casual white T-shirt, the ensemble paired with red canvas shoes and a slate-coloured hat, her date had unmistakable style and presence.
“What are you doing here?”
“Damien Rais Chassagne, at your service.” He took his hat off with a flourish and bowed. “You have a booking, I believe.”
“Yes, but you are not he. I am expecting a Juan Martinez.”
“Don Juan can't make it.” Damien smirked. Despite her shock, she had to smile at the poor joke.
He strode over the threshold, obviously assuming his welcome, and handed her the box he held in his other hand. “For you, ma bichette. I'll take these.” He plucked her shoes from the crook of her arm and lined them up by the narrow table behind her, a strange display of domesticity that intrigued her.
He called her little doe? How insulting. She wondered if she seemed meek to him that he would call her a pathetic prey. Elizabeth opened the box to reveal rows of Paris macarones. “Do not tempt my wolf to bite in order to prove itself.” Distracted by the colourful confections, the retort was not as sharp as she meant it to be.
He reached around her to shut the door, his muscled arm br
ushing against the underside of her breast.
“Would you really, ma bichette?” His breath tickled her ear. Elizabeth looked up from the sweets, her eyes widening at his heavy-lidded gaze. The feeling was all too familiar. The fluttering in her stomach, the awareness of his masculine presence thrumming underneath the joy of being in his company.
She backed up a few steps, stopped short by the door. “I'm sorry, I cannot.” Especially not with him. Not when all those feelings she had had for Pierre had returned, multi-fold, for Damien. Coupled with the mating instinct, Damien would be too dangerous for her heart.
He looked taken aback by her vehemence.
“Forgive me. I do not think I can—” She cut herself off on a gasp, trying to gain some control.
In a quick motion, he put his hand on her nape, a dangerous move in the face of a panicked wolf. But it calmed under the firm grip, instead of lunging for his throat.
“I'm here for a date. Anything more is by mutual consent.” His steady voice helped to soothe her further. “Forget about how I came to be here. All right?”
“How did you come to be here?”
“Fate.” He gave a soft laugh at his facetious remark. His thumb rubbed at the side of her throat. Her breath hitched, this time not because of panic. “You dropped your printout. Lucky me. I also know Madame. Lucky you.”
“Indeed?”
He pushed away from her with a sound of pure amusement. “Yep. Instead of some random stranger, you get me.”
“Yes, a stroke of luck, indeed.” She trailed after him into the room.
“Don't tell me you've not scented it?” He placed his hat on the coffee table, took off his jacket and hung it at the back of a chair, making himself quite at home. He faced her, an eyebrow lifted. “You and I....”
“Yes, I know.” She crossed her arms. “It is only a biological urge.”
“Don't knock biology. Centuries of evolution can't be wrong.” Damien picked up the menu from the desk. “Have you had dinner?”
The quick change of subjects left her floundering for a moment. “No. Yes. I mean, I had a light snack.”
“Hmm. Do you want to choose, or would you like me to order for you? This looks good.”
Laughter bubbled up in her throat. She coughed, hiding a smile behind her fist. “By all means, do surprise me.”
Elizabeth went to the nearby couch and watched him, as he ordered food over the telephone. A mix of contrasts, his face defied categorization, which fascinated her to an absurd degree. The long sweep of his lashes and the softness of his mouth were balanced by his hard jaw line, and sharp cheekbones, male beauty in an unconventional face. Both woman and wolf approved.
Damien put down the phone.
“Okay, now the fun begins.” He took something out from his jacket pocket and waved it at her. “The Met's Barber of Seville.”
“How did you know The Barber of Seville is my favourite opera?”
“Don't be too impressed. You filled out a number of forms, if you remember.” He opened the television cabinet with a flourish.
“It seems hardly fair that you know so much about me and I do not know anything about you.”
“Didn't you get an official profile on me? I thought that was the deal. I got one in my email. Oh, you probably got one of poor Juan. Still, I'd have thought you'd have been informed of the change in plans. Men.”
“Sofia must not have checked before I came here. It was she who registered me for this.”
“Huh.” His look was unsettling in its intensity. Then, he shrugged. “Whatever you want to know, just ask.” He swiped the control from the tabletop and settled down next to her.
“I thought you were human.”
“My mother is.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I'm mixed race in the truest sense of the word, as well as the normal one.”
“Is that the reason your Pack rejected you?”
“Nope. That was my own doing.” He paid undue attention to the remote control. “It wasn't my mother's blood they were leery of. My father is an Abomination.” He said the word with no inflection or disgust but the quick glance in her direction told her that the fact of his birth weighed heavily on him. “Despite that, they let me stay. Maybe ’cause I did not show any vampiric tendencies. A loose affiliation, but I was part of the Pack, nonetheless.”
A thread of hurt underlay his words and Elizabeth debated the wisdom of prying. But, in the most serious tone, he continued without any prompting.
“I was young, foolish, and stubborn. Met the most wonderful girl—human—and stupidly decided to take her as a mate without asking her first. She rejected me, well, had a major meltdown, really. Went back to her jerk of an ex. Anything better than the freak of nature. I do not know why I thought she'd accept me when our own people can't. No, I do know. Hope.” He stabbed at a button on the remote, still avoiding her gaze. “Anyway, you know the rest. I'm sure your cousin has filled you in on the lurid details. In my defence, most of the stories are exaggerated, and those that weren't...put it down to acting out.”
Elizabeth stared at him, astounded by the quick summary of what must have been the most distressing period of his life.
“Want to run now?”
The overture filled the silence.
“No.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “That's a first.” He put an arm around her shoulders and shifted closer. Elizabeth hesitated, then relaxed against him.
“You don't like macarones?”
Recognizing his need to abandon the topic, she said, “Sweets before dinner?”
“Why not?”
Why not, indeed. She held one up to him. He opened his mouth, surprising her with the casual intimacy. She bit her lip then raised the sweet to his mouth. Her fingers brushed against his lip, the lip she wanted to feel against her own. Her hand seemed frozen and all she wanted to do—
He reached up, breaking the spell. Her hand in his larger one, he pushed the other half of the confection into her mouth.
“Good, huh?”
It unnerved her that he could put her at ease with a question and lift of his mouth. Elizabeth nodded, not really tasting the macaron. While it had been exciting with Pierre, she had been plagued with uncertainty and guilt. Damien made her feel wanted and cherished with his undemanding presence and joie de vivre. He seemed happy simply by being in her company. She tore her eyes from Damien and watched the television screen instead.
Lulled by the warmth of his body, the languid strokes of his hand down her bare arm, and the music surrounding them, the buzzing at the door was an unwelcome distraction.
Damien extricated himself. “I'll get it.”
He was already halfway to the door when Elizabeth remembered that the room was under her name. She rose. “I'll sign for it.”
“Don't worry about it.” He waved her back to her seat.
“But—”
“Oh, shush. Let me buy you dinner.”
He opened the door, but she could hear his muttered comment about independent women. She frowned, not understanding quite what he meant.
“Don't bother setting up. It's all right. Thanks.” He spoke with casual familiarity with the servant.
She waited until the servant had left. “Do you dislike independence in a woman?”
He handed her a plate, then another. “Put them on the table, there. You don't mind watching TV while we eat, right?” He gave her no chance to reply, continuing to speak as he passed her the cutlery. “And no, I do not dislike independence. But sometimes, it'd be nice to be able to buy my date dinner without quibbling about it.” He carried the last two plates over, sat back down and looked at the spread in glee.
“Which is mine?”
“All. Any. Whichever takes your fancy. And I do not want to hear the word diet.” He gave her a critical eye. “Especially not from you.”
“I'll take the lamb...or....” She considered the dishes, all tempting. “I cannot decide.”
“So, we share.” He
grasped her chin and gave her a quick kiss on the mouth. “Have been dying to do that since I met you.”
He turned to the roasted lamb and cut off a piece from the thin slices. His T-shirt hugged to his body, displaying the facile movements of his muscles to great advantage. Elizabeth stared at his back, holding back her instinct to touch. He kept things simple, lulling her into a sense of security, then threw her into chaos without effort.
“I seem to have traded Don Juan for Don Quixote,” she murmured.
His deep laugh warmed her from within, touching all the corners of her soul. He turned to offer her the cut meat from his fork.
“Eat, my Dulcinea.”
She gave up trying to make sense of her feelings, and leaned forward, letting him feed her. With a quixotic man, one cannot reason overmuch.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth watched the screen blank out and wished Rossini had written an Act Three. She thought Damien might be feeling the same way, for he sat unmoving, his hand still stroking through her hair. With great reluctance, she uncurled her fingers from the grip she had on his wrist.
A suggestion of a sigh feathered against her temple, so minute she doubted what she felt, and he released her.
“I don't suppose you'd be willing to change your flight?” He busied himself with extracting his shoes from under the table. Elizabeth wondered if he had bent over to avoid her gaze. He sounded unconcerned, but she thought she detected a tension in his shoulders.
You are fooling yourself again.
A man like Damien, with his love for an unencumbered life, would not care for permanence. Willing as he was to heed the mating instinct, Elizabeth suspected he was looking for an interesting partner in bed, rather than a mate for life. It should not matter to him if she left on the morrow.
“I cannot change it.” Her family would be held accountable if she did not present herself at the portal at the assigned time.
