I am at his side, our legs touching, because I do not think that it is possible for me to be so close to Damien and not touch him. I shift a bit though, so that I am facing him more directly, and we touch and talk and eat, with Damien feeding both himself and me.
As we finish the cheese and move on to cubes of steak and pork in a fragrant port sauce, he tells me about the progress on Stark Plaza, a Century City office and retail complex that Stark Real Estate Development is working on. I fill him in on my progress with several apps I have in development, and with the details about a tech conference I’m hoping to attend in the summer.
The talk of trips reminds him that he may need to travel to New York soon to meet with the new production manager at one of his subsidiaries, and he promises that if I take the time to go with him, he’ll take me to at least one Broadway play.
I let him know in no uncertain terms that I will travel anywhere with him, play or no, and then give him the general rundown on my to-do list, most of which can be done on the road with a laptop.
It’s comfortable. It’s normal.
Hell, it’s even married—and I love this cozy familiarity and affection.
But none of it is bringing me any closer to figuring out what the next clue is, though I am absolutely certain that it is hidden here somewhere. All I have to do is figure out where.
My frustration has spiked by the time the waiter clears the table of the main course, and I decide that it’s time to get more aggressive in my search. I slide down and look under the table, then hear Damien’s amused, “Now, that has all sorts of interesting possibilities.”
“I’m checking for a hidden package,” I confess as I scan the area for envelopes taped to the bottom of the table.
“I’m not saying a word,” Damien says, and as I ease back out from under the table, I see the way his mouth twitches with amusement.
I roll my eyes, realizing my unintended double entendre, then cup my hand over his crotch. “Well, this package isn’t hidden at all,” I say, and am rewarded by the sensation of his cock hardening beneath the press of my hand.
My body warms with familiar longing, and when I see the corresponding heat in Damien’s eyes, I think that perhaps this booth should be put to better use than eating and chatting. I’m about to follow up on that thought and switch the booth’s light from green to red, when there is a tap at the door and it slides open.
“Can I offer you dessert?” Monica asks.
I look at Damien. Right then, he’s the only dessert I want. “No, thanks,” I say, even as Damien says, “Yes, definitely.”
I narrow my eyes, then look between him and Monica, realizing as I do that Monica is not our server. For that matter, she’s not a server at all.
“Yes,” I amend. “I think I’d enjoy dessert.”
“I’m so happy to hear it.”
She hands us each a dessert menu, then slips away. I open mine, unsurprised to see that the usual text has been replaced with a single piece of parchment on which the third clue is set out in fancy script:
Paul Simon, Beyoncé, the Beatles, too.
They’d all see it when looking at you.
Fire and ice, brilliance and flame,
I’ll dress you up to solve the game.
I read it twice, then shift in my seat to gape at him. “Are you kidding me?”
His expression is entirely too innocent. “Problem?”
I wave the menu. “I don’t have a clue what this means.”
“Well, that’s a shame.” He takes a sip of his wine. “I was looking forward to you finding your present.”
I scowl, but study the words again. Singers, but what did they have in common? And it says they would see it. But see what?
I have no idea, and so I move on. Fire and ice. Brilliance. Flame.
All of that seems very familiar, and I’m regretting my choice to have wine with dinner, because apparently I need a clear head to figure this out.
I’ll dress you up.
What do you do when you dress up? Fancy clothes, fancy shoes. I close my eyes and imagine I’m in our monstrosity of a dressing room. Makeup. Hair.
Jewelry.
I smile because now, the singers make sense, too. Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.” Beyoncé and “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” And, of course, “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” courtesy of the Beatles.
Ha! Nailed it.
I turn to him, certain that victory is written all over my face.
“Yes?”
I hold out my hand. “I need your car keys and your phone.”
At that, he looks baffled, but he complies.
“What about the clue?” he asks.
“Oh, I solved that.” I’m certain of it. But I’m not willing to tell Damien just yet. Because I’m enjoying this game too much. So much, in fact, that it’s inspired a little Valentine’s Day game of my own.
I scroll through his contacts until I find Edward. I could have used my own phone, but I’m going for dramatic flair here.
“Mr. Stark,” Edward says, answering on the first ring.
“It’s Nikki,” I correct. “But it’s Mr. Stark who needs you. He’s at Le Caquelon, and needs a ride home as soon as you can get here.”
“Of course, Mrs. Stark. I’m on my way.”
I thank him, then hang up and give Damien back his phone.
“I need a ride home?”
“You do.” I dangle his keys. “I’ll meet you there.”
His eyes narrow. “What exactly do you think you’ve figured out?”
“The clue,” I say. I’m absolutely positive that whatever my present is, it’s in our closet in one of the velvet-lined drawers that Damien had custom made for all the jewelry he buys me. Specifically, the drawer on the top left where I keep the diamond jewelry.
“And we’re going home separately because …?”
But at that, I only smile, then kiss him lightly even as I slide my hand down between his legs, stroking his now-stiff cock. “I’ll see you at home, Mr. Stark.”
And then I’m gone, leaving behind one very baffled husband.
Chapter 7
We drove into town in the Jeep Grand Cherokee, and though it is the easiest car for me to drive, I wish we’d brought the Bugatti. Right now, I want speed, because I’m racing to get home before Edward gets on the road with Damien.
I’d called Edward again as I waited for the valet to bring the Jeep around, and he promised to text me the moment that Damien is in the limo. He doesn’t know what I have planned, of course, but I think it amuses him to be in on my conspiracy, whatever it may be.