Postcards At Christmas. Cara Colter
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It’s just the design I would need, by mid-February if you can manage it. Then I’ll have it made.”
Lucy grabbed her and spun her around and they laughed together. “Are you kidding? I can do that. And absolutely, yes. I would be totally honored—and do you have ideas about what you want?”
“A thousand of them. I’m counting on you to focus me down.”
Then Noah butted in, wrapping an arm around Lucy. “When you come home for Christmas, you two can get to work on it.”
Noah knew very well that she planned to stay in New York for the holiday. Still, he’d been a sweetheart all night, so she made an effort to answer patiently. “Noah, we’ve been over that. I’m having my first Christmas in my own place, remember?”
He opened his mouth to start telling her all the reasons she really needed to come to California.
But Alice grabbed his arm, pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “I love you. Shut up.”
And miracle of miracles, Noah actually did shut up. And he did it without looking the least pissed off.
* * *
Damien had a car waiting at the curb outside the villa. They rode back to the palace in comfortable silence.
He was having a great time. Being with Lucy really worked for him. She saw beauty in everything and she wasn’t afraid to let her enjoyment show.
He couldn’t help comparing her to V, who’d been just next door to manic during the photo op. All flashing eyes and flying hair, hanging on him for the cameras, she’d hissed in Italian that she was furious at him for not taking her calls. She’d sworn she’d never forgive him. He’d reminded her softly that it was over. She’d given him a melting look for the photographers’ sake while calling him any number of unflattering names under her breath. All he could think of was getting the hell away from her.
As it turned out, Lady Luck had his back on that score. The ad people had said they wanted a few more shots just with V and the car. He’d slipped away. And things had improved dramatically when he found Luce in the north wing of the museum, gazing with stars in her eyes at his mother’s wedding gown.
A few minutes after they left Alice’s villa, they arrived at the palace. A guard let them in.
Dami said, “I’ll walk you up to your room.”
And she took his arm and begged so prettily, “Please. Can’t we just go to your apartment and talk for a little while?”
It wasn’t a good idea. He knew that. True, in the darkest hours of the morning before, he’d been weak, he’d indulged himself and imagined that becoming her lover was inevitable.
But he’d had time to see the light since then. She mattered too much to him. He couldn’t bear to lose her. If he took her to bed, there would be bad feelings when it was time to move on. Someone would be bound to get hurt. Someone always did.
Therefore, he’d circled back around to his original plan. He would show her a memorable weekend, minus the part where they ended up in bed together. She understood that their making love wasn’t a given. She’d said it herself: they would see how it went. He planned to see to it that it went nowhere.
“Dami.” She tugged on his arm. “What are you thinking about?”
He studied her fabulous elfin face. “That you remind me of a princess from a Montedoran fairy tale.”
She colored prettily. “Thank you.” And then she commanded, “Take me to your apartment.”
He opened his mouth to remind her that it had been a long day, but somehow what came out was, “Yes, Your Highness. This way....”
In his rooms, they went straight to the kitchen. She asked for hot chocolate. He made it the way they did in Paris, chopping bars of fine-quality bittersweet chocolate and whisking the bits into the heated milk, stirring in brown sugar and a few grains of sea salt.
She admired the Limoges demitasse and sipped slowly. “Dami. Your hot chocolate is even better than your coffee.”
He poured himself a cup and sat down opposite her.
And she said, “I probably shouldn’t admit this. It will only prove all over again how gauche and immature I am....”
He set down his cup. “You’re not. Admit what?”
She sucked her upper lip between her neat white teeth, then caught herself doing it and let it go. “When you went to pose for those pictures with Vesuvia?”
“Yes?”
“I actually got jealous.”
As a rule, when any woman mentioned jealousy, he tended to get nervous, to feel hemmed in, under pressure. But with Lucy he only felt flattered at her frankness. And a little bit guilty for deserting her. “I shouldn’t have left you....”
“Oh, don’t you dare apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong— Well, except when you kissed me on the forehead. That made me feel about five.”
“It was a kiss of affection.”
“I know. Still. Five.”
“Fair enough, then. No more kisses on the forehead.”
“Cheek, temples, ears, lips... Well, just about anywhere is great. But not smack-dab in the middle of my forehead.”
Kissing her just about anywhere sounded way too appealing, and he probably shouldn’t be thinking about that. “All right. Not on the forehead.” He found he needed to be sure she had it clear about V. “And about V?”
She was midsip. She swallowed fast and set down the cup, big eyes getting bigger. “Yeah?”
“Nothing to be jealous of. I meant it when I told you that Vesuvia and I are over.”
She turned the painted gold-rimmed cup on the delicate saucer. And then she sipped again. “You were, um, exclusive with her for quite a while.”
“Yes.”
“But you have such a rep as a player, as someone who never makes it exclusive with any woman....”
“I was exclusive with V.”
“Why?”
He looked into his cup of chocolate and then back up at her. “You are very nosy.”
She nodded, a sweet bobbing motion of her pretty head. “Yes. I am. I know. But only because I’m your friend and I want to understand you better.”
He believed her. And so he explained, “When I met V, I was looking for the right wife. I wanted someone suited to me. At first V behaved reasonably for the most part. She’s bright and beautiful. I thought we could make it work together. I was attracted to her.”
“You loved her.”
“Love wasn’t really the issue.”
“But when you get married, love is always the issue.”
He gave her his most patient look. “No, Luce. Not always.”
“So then why did you choose her?”
“I found her attractive and intelligent. I thought we had a lot in common. She’s descended from a very old Italian family. We know many of the same people. I never proposed marriage to her, but V understood that I needed to marry and she told me more than once that she wanted to be my wife, to be a princess of Montedoro.”
“You needed to marry? Why?”
He’d assumed she knew. Apparently not. “You haven’t heard of the Prince’s Marriage Law?” She shook her head, so he explained, “The Prince’s Marriage Law decrees that all princes of Montedoro are required to marry by the age of thirty-three or be stripped of all titles and relieved of the large fortune they each inherit by virtue of their birth.”