She snuggled against me and put her arms around my neck. “But you fly all the time.”

  “I don’t sit by the window. Problem solved.” Here, where the pod was made up of so much damn glass, I couldn’t avoid noticing when we were climbing high over the river Thames, and the rest of the city.

  Bloody hell! We were already starting to climb.

  I’d been dreading this event since I’d noticed it was on Nicole’s short list of things to do in London, but I wasn’t about to send her on the attraction alone. If she was going to plummet to her death from one hundred thirty-five meters in the air, I was going with her.

  Not that I could actually do anything about that if it happened, but at least I’d be there with her.

  “How is it that we’re all alone in this big capsule?” she questioned as we climbed.

  It had been a simple matter, really. The other thing I really liked to avoid was large crowds of tourists, and I had been able to do something about that. “Aristocratic privilege?” I joked.

  She sent me a look of pseudo displeasure. “Meaning you paid somebody off so we could go alone?”

  “Something like that,” I grumbled.

  Actually, it had been exactly like that, and I wasn’t about to regret having Nicole alone in the large pod.

  She hopped over to the window. “Oh, my God. This is amazing. I’m starting to see the river.”

  I moved up behind her, and wrapped my arms around her waist. I pointed my finger. “You’ll be able to see Big Ben shortly, and Buckingham Palace.”

  It took a very long thirty minutes to do a complete revolution, so there wasn’t much in the city she couldn’t see. It was a really clear day.

  “If I had one of these close to me, I probably would have ridden it hundreds of times by now,” she said with a sigh as she leaned back against me. “There’s something about being able to see everything from the air that’s totally surreal.”

  “I’m fine seeing it from terra firma,” I replied dryly.

  “It’s the highest Ferris wheel in Europe,” she said with a sigh, her eyes still searching for landmarks.

  “Fun fact: there is no capsule number thirteen. We Brits are a bit superstitious.”

  “What?” she exclaimed with artificial outrage. “That’s my lucky number. I was born on November thirteenth. Are you superstitious?”

  “Not at all. I was born on December thirteenth, so I’ve never considered it an unlucky number, either. If you remember, we met on the thirteenth of June, so I could never associate the number thirteen with anything other than good luck. However, I’d say we’re in the minority since there’s no capsule number thirteen.”

  She laughed. “I don’t care. I don’t mind being unique.”

  She was special all right, and not just because she loved the number thirteen.

  Nicole would be singular even if she didn’t adore what was an unlucky number for many.

  We took some time discovering and pointing out most of the things we’d seen during the week in London.

  “There’s the Tower Bridge,” she called out, so excited that I felt like I needed to keep a tighter grip on her to keep her feet inside the capsule. “God, I feel like we’re at the top of the world.”

  “I think you’re a bit of an adrenaline junkie,” I accused.

  She turned and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Not really. Right now, I think I’m high on life.”

  I searched her face. I had to admit that there was something different about her. She’d always been a bright light in a sometimes-dark world, but she was positively glowing at the moment. “The result of multiple orgasms, maybe?” I asked hopefully.

  Honestly, the woman should be barely able to walk after the number of times I’d inserted myself between her thighs over the last few days.

  She swatted my arm playfully. “A real gentleman would never mention that.”

  “Sweetheart, I never claimed to be a gentleman.”

  She inspired every lurid thought that crossed my mind every minute or two.

  “But you’re a duke, Your Grace,” she replied, her eyes dancing with mirth.

  “I’m a man,” I stressed. “A guy who never stops thinking about you naked and in the thrall of a good orgasm.”

  How in the bloody hell could I forget that?

  Her head thrown back in ecstasy…

  Her eyes closed as her release washed over her…

  The way she screamed my name like a mantra when she was in the middle of said climax…

  The way she looked at me afterward, like I was the only man who could satisfy her.

  I was far from being some kind of savior to her.

  I was still evading the unpleasant task of telling Nicole the truth, and I fucking hated that, even though I’d decided to tell her as soon as possible.

  Which was going to be at my mother’s gala.

  Yeah, I’d considered coming clean earlier because the guilt of not telling Nicole was starting to eat me alive.

  Every time I tried to tell her the truth about Dylan, I hadn’t been able to get the words out of my mouth.

  Truth was, I didn’t want Nicole to stop seeing me as the one man she actually trusted.

  I valued that trust more than I did my own life, so telling her that I’d been a major prick who had been bullshitting her all this time was going to be one of the hardest things I’d ever done.

  Coward! The annoying voice in my head chimed in.

  I answered. I’ll tell her after Mum’s gala. She deserves this time to enjoy her visit to the UK.

  I shook my head as I realized I was arguing with…myself.

  What in the hell was wrong with me?

  “Maybe I’m glad you aren’t a gentleman,” Nicole murmured, and then blushed.

  Jesus! How could the woman still turn pink after all the sexy times we’d spent together? Over the last several days, it had gotten to a point where there wasn’t a room in my house that was still virgin territory. I’d even managed to bend her over in my gym, and shag her until neither one of us needed another workout.

  “Damian? Are you okay? We’re at the top,” Nicole asked softly.

  I took her face between my hands and tried to memorize the soft look of concern and affection she had turned in my direction. It might not last long. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I fell into that glorious blue-eyed gaze of hers that told me how much she cared about me.

  Me.

  Damian Lancaster, the man.

  Not the billionaire Duke of Hollingsworth.

  She put a hand behind my head and pulled me close so she could kiss me. “Maybe you need a distraction,” she whispered against my mouth.

  I didn’t.

  I hadn’t even thought about how high above the ground we were at the moment.

  But I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to become entirely engulfed in this woman’s warmth and tenderness.

  I was honest enough with myself to admit that I was beginning to crave a hell of a lot more than just a shag from Nicole.

  Maybe I always had.

  Now, the very idea that I’d be cured of my obsession by just hopping into bed together once was a complete joke.

  I took what she offered, but I savored it rather than swooping in like a wolf ready to feed.

  I tasted her lips slowly and thoroughly, and tried to tell her how much I treasured her with a simple kiss.

  Her surrender to me was so quick and instinctive that my dick was rock-hard within seconds.

  I fucking loved the way she completely trusted me with her body, like she was certain she’d love every single thing I did to her.

  I let my mouth trail over the silken skin of her neck and shoulders until she was purring with contentment.

  “Damian.” She said my name with a sigh so full of longing that it hit me like a sucker punch.

  I lifted my head and pulled her soft, curvy body flush with mine. “I’d swear I’d fuck you right here if we weren’t being watched by CCTV from all sides.”

  “Bummer,” she answered, sounding disappointed. “But at least we aren’t at the top anymore. Feeling better?”

  “I hadn’t even noticed,” I said honestly. “I was way too distracted.”

  She laughed softly as she turned to admire the view going down. “I think this is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever done. Thank you for suffering through it with me.”

  “I wasn’t exactly suffering, love.” My arms tightened around her waist again.

  If Nicole wanted to ride the London Eye over and over again, I’d be there right beside her without a single complaint just to see the jubilant look on her face.

  It didn’t take a lot to make Nicole happy, which was a rarity in my world.

  A good meal.

  A ride on a ridiculously high Ferris wheel.

  My brother Leo offering to take her around his new sanctuary in the US.

  A London theater production.

  Seeing Buckingham Palace from the inside out.

  Simple things that any woman in my social sphere would take for granted, or not be interested in doing in the first place.

  Oddly, Nicole made me appreciate those things, too, when I was seeing them through her eyes.

  “Almost down,” she said with a contented sigh. “Thank you, Damian. The fact that you were willing to go with me and share this with me means a lot to me. Today has been really special.”

  There it was again, that murmur of appreciation for something so damn…small.

  As we hopped out of the capsule, and I took her hand, Nicole gave me a kiss on the cheek in gratitude.

  That was the moment I came to the realization that I thought it was a pretty special day, too.

  CHAPTER 28

  Nicole

  I WAS STILL WIPING tears from my eyes as Damian and I exited Her Majesty’s Theatre later that evening. After the intermission, he’d given me the fine linen handkerchief from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, and muttered, “You might need it.”

  I’d scoffed at the time, but I was grateful to have it now.

  He held my hand and walked slightly in front of me as he navigated through the crush of people, and tugged me into a room with only a few people occupying it.

  Looking around, I saw a small bar, and assumed it was some kind of waiting room for VIPs.

  “We’ll wait a few minutes until the crowd clears,” he said. “Please stop crying.”

  He strode over and snatched two glasses of champagne from the bar, and then handed me one when he came back. “You okay?”

  Damian sounded so disconcerted that I smiled. He obviously had no idea what to do with a woman in tears. “Of course,” I assured him. “The show was just…so sad. It broke my heart.” I tested out the champagne. It wasn’t too dry to consume, so I took a bigger sip.

  His eyebrows drew together as he said, “See, I’ve never understood how anybody could consider the ending as a bad outcome. Personally, I think the poor girl had to choose between the lesser of two evils. Raoul ignores her distress, doesn’t believe her when she tries to tell him about the Phantom, and pats her on the head like she’s an idiot. But even worse, the Phantom is a homicidal stalker. So I suppose Raoul was a better choice. She really should have dumped them both and tried again. But she chose Raoul in the end, the guy who was condescending, but not a homicidal stalker, and the Phantom disappears. The heroine and hero get what they want. The end.”

  I rolled my eyes. He really didn’t get it, but his hilarious summary did make me want to laugh. “Because I think there’s a part of Christine that cares about the Phantom, and all of the pain he’d suffered.”

  His eyes widened. “The bastard was a murderer. And should we mention the fact that he manipulated her by pretending he was her father at first? Or the fact that he kidnapped her and forced her into his lair? More than once.”

  I shrugged. “He did all those things because he was so obsessed with Christine.”

  “Really? Does it matter why he offed people?”

  “Yes,” I answered, hiding my smile behind my champagne glass as I took another sip. “Couldn’t you feel his pain, his sorrow, his longing to be a different man for Christine? He followed her everywhere.”

  He frowned. “Yeah. Just like a demented stalker who wanted to rape and murder the poor woman.”

  I laughed. “He didn’t want to kill her. He wanted to be with her. Okay, so he was basically a crazed, tormented anti-hero, but I still felt sorry for him. I guess the silver lining is that at least Christine and Raoul lived happily ever after.”

  “If you want to keep thinking that, then I highly suggest you don’t see the sequel,” he said dryly. “Horrible music, and a very bad plot.”

  “I know there was a movie version, but I’ve never seen it. Was it really that bad?” I asked curiously.

  He lifted a brow. “Would you like a brief summary?”

  I nodded. I was enjoying his cynical reviews. “Yes.”

  He took a deep breath. “In short, ten years later, Christine’s husband, Raoul, becomes a broke, abusive drunk. Christine once again runs into the Phantom, and we find out that her ten-year-old son is really the Phantom’s love child. After she suffers through more torment and pain, she finally chooses the Phantom, and then gets shot by Meg. Her son runs away while she lies there dying because he doesn’t want a homicidal stalker for a father. Christine declares her undying love for the Phantom—although God only knows how she found anything lovable about the creepy bastard—and she dies. The End. Seriously, the whole thing was another ridiculous tragedy without the incredible music to save it. Like most sequels, it never should have been written, in my opinion.”

  I burst out laughing. “Oh, my God. Now I have to see it. I’m completely intrigued.”

  “You’re twisted,” he accused jokingly.

  “Maybe.” I opened the small clutch I was carrying and dropped his handkerchief inside it. “Or maybe I’m just a sucker for really tragic love stories.”

  Damian tossed the last of his champagne back with a gulp. “I think it’s a female thing,” he observed as he put the empty glass down on a nearby table. “Hopefully, you enjoyed yourself—in between sobs.”

  I found his wry teasing so amusing that I grinned at him. “I did. Thank you. It’s been an incredible evening.”

  My eyes roamed lovingly over the sight of Damian in a tux. He’d asked me what I was wearing, and had opted to go formal after I’d explained that I had an adorable black cocktail dress that I hadn’t found the opportunity to wear yet.

  Not that we’d needed to dress up quite so much for the theater. The attire had been anything from smart casual to dressy on the attendees tonight. But Damian had taken me to the most exclusive restaurant in the city prior to our arrival at Her Majesty’s Theatre, so I wasn’t about to don a pair of jeans or a sundress for that.

  Now, I was grateful that I’d gotten the opportunity to see Damian Lancaster in formal wear before his mother’s gala. I still couldn’t say that he didn’t take my breath away every time I looked at him, but at least I’d been able to gawk at him without a ballroom full of eyes watching the two of us.

  There were very few men who could put on a tuxedo and wear it like they were entirely comfortable in the dressy attire.

  Damian was one of those men.

  The garments were obviously custom fitted, and Damian appeared to be at ease with what he was wearing. Not once had he fussed with his bow tie, or tried to adjust the cummerbund. The suit fit the man, not the other way around.

  “Have I told you how gorgeous you look tonight?” he inquired as he leaned toward me.

  I shot him an exasperated look that I didn’t mean. He had told me. At least a dozen times since we’d left his house. But my skin still heated because he flustered me every single time he said it.

  I’d put a lot of work into my appearance tonight. Along with the just-above-the-knee black cocktail dress I was wearing, I’d done a complete makeup job, and pulled back the hair at the side of my face so that all of my curly locks elegantly fell down my back.

  My skin wasn’t dark enough to go without a pair of stockings, so I’d picked a black pair, ones so sheer that I’d been worried about snagging them the entire night.

  Best thing ever? I was wearing a pair of three-inch stiletto heels without worrying about being taller than my date.

  Damian still towered a couple of inches above my height, even with me in an outrageous pair of high heels.

  No slouching to try to look shorter necessary.

  At all.

  Somewhere along this UK journey, I’d lost all of my self-consciousness about my body type. Damian had done that for me. I’d learn to embrace myself and my body, because hey, not every person in the world found the same body type attractive.

  “You told me,” I finally responded. “I think that compliment makes it a baker’s dozen now.”

  He smirked. “Thirteen is one of our favorite numbers. And you do look…stunning.”

  “You look pretty damn handsome yourself, Your Grace,” I said impishly.

  He looked every inch the debonair billionaire duke he actually was, and more.

  Now that we were in his territory, his wealth and power were much more in-your-face obvious, but it wasn’t the money or his title that really bowled me over sometimes.

  It was Damian’s aura, the confidence he wore like an invisible cloak, that drew me to him.

  Yet, I also knew that some of that was façade, which made him even more fascinating.

  There was so much more to Damian Lancaster that most people would never see. He played the part of the billionaire duke so damn well that nobody looked for any vulnerability.

  Most likely, they didn’t dare.

  “Are you ready to get out of here and go home?” Damian asked.

  Home? Am I ready to go home?

  Strangely, I was almost comfortable staying in Damian’s gigantic wonder palace of a house in Mayfair.

  Probably because we’ve had sex in nearly every room in the place.

  No, that wasn’t the reason. Not exactly. I was starting to love his home because it was the location where I saw him smile the most, sensed his happiness. We’d laughed a lot during the last several days in that residence, so it felt warm every time we entered, instead of being the ultra-contemporary showplace I’d seen it as in the very beginning.