Chapter Nine
I stand on the third-floor balcony looking out at the calm Pacific. It is a beautiful evening, perfect for an outdoor wedding.
It is almost sunset. Just about time for the ceremony to begin.
Damien is beside me, his arm around my waist. The expanse of his property, lush green fading to pale sand, spreads out before us.
Usually, the beach is empty this time of day. Right now, however, it is dotted with white tents and glowing lanterns. Guests mingle, indistinguishable from this distance, and I hear the soft strains of Frank Sinatra drifting up to us. Beyond the line of tents, the paparazzi are camped out, ready to pounce.
I can't help but smile at the thought that we're pulling something over on those vultures.
Beyond them, the Pacific glows a warm purple tinged with orange from the swiftly setting sun.
Soon, I think. Soon I will be Mrs. Damien Stark.
"You're sure this is what you want?" Damien asks as the air fills with the thrum of his helicopter. It swoops down in front of us to settle gently on the helipad.
I take one more look at the panorama spread out before me. "I'm sure," I say, raising my voice to be heard over the rotors.
Below us, Gregory and Tony are loading suitcases into the bird.
I rise up on my toes and kiss Damien, hard and fast and deep. I pull away, breathless, and smile at the irony--it took a shove from my mother to drive home something I should have realized all along.
I press my palm to Damien's chest, wanting to feel the beat of his heart beneath my hand. "It's not the walk down the aisle that matters--it's the man waiting for me when I get there. You said it yourself, it's the only wedding I'll ever have, and this is the way I want it." No stress, no drama, no paparazzi. No polite chitchat, no worries about music or food or flowers or unexpected relatives showing up out of the blue. Just Damien and those two little words--I do.
"And all the work you've put into the reception?" he asks, even though we talked about this last night--about how I'd been working so hard for perfection that I lost sight of what Damien already knew--that so long as we end up as man and wife, "perfect" is a given.
Still, I indulge him by answering again. I understand he needs to be certain that I am sure I want to do this.
"The party's important, too," I say. "And they'll have a great one." I nod toward the beach. "Trust me. Jamie has it under control. If anyone knows how to make sure a crowd has a good time at a party, it's my best friend." I smile more broadly. "I asked Ryan to help her. They'll party through the night, and anyone who has a mind to can watch us get married in the morning. And Evelyn promised to spin the crap out of it for the press."
Damien's smile is as wide as my own. "I love you, Ms. Fairchild," he says.
"You won't be able to say that much longer. Soon it'll be Mrs. Stark."
He takes my hand and tugs me toward the stairs. "Then let's go," he says. "The sooner, the better."
We hurry hand in hand down the stairs, then sprint for the helicopter, heads down, laughing. Damien helps me aboard, and once we're strapped in, he signals the pilot and the bird takes off.
So, with the guests waving goodbye from the beach and the paparazzi snapping wildly, we elope into the sunset, leaving our wedding guests to eat our food, drink our champagne, and dance into the night.
Damien and I stand on a beach beside a foaming sea that is shifting away from the gray of night into a cacophony of colors with the rising sun. That was something else I'd realized: I couldn't get married at sunset. I had to have a sunrise wedding.
I am wearing my wedding dress and the necklace that Damien gave me, and when I saw the look in Damien's eyes as I walked the short distance down the aisle to him, I knew that whatever trouble it took to rescue the dress was worth it. I feel like a princess. Hell, I feel like a bride. And in Damien's eyes, I feel beautiful.
I am not wearing shoes, and I curl my toes into the sand, feeling wild and decadent and free. There is no stress, there are no worries. There is simply this wedding and the man beside me, and that is all that I need.
In front of us, a Mexican official is performing the ceremony in broken, heavily accented English. I am pretty sure I have never heard anything more beautiful.
"Do you take this man?" he asks, and I say the words that have been in my heart from the moment I first met Damien. "I do."
"I do," says Damien in turn. He is facing me as he speaks, and I can see the depth of emotion in his dual-colored eyes. Mine, he mouths, and I nod. It is true. I am his, and always will be.
And Damien Stark is mine.
A few feet away, a small boy who has been paid some pesos is holding Damien's phone, streaming video of our wedding back to Malibu, where Jamie is projecting the ceremony onto one of the tent walls, just in case any of the guests are still sober and awake after a long night of partying.
Here on our beach, the official pronounces us man and wife. The words crash over me, heavy with meaning, filling my soul. "That day," I whisper, my heart full to bursting. "That day when you asked me to pose for you--I never expected it to end like this."
"But it hasn't ended, Mrs. Stark. This is just the beginning." His voice sounds full to bursting, and his words are absolutely perfect.
I nod, because he is right, and because I am so overwhelmed by the moment I can manage nothing else.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he says, then captures my mouth with his. The kiss is long and deep, and all around us the locals clap and cheer.
I cling to Damien, never wanting to let go, as the sun continues to rise around us, casting us in the glow of morning.
Perfect, I think. Because the sun will never set between Damien and me. Not today, not ever.
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.
J. Kenner, Heated
(Series: Most Wanted # 2)
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