For a moment, he looks confused, then he grins. “You’ve been reading my corporate magazine.”

“Maybe,” I admit, because there were a few copies on the plane. “But it would still have been a good guess. Because, honestly, where don’t you own property?”

“Greenland. At the moment, I’m completely without holdings in Greenland.”

“Ha-ha.” I turn to examine the suite some more, taking in the plush furniture, the wide-open spaces, even the grand piano that I have absolutely no idea how to play. “I’ll admit this place is exceptional, but why not stay at one of your own?”

“Because this is our time,” he says. “No one knows us personally. No one will knock on the door if there is a crisis. It’s not possible to be entirely anonymous with you,” he adds, taking my hand and tugging me toward him, “but I’d like to at least try to be invisible.”

I lean back against him, then close my eyes as his hands tighten around my waist. We stand like that for a moment, swaying slightly, the top of my head tucked under Damien’s chin.

“Are you tired?” he asks.

“Mmm. That depends on why you’re asking.”

His low chuckle rumbles through me. “That’s definitely one reason to stay awake. But I confess that I was thinking of something a bit more public.”

I turn in his arms. “What about being invisible?”

“I’m sure we can blend,” he says. “Maybe I’ll even buy you a hat to go with your dress.”

“Un chapeau,” I correct, “and I’d like that.” The dress I chose on the plane is a vintage style shirt-dress, with buttons running the entire length and a belted waist that creates a very full skirt. I’m feeling rather Audrey Hepburn, and a hat would be just the thing.

“You’re the one who’ll be recognized,” I point out. “I’ve only become a celebrity by default.” Damien, however, has been in the spotlight since he was a kid, and he played enough tennis and did enough commercials in Europe that I doubt I’m exaggerating the chances of him being noticed. Especially when you factor in how widespread the coverage of his recent trial was.

“I have a disguise.” He grins as he says it, then crosses to the leather backpack that doubles as a briefcase when he travels.

I watch, amused, as he pulls out a white cap with a French flag imprinted on the front.

I laugh and shake my head. He’s still Damien, no question about it, and I think he looks damn hot. But on the whole it’s not a bad disguise. He rarely wears caps, and if he adds some sunglasses—and if we both carry daypacks—we’ll look like any two tourists out exploring the city.

“So do I look like just an ordinary guy?”

“You’ll never be ordinary,” I say. “But close enough.”

The hotel is located near dozens of high-end shops, but it’s only just past eight in the morning, so nothing much is open yet. Damien promises me a day of shopping later, and I am fine with that. I may be hesitant to use my husband’s money to fund my business, but I am not so proud as to turn down designer clothes.

Right now, though, we stay primarily on the side streets, enjoying the local ambiance. We are holding hands, and though I feel as though we are wandering aimlessly, Damien assures me that he knows where we are going.

“So what is on our agenda?” I ask. “It’s Paris, after all. There are about a million things I want to do.”

“What’s on your list?” he asks, as an amazing yeasty scent draws us off the street toward a tiny café with charming outdoor seating.

I start to rattle off everything I can think of, from the Louvre to the catacombs to the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. “And Versailles,” I add as we take a seat at one of the tables. “And Montmartre. And the Left Bank and the Metro and—oh, hell, I don’t know. How does everything sound?”

His smile is indulgent. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

When the waitress arrives he orders two café crèmes and two pains au chocolat. I’m impressed, but not surprised, when he orders in what I assume is perfect French. Stark International, I think, and grin. Why wouldn’t he speak French?

“I’m not quite fluent,” he admits as we sip our coffee and watch the people on the charming avenue. “But I can get by.”

After we’ve finished our pastry and coffee, we meander down small streets and alleyways until we cross a wider, busier avenue, then follow a half-hidden path into a lovely garden.

“It’s like an oasis,” I say. I had grabbed my camera on the way out of the hotel, and now I make Damien stop as I take a few shots. It is as if we have wandered into a fairy tale, and I want to capture the magical aura on film.

“This is one of my favorite shortcuts,” Damien says, as he leads me down a tree-lined path. “And for exactly that reason. It’s an escape. A respite from the crowds and the noise.”

“So where are we?”

“It’s called the Jardin de la Nouvelle France. I think it was set up in anticipation of the 1900 World’s Fair, but don’t quote me on that. I come for the way it looks, not the history.”

As interesting as the history might be, I have to agree, and as we follow the path—taking a few side trips just for the sake of adventure—I can’t deny the joy I feel simply being in this cool, green space. I keep my camera out, delighting in the play of light and shadow, and taking so many pictures that I will undoubtedly have to buy new memory cards before this trip is over.

We wander farther in and find a lovely little bridge, not to mention an actual waterfall.

“Here,” Damien says, taking my hand at one point when I’m certain that we’ve managed to get horribly turned around. “I’ll show you my favorite place to sit.” He leads me to a small pond shaded by a weeping beech. There is a small stone bench, and we sit for a moment, his arm around my waist and my head upon his shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“For what?” he asks.

“You said you were giving me the world. Thank you for giving me these hidden treasures, too.”

When we finally stand to continue on our way, I’m surprised to realize that it’s after ten thirty.

“Slow and easy,” Damien says when I comment on the time. “Just like a honeymoon should be.”

I take his hand and squeeze. Because, really, I can’t argue with that.