The Most Special Chosen Page 9

  “Aww, sweet pea,” he cajoles, “I know I fucked up, but I figured you’d have cooled down by now and we could make up for lost time.” He winks as he takes a step forward, forcing the door further open.

  “Fucked up? Fucked up?!” I screech. “You asked me to come over when you were having sex with another girl! Why would I ever want anything to do with you after that?”

  Shawn, having heard the commotion, comes out of the room. “Lys, what’s going on? Are you two fighting?” I grind my teeth at the joy in his voice. Coming up behind me, he can see Zane. “Oh, it’s you. You need to leave. Come on, Lys. This piece of shit isn’t worth your time.”

  Zane grimaces. “Don’t tell me you’re dating this nerd. Lizzy, baby, you can do soooo much better.” I clench my fists at that hated nickname, trying to control my annoyance. Shawn puts his hand on my shoulder to remind me to stay calm. I let Zane win if I get emotional.

  “And I suppose that someone better is supposed to be you?” growls Shawn.

  “Of course, where are you gonna find someone better than the Z-man?” I roll my eyes. He sounds ridiculous. I can almost hear him say ‘giggity’.

  My heart soars as Damien’s Veyron comes around the corner. “How about right there.” I jerk my chin in the car’s direction.

  Zane snorts. “Yeah, sure. They must be . . . lost . . . ” He trails off as Damien pulls into the driveway.

  “You might want to get lost. He won’t exactly be happy to see you.”

  Zane squares his shoulders. “Whoever he is, I can take him. Just ‘cause he’s a rich bastard doesn’t mean he can fight.”

  I shrug, trying not to smile. “Your funeral.” Zane gulps as Damien steps out of the car, towering over it.

  He’s wearing his more conservative clothes, and this time I realize that he looks even more intimidating and dangerous in them. Like he’s just barely containing an inner beast. His walk is slow, measured, and powerful, the walk of someone who can handle himself. He’s glorious, and in any other situation, I’d be a molten puddle of desire.

  “Wh . . . Who’s that?” Zane stutters, his false bravado failing him.

  “That’s Damien Delanciennes.”

  Damien’s kind enough to eliminate my need to explain who he is by walking right up to me and kissing me deeply.

  “Hello, Elysabeth.”

  “Hello, Damien.” I throw a snide smirk to Zane.

  Damien turns to say hello to Shawn, and, as though he has only just noticed Zane, asks, “And who is this, Chérie?”

  I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, he’s some idiot that thinks it’s okay to sleep with other people when he’s dating someone. Old news, really. I have no clue why he’s here.”

  “Allow me to escort him to his car for you, then,” he says sweetly, turning a menacing smile to Zane.

  I offer him a wide smile. “Thanks, Damien. You’re so kind.”

  Damien turns to face Zane fully, and I know he’s glaring down at him. “I think it is time for you to leave.”

  Zane lifts his chin and swings his arms, pumping himself up. “Hey, I’m not hurting anyone. I can be wherever I want to be.”

  Damien’s voice shifts to an ugly growl. “Perhaps you do not understand. Your leaving is not an option. Your only choice is how quickly.” Zane turns tail and flees, leaving the stench of burned rubber in the air.

  Damien turns back to me with a smile on his face. “He will not bother you anymore.”

  “Thank you, Damien.”

  “You are quite welcome, Chérie.”

  As I turn to go inside, Shawn is still standing in the doorway, but he isn’t wearing his trademark ‘Damien Scowl’.

  “You know, maybe you aren’t such a bad guy after all,” Shawn says as he turns to go inside. “I’m still keeping an eye on you, though,” he throws over his shoulder.

  I grin at Shawn as we follow him in, knowing that his concession is at least a step in the right direction. “I could use some hot chocolate after that.” Maybe if I get the two of them to talk for a bit, Shawn will ease up on Damien. “Anyone else up for some?”

  “Lys,” Shawn answers with a smile. “You know I have to finish my projects, but I’m sure Damien will join you.”

  “I would love to, Chérie,” Damien answers enthusiastically. He walks past me, and I notice the expensive cut of his clothes, his leather loafers, and his Rolex. Is he trying to impress my parents with his money?

  We spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon talking and relaxing. It’s great to spend some down time with him. At 4:30, I suggest we get going, and direct him to my parents’ house.

  ***

  When we arrive, I pause on the doorstep, slightly nervous, before turning the key in the lock and opening the door.

  “Mom! Dad! We’re here!”

  “In the living room, Lys,” my mom calls back.

  “It’s time to meet the parents.” Damien smiles and walks in behind me, closing the door behind him, then follows me to the living room. The familiar overstuffed brown sofas, dark gold carpet, and stone fireplace welcome me home as much as my parents who both stand when we enter. I can see my dad giving Damien the once over from where he’d risen from his wingback armchair, probably trying to find something to dislike.

  My mom has dressed up a bit for company. She’s wearing a flattering, pale pink, forties-inspired dress, which she smooths after standing. There’s a science magazine on the table next to her, and know she’d been reading it only moments before. Her dark hair is held back in a loose ponytail, and the makeup she has on complements her olive skin and hazel eyes.

  My dad, who would barely dress up for a wedding, is wearing his typical weekend wear: khakis, a polo shirt (green today), and sneakers. He keeps his dark blonde hair cut almost military short, but despite his hard exterior, his blue eyes shine with poorly concealed delight. His signature weekend drink, tequila and ginger ale, is sitting on the table next to his chair.

  “Damien, I’d like to you meet my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Vance. Mom, Dad, this is Damien Delanciennes.” Damien and my dad shake hands, but when my mom offers her hand, he bows and kisses it. He doesn’t seem to notice the confused glance she gives me.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you both. If I may say so, you have an enchanting daughter, and I can see now her beauty is genetic.” He smiles that gorgeous smile of his and my mom laughs.

  “Thank you, Damien,” she says. “You’re too kind.”

  “Not at all, Ma’am, I speak as I find.” He turns to my dad. “You must be very protective of two such beautiful women.” My dad nods, but doesn’t smile. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  “Won’t you sit down, Damien?” asks my mother, ever the good host. “Would you like something to drink?” she asks kindly. “Dinner won’t be for a half hour or so. I don’t know if Lys told you, but I’m making fajitas with apple crisp for dessert.”

  Damien turns to look at me with a smile. “Yes, she did mention it. And some water would be delightful, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Vance,” he says as he sits.

  “Not at all. Lys, George, do either of you want something?” My dad shakes his head, lifting his nearly full glass and shaking it slightly to show he’s okay.

  “Mom,” I say, waving her back to her seat, “you sit, I’ll get the drinks. I know you’ve been working hard to get dinner ready.”

  “Thank you, Mija.” She smiles gratefully. “I’ll have a soda.” As I walk to the kitchen, my dad starts grilling Damien. I strain my ears to listen.

  “So, Damien, Lys tells us you met at school. What are you studying?” I’m glad he doesn’t sound overly stern.

  “Yes, Sir. I am majoring in International Diplomacy and International Business.”

  “What kind of career are you planning?” my dad asks, sounding curious.

  “I will be following in my father’s footsteps as an ambassador of sorts.”

  “Which languages did you choose to study, Damien?” my mom asks.

 
; “The options are somewhat limited. Only Spanish, French, and German are offered. As I already speak French and German, I chose Spanish.”

  “You’re fluent in French and German?” my mom asks, sounding surprised.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Goodness. Multilingual and so young.” She sounds approving. “Do you know any other languages?”

  “Indeed, I do, Ma’am. My father instilled in me early on the importance of languages. I also speak Italian and Russian fluently and am working on perfecting my Japanese. However, I am still a far cry from my father. He can speak twelve languages fluently.” I can hear the respect in his voice. Somehow, despite what he’s saying, he doesn’t sound like he’s bragging.

  “You certainly have a great advantage for your career path.” My dad responds, sounding pleased. Before he can say anything else, I return with the drinks. Oddly, Damien stands as I enter. I’m visited by a powerful image of Mr. Darcy standing as Elizabeth enters the room. But that’s absurd; this isn’t 1810.

  I hand my mom her soda, and give Damien his cup of water. “I took the apple crisp out of the oven, Mom. It was done. I also added the tomatoes to the fajitas, it was time. Do you want me to warm up the tortillas?”

  “No, Mija. You sit. I’ll take care of it,” she says, standing.

  “You sure, Mom?”

  “Of course, Lys.” I sigh as she hurries off to the kitchen, no doubt to make sure I’m right about the doneness of the food. She still doesn’t trust me in the kitchen, no matter how often I’m right.

  Before I can even say anything, my mom calls me back to the kitchen.

  “Coming, Mom!” I excuse myself, listening carefully to hear what they’re saying.

  “So, Damien, what made you choose your career path?”

  “I do not get to choose, Sir. I will take my father’s place when the time comes.”

  “Taking up the family business, huh?” my dad sounds pleased. “Well, he’ll be proud of you for being responsible. What exactly did you say he does?”

  “Oh, I am terribly sorry, Sir, I did not really say. He is an ambassador of sorts between old, powerful families on this continent and those in Europe and Asia. He helps establish connections between them. As I am sure you can imagine, it will take a while for me to learn all the skills necessary. However, after I graduate I am to be his apprentice and assistant until he feels I am ready to take over. “ Damien sounds like he’s regurgitating a memorized description. There’s no excitement or interest in his voice.

  “It sounds interesting, but you don’t seem all that enthusiastic about it,” says my dad, sounding perplexed.

  “Well, no, not really, Sir. I will do my duty as eldest son and succeed my father,” says Damien earnestly, “but I have seen how disheartened my mother gets during their frequent separations. I wish to get married someday, and I would not want my wife to suffer the loneliness my mother does,” he finishes sadly.

  “You’ve obviously given this quite a bit of thought. But you said eldest son,” my dad says speculatively. “Perhaps one of your younger brothers could—”

  Damien cuts my dad off. “No, Sir,” he says sharply. “My father expects me to follow in his footsteps, as he followed his father, and I would never dream of disappointing him. I shall simply have to keep trying to devise a solution that will be acceptable to all.”

  “You have good morals, Damien,” my dad says sounding surprised. “I’ll give you that. It’s a damn shame there aren’t more young men like you today.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” My mom nudges me to tell them dinner is ready. I know she’s been waiting for them to reach a natural pause in their discussion. I hurry out to them before they can start talking about something else.

  “Dad, Damien, dinner is ready,” I say as I enter the living room.

  “Thanks, Lys.” I let my dad pass me then walk alongside Damien. He takes my hand and smiles down at me.

  “Your parents are nice.”

  “They have their moments.” We chuckle as I lead him into the dining room. We walk in at the same time my mom comes in juggling the fajitas and the tortillas. Before I’ve even thought to help her, Damien is at her side, taking the fajita plate out of her hands.

  “Allow me. Where would you like this?” Damien closes his eyes and inhales deeply, then smiles. “It smells absolutely delicious, and I had better set it down before I am tempted to eat it all.”

  My mom laughs at his comment. “Thank you, Damien. That’s kind of you. Place it on that center trivet, please.” He does then walks back around the table to me. Without knowing it, Damien has passed my mom’s test. Most guys couldn’t tell you what a trivet is if their life depended on it.

  He pulls my chair out for me, then pushes it back in as I sit down. “Thanks.”

  Damien helps my mom with her chair as well, then takes the final seat for himself. I catch the approving look my dad casts his way.

  “What manners,” my mom says, eyes wide. “Thank you, Damien. I’m going to guess you didn’t grow up in southern California.” She passes him the tortillas. He offers me one first, then takes one for himself.

  “Sir?” My dad smiles at the offer.

  “Yes, thank you.” Damien passes the plate over to my dad, then turns to my mom.

  “To answer your question, Ma’am, no, I did not grow up around here. My younger years were spent in Europe.”

  “Oh, really? It must have been quite a change for you to move here.” She offers the plate of meat and vegetables to Damien. “Guests, first.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am, but you had best offer it to the others first. I was not joking about being tempted to take it all for myself. And yes, it was a rather large change.” He smiles at the surprised look on my mom’s face.

  “If you insist. Lys?”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I pile a decent amount on my tortilla, then offer it to my dad. Finally, it’s passed back to Damien. He takes what’s left on the plate, which perfectly fills his tortilla, then looks down at it a little mournfully.

  “Don’t worry, Damien, there’s plenty more. Mom leaves it in the pan to stay warm.”

  He grins at me thankfully. “Of course, that makes perfect sense.”

  “Just make sure you save room for dessert. Mom’s apple crisp is even better than her fajitas.” After taking a bite, Damien looks up at me in wonder.

  “I sincerely doubt that is possible. This is exquisite. My compliments, Ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Damien.” We eat the rest of the meal in relative silence, making our way through three plates each. When everyone is finished I stand and start to collect the dishes.

  Damien stands as well, and moves to take the pile of plates. “Allow me, Elysabeth.”

  “Thanks, but I can manage.”

  He leaves the stack of plates in place and offers me a warm smile. “Then allow me to help. It is the least I can do.” I don’t miss my mom’s approving grin.

  “Okay, you can grab the cups and the fajita plate.” He collects what I’d indicated and follows me into the kitchen. The moment he sets the dishes down in the sink, his arms circle my waist, pulling me to him.

  “My parents like you,” I tell him with a grin

  “That is comforting.” He drops a kiss on my head before letting me go. I move to start rinsing the dishes to put them in the dishwasher, but Damien takes the plate from my hand.

  “I will rinse and you can arrange the dishes as you like.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I give him a kiss on the cheek as I take the first dish from him. When we finish, I give the kitchen a quick scrub then lead him back into the living room.

  “Dishes done, Lys?” my mom asks as she sets aside her magazine.

  “Yes, Mom. And the table is cleaned up, although I left the leftover fajitas sitting out on the counter in a container since they were still too hot to put away.”

  “Okay, thank you, Mija.” She looks past me with a smile. “And thank you, Damien.”

  “Not at
all, Ma’am.”

  We’ve barely sat down when my mom starts her information gathering. “So, Damien, where did you live in Europe?”

  “Most often we were in France with my father’s family or Italy with my mother’s, although we lived in Germany for a short time after my second brother was born.”

  I decide to take advantage of Damien’s sudden willingness to talk about his family. “How many siblings do you have?”

  He turns back to me. “Five, Chérie. I am the eldest with three younger brothers and two younger sisters.”

  I often wished I’d had siblings, but my parents weren’t able to have more children. “It must be great to always have someone to talk to or hang out with,” I say wistfully.

  He smiles. “Yes, it is nice.” We sit and chat for a while, and I notice that Damien masterfully steers the conversation away from himself to my parents. After a while, we’re talking about nothing in particular.

  Finally, my dad speaks up, unable to wait any longer. “It’s been a while; I think I’m ready for some dessert. Is anyone going to join me?”

  “I will, Dad,” I answer eagerly. My mom’s apple crisp is fantastic. “You know I never say no to apple crisp. How about you, Damien?”

  “I do not believe I have had such a dessert before,” he answers a bit hesitantly, “but I will try anything once.”

  I smile before getting up to help my mom serve. I pop my head back into the living room for a final question. “Dad, with or without ice cream?”

  “With, Lys, of course.”

  “And you, Damien?”

  “I will have ice cream, please.”

  My mom and I dish up dessert then bring it out. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you, Elysabeth.” Damien takes the plate from me, then stares at it in confusion. Apple crisp isn’t exactly a pretty dessert. His good manners win out over his obvious reluctance, and he takes a tentative bite. Like everyone else who’s tried it for the first time, after his first taste, he finishes the rest with gusto.

  “Elysabeth,” he says, wiping his mouth as he finishes. “I believe you were right. I do not know how it is possible, but this dessert is even more delicious than dinner was.” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “I thank you, Ma’am, for such a wonderful meal.”