Page 31 of A Taste like Sin
encourage you to take her advice.”
God, I can only imagine how I look to have warranted the raw concern in his voice. How I must
smell.
Surprisingly, Damien himself may give me an idea. Haggard. Even his blindfold can’t disguise the full
extent of his exhaustion. Shadows paint the hollows and contours of his jawline, making his age more
apparent than ever. Stray strands have escaped from his usually slick ponytail. Unfairly, the lack of
polish only adds to his intrigue. A passing nurse can’t seem to take her eyes off him. At least until she
glances at me and then shakes her head in pity.
“Come.” His arm slips around my shoulders—a surprisingly intimate gesture. I stiffen until I realize
why he’s chosen this method: He can guide me without his cane. “Julio, if you please.”
“Sí.” His guard appears as if conjured from the shadows. “This way, sir.”
Damien herds me along after him, presumably tracking the sound of his footsteps. Far too soon, he’s
easing me into the back of his car, claiming the seat beside me.
“I need to make sure the nurses have my direct number,” I say, toying with the idea of returning to the
building. “What if—”
“You need to care for yourself,” he insists. As if to demonstrate, he leans over me, finds my seat belt
through feel, and fastens it over me. “You can return later. I will see to it. Julio,vamanos, if you
please.”
Given the sparse amount of vehicles surrounding us, we must be in a private section of the hospital’s
parking garage. As the car exits the structure, reality makes its presence painfully known. Hordes of
reporters from various news outlets are camped on the outskirts of the property. Like vultures, they
stand at the ready, waiting for a carcass to pounce on.
“They’re here for me, aren’t they?” I blurt.
“I’ve increased your security measures,” Damien says without answering the question. “What
happened the other day will not happen again.”
“I…I need to go home.” The hitch in my voice must betray exactly what I mean—home—because he
nods and utters something in Spanish to Julio.
Minutes later, the car pulls up not in front of the Lariat, but my father’s beautiful mansion in the hills.
The reporters have made their way out here as well, clamoring near the front gate. Julio fearlessly
navigates the spectators to the security checkpoint. One look at me and we’re allowed through.
