Wind

Damon leaned against the rail and stared down into the black water below, his blond hair tousled by the wind. He turned sixteen three days ago but if he thought this boat ride was for him, he was sorely mistaken. The only acknowledgement there was of his birthday was his parents handing him eight-hundred dollars and receiving a cake from the chef that Damon never touched. He was sixteen, almost the prime age to step into his family legacy, and he still didn't exist.

The reason he was on his family yacht, in fact, was for something much more selfish. Jocelin Baird was vying for a seat at Sovereigns; Damon decided Jocelin was no longer happy with Tollen's mediocre aristocrats and demanded something more cultivated, so he was hosting a soiree to get the Baird name further outside the city. Anyone in the law knew of the Bairds, but it just wasn't enough for Jocelin. He wouldn't be happy until he wasn't just passing judgment, but bills and laws that would ultimately ruin, or steal, someone's life. In Damon's opinion, the House of Sovereigns was full of blowhards. The perfect place for his father.

A presence stood by his side and Damon turned to find a young girl, not much older than himself. She was a face he knew from social events—High Commissioner Forrest's daughter—but he couldn't place her name. She was blond, petite, and had an air of daintiness about her like all high society women should; she was almost the perfect specimen, someone his parents might choose for him, but obviously not their first choice. He was already technically engaged to a girl he met only once.

"You looked a little lonely over here," said the girl. Green eyes, Forrest's daughter—what's her name? She held two champagne flutes and offered one to him.

He wanted to reject it, but this wasn't just any party. This was a get-together of not only Tollen's elite, but Jacinto and Ephyra; these weren't little league names he was interacting with. Damon had a real chance to ruin his father's name—but not yet. He would bide his time for the perfect scandal. For now, he could play politics. He had actually become quite adept at it.

Damon stood straight and accepted the crystal, working up a charming smile but just falling short. It felt more like a pained grimace and he cursed himself for not practicing earlier.

The girl stepped closer, strands of her thick hair escaping from the tight knot on her head. "Your father has such a wonderful yacht. I've really enjoyed myself tonight, and my Papa is more than happy to mingle with your family. He says your father has been a big influence in his career."

Jocelin probably paid Forrest's way to the top. "High Commissioner Forrest, right?" Damon asked with feigned interest.

She smiled and held out her free hand. "I'm impressed. Not everyone in these circles seems to remember my Papa. I'm Stella, by the way."

Damon accepted her hand, kissing her knuckles lightly before releasing her. "Damon, but you probably already knew that. Nice to meet you, Stella." See, I can be civil. Elinor would choke on her wine if she caught me making small talk.

"I may know a little bit about you, but maybe I'd like to know a little more." She smiled coyly and his instincts began to dissect the motion without him understanding why. It was simple self-preservation; even a blond little angel like her could be a dangerous spy.

"Did a little late night reading about me, huh?" he asked, matching her tone. "And what did you learn?"

"Not much, surprisingly. I've seen you in so many places and yet you don't seem to exist. Why is that? Are your parents"—she lowered her voice, leaning close for him to hear her over the wind and lazy waves below—"ashamed of you?"

That was the polite way of asking if he was a bastard child.

Damon laughed. He was surprised by her forwardness, but it was a welcome change of pace from the usual company he was forced to interact with at these parties.

She blushed and took a sip of her champagne before adding, "That was so rude of me—I'm sorry. It's just the—"

"No, don't apologize." He shook his head, his smile becoming forced now. "My parents are proud of my accomplishments in school but as for my political career … my old man gives me lessons, but he doesn't think I'm ready to step up. You probably know how that is." Truthfully, Jocelin had been trying to convince Damon to go to law school but he was already applying for colleges dedicated for engineering, ignoring his father's demands completely.

Stella smiled, encouraged. "No, not really. Papa says if I marry the right man, I won't have to work for anything in life. It sounds nice, but I think I would rather try a real career. Trophy wife just doesn't sound like me."

"And, if I may be so bold, what does sound like you?"

She tapped her finger against her bottom lip. "Well," she said thoughtfully, "I suppose a teaching position would be more suited for me. Imagine opening young minds to a whole world of information—knowledge they could barely imagine, yet you could help them understand. It's really something to see kids learn a new skill."

"Really?" Of course a wanna-be humanitarian would find me. "Do you volunteer somewhere?"

"Yes," she giggled, as if the information was scandalous. "But no one knows—Papa would have a conniption if he found out. I just don't want to be worthless like my mother; she's as pleased as an old, fat house cat to hang onto Papa's arm and do nothing. Not me. Oh, but now I'm rambling. I wanted to know more about you, not bore you with my own details."

Damon smiled politely, and this time he felt he had mastered the look without straining. He was tremendously bored with this girl already, but she seemed genuine enough, and it was better for his image if he was seen mingling instead of sulking by himself.

He spent an hour on the deck of the yacht trading information and making excuses for his parents. Oh yes, they're great; we have family outings all the time. Just last week I drove my father's convertible down to the coast where the three of us had a small picnic. He had a million lies stashed away, always at the ready during these soirees. He was the only son of the great Jocelin Baird; he had to be on his best behavior and sing his father's praises. It didn't bother him this time because he saw the affect it had on Stella; well, and the many glasses of wine he grabbed for her from the passing waitstaff.

It was after her fifth glass of wine—and his sixth—when she laid her hand on his arm and leaned heavily against him. "Hey, is there any way we can get some privacy around here? There are too many bodies out here now."

Sometime during the hour, most of the group had moved from the sheltered part of the deck to the outside, probably to clear their head of cigar smoke and alcohol. Damon took Stella's hand and led her inside, carefully guiding her down two flights of stairs. She giggled as she stumbled; he caught her, complaining how clumsy she was.

He expected the pool room to be empty by this time, and when he led her inside, the room was quiet and still. He thought it was redundant for a boat to have a pool, but no one swam in the ocean; it was unsanitary. Stella didn't seem to care. She slipped out of her sparkly heels, hiked up her gown, and sat on the edge of the pool, her legs in the water. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"That's more like it. I thought my toes would fall off if I had to wear these things one more minute!" she said, throwing the shoes aside.
Damon stood beside her and rolled his eyes. "Your toes wouldn't fall off unless you contract necrotizing fasciitis. And if you do have it, kindly get your feet out of my pool water."

She laughed, loud and obnoxious. "Are you always such a buzz kill when you're drunk?"

"I'm not drunk," he argued. "I'm barely intoxicated." He was feeling the effects of the six glasses he'd drained like a parched man, desperate for a way to make this girl seem more interesting, but he could hold his alcohol. It just had a funny way of shortening his temper.

She tugged his pant leg. "Sit with me, Damon. It's nice closer to the water."

The smell of the chemicals was starting to make him feel sick, but he did as she asked.

He took off his shoes, socks, and even his suit jacket. He rolled up his pant legs before adding his feet to the cold water.

"It's really peaceful down here," she sighed. "I'm surprised we're the only ones who thought of it."

"Why?"

"Damon, please! This is almost twice as large as my own indoor pool, and who wouldn't want to swim in a pool on a yacht off the coast? It's kind of romantic—and scandalous. Anyone could have thought of skinny dipping."

"Seriously?" he asked. The idea made him extremely uncomfortable yet his mind focused on one word. Scandal.

Stella cast him a challenging grin. "It's exhilarating, right? There's a party going on right above our heads; someone could catch us at any time."

He laughed, and it sounded forced and ugly to his ears. "You say it as if we're doing it right now. A proper young lady like yourself wouldn't dream of skinny dipping at a soiree."

"Wouldn't I?" she cooed. "Come on. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

It was the alcohol talking. Suddenly Damon was presented with a scenario any sixteen year old could only dream of. He was a man, and he was only human, but could he really take advantage of her?

Whoa, who said anything about advantages? Get a grip, moron, he thought. He was smarter than this—oh, but the gossip it would inspire if the public knew Jocelin Baird's son was caught with an ambassador's daughter.

He spent too long thinking it over. Stella gasped and stood, pulling him up beside her. Begrudgingly, he stood.

"Don't tell me you've never been skinny dipping!" she balked. When he shook his head, her slender fingers immediately began loosening his tie. "You just strip down and jump in. It's nothing to be afraid of."

She threw his tie to the floor and moved to the buttons of his shirt. Internally, Damon warred with himself. It was the perfect opportunity—an anonymous leak, maybe some grainy pictures from the security camera—but she was a nice girl. Not to mention she was kind of drunk—okay, they were both kind of drunk. He was assured he was too much of a gentleman to try anything. Her proximity and wandering hands were more than enough to make him uncomfortable; he couldn't imagine her naked. But what if she came on to him? For god's sake, she was undressing him!

Stella opened his shirt, hands sliding down his chest, and he sucked in a breath as his stomach knotted.

She grinned. "You're kind of touchy, aren't you?"

His hands started to shake. He couldn't go through with this, but he couldn't see a way out now. Her fingers had found the button of his pants.

He summoned his usual bravado; his voice almost hoarse from the shock of this new contact. "You just have something about you, Stella. Maybe you cast a spell on me." Damn it, that doesn't sound like a guy trying to escape.

She giggled, although she didn't sound convinced. "You're a strange one, Damon Baird, but you're undeniably cute."

When he stepped onto the yacht early in the evening, he wasn't expecting anyone to approach him. What he got was an enigma of a socialite, a whirlwind of emotions from just one girl.

And front page news the next day.