To Catch a Star by Romy Sommer

wintry feel he so loved about Europe. And he could see stars. That was the one thing missing in LA – the kind of stars you had to look up to see.
    The night sky was the only thing he remembered fondly about Los Pajaros – that vast, empty sky with the entire Milky Way on display. How many times had he looked up at that sky and wished for another life? He’d got it, too.
    He hadn’t been home to the Caribbean since he’d left as an angry kid. Had it changed as much as he had? In four short weeks he would find out.
    He turned away from the window and headed to the bathroom, resisting the urge to dive back into the warmth and comfort of the vast hotel bed.
    Once he’d showered, he dressed in jeans and a rumpled sweatshirt, stuck a beanie on his head, grabbed his coat, and headed downstairs.
    He was early.
    Teresa was earlier still.
    She sat at one of the tables in the elegant dining room, sipping tea from a porcelain cup. There were no other hotel guests in sight.
    And on the table before her stood the double espresso he’d instructed her to have ready and waiting. He should have been pleased. But instead, the unusually good mood he’d woken with evaporated at the sight of her.
    She looked as immaculate and poised as ever, her hair neatly pinned back and her make-up flawless. This morning she wore a grey, calf-length skirt, heeled boots, a turtleneck sweater that didn’t need a label to have
designer
written all over it, with a cashmere scarf artfully knotted around her throat.
    One elegant eyebrow arched as she took in the crumpled sweatshirt and beanie.
    She made him feel rough and uncouth, as if he was still just some island boy carrying suitcases and fetching drinks for the rich out-of-towners. A girl like her wouldn’t have given him the time of day then.
    These days he didn’t give girls like her the time of day.
    Why the hell had he said “yes” to hiring her? He should have insisted on the kind of woman he preferred – confident, sassy. The kind of woman who wasn’t afraid to show a little skin or live on the wild side. At least then he might have had a little fun alongside his espresso.
    The repressed virginal types just brought out his dark side. He wanted to muss up her hair and wipe the satisfaction off her face. He wanted to see her hungry for something she couldn’t have.
    Which wasn’t a good way to start the day.
    He slid into the seat across the table from her and tasted the espresso. Exactly the way he liked it.
    “Good morning,” she said brightly. “I have your new shirt.” She patted the wrapped parcel on the table beside her. The stores would have been closed by the time she left the hotel yesterday. How in all that was holy had she managed to go shopping between then and now?
    And not just any shirt.
    He looked closer at the brown-paper package wrapped in black ribbon with the name of the designer on the attached card. Anton Martens, one of Westerwald’s most famous exports, designer to the rich and famous.
    Christian flipped the card over. There was even a personal message from Anton himself hand written on the back.
    No assistant he’d ever had would have been able to pull that off overnight.
    Tessa sipped her tea. “I’ve spoken to Robbie, the Second Assistant Director. He says they’re ahead of schedule this morning and would like you to join them as soon as possible. Your driver will be out front in ten minutes.”
    “You’d make a good boot-camp drill sergeant,” he grumbled.
    Teresa arched an elegant eyebrow. “Your thanks are overwhelming. Are you always this pleasant in the mornings?”
    “No, I’m usually grumpier.”
    “I’ll remember that.” She sipped her tea and silence fell.
    He downed his first espresso and Teresa waved for the waiter to bring another. With caffeine in his bloodstream, he felt a little less like a barbarian. Not that the urge to throw her over his shoulder and carry her up to his room abated any.
    The waiter also delivered a platter of