Free Storm Ravaged (Storm Damages 2) (Storm Legacy) by Magda Alexander

rest my head against his shoulder and nod off.
    Half asleep, I sense the car turning right, but I'm too tired to open my eyes. I'm safe and warm inside the limo with the man I love who’s holding tight to me. Worse things in life, right?
    Ten minutes later, the traffic changes from stop and go to a smooth descent. The light grows dim and finally vanishes. We're moving into an underground garage.
    When the car stops, Gabriel helps me out of the limo. "We won’t be long.” He tells Samuel.
    "Right, Mr. Storm."
    The parking structure contains about fifty cars, give or take. The ones I recognize are all luxury brands — Audis, Benz, Lincolns. Some makes I don't recognize, but they look expensive. We climb into an elevator. Gabriel inserts a plastic card into a slot and pushes the top floor. The building contains only fourteen floors. No surprise. Most structures in D.C. don't rise higher than the United States Capitol. A brief ride later, the door swooshes open and we step out.
    We're in an apartment, a huge one, going by the size of the living room. The place is bare of any furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows surround the space on three sides and boast a stunning view of the Cathedral of the Nativity and farther off the spires of Georgetown University. "Where are we?"
    "The Cathedral Arms.”
    Impressive. The co-op built in the 1940s just north of Georgetown provides an exclusive address for congressmen, members of the diplomatic corps and the Washington elite. Rumor has it a two-bedroom apartment goes for over five million dollars. God only knows how much this place is worth.
    "Why are we here?”
    "I bought it. Signed the papers two days ago. For you. For me. For us."
    For a second, my brain freezes, and I don't know what to say. He's got the right to purchase whatever he wants for himself. But not for me. "I have a place.”
    “Yes, you do. But it’s too vulnerable, too easy to break into.”
    “I’ve never had a burglary.”
    “It’s not the garden variety thief I’m worried about, Liz.” A shadow crosses over his face before he takes my hand and leads me around the space. “The main floor has an open living room, dining room and kitchen, plus a powder room. The ceilings are 16-feet-high. A glass-walled elevator in the back of the living room leads to the second floor, which contains four bedrooms, three en suite baths, and another full bath.”
    “Yes, I can see.” Some of it anyway. The place is stunning.
    “And one more thing. Come.” He places his hand in the middle of the back and walks me around the living room. “Let me show you why I bought this place.”
    On the other side of the wall, another elevator resides. A smaller one, similar to the one in his London penthouse. My breathing goes staccato.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I don’t like small spaces.” Did he forget my fear?
    He cups my cheek. “It’s only two floors, love.”
    His caress melts me, like it always does. I take a deep breath. I can do this. Holding tight to his hand, I say. “Fine.”
    We climb aboard and seconds later, the door opens to reveal a wide space.
    “Look.” He points to the far side of the wall where the back of a huge timepiece resides. “It’s a clock tower, fourteen feet high. Works too.” On cue the gears grind and the small hand moves.
    “This is”—my hands flutter—“amazing.” While the clock presides over the center of one wall, the others contain the same floor-to-ceiling windows and offer the same breathtaking view as the main floor below. But this floor does not feature an outside balcony.
    “This is our suite. It consists of a sitting room, our bedroom, an en suite bathroom, and another room I will use as my office while in town. It even contains a modest kitchen that connects by dumb waiter with the main one down below. The suite can only be reached by elevator, which you can lock from here. “Do you like it? Could you live here?” His eyes telegraph a desperate hope.
    I allow my gaze to