by Frost, Sosie
Couldn’t even call to chastise her only son.
Life is more than cars and women, businesses and power, Cameron. And I pray one day you realize it. Until then, no more gifts, no more money. Take care of yourself first, son.
You need the help far more than I.
I pitched her letter into the garbage.
Maybe Mackenza had the right idea by escaping overseas.
I couldn’t understand my mother. Nothing was wrong with wanting the best and demanding perfection from everything.
Planes. Yachts. Clothing.
Women.
I’d also stocked my plane with the prettiest flight attendants money could buy. The one serving me this trip was a leggy blonde. Beautiful woman. Big tits. Narrow waist. Flared hips.
Everything I’d once admired in a woman.
She cuddled in the seat next to mine in a professionally chic outfit which lacked the sophistication of even the plainest of Mackenza’s dresses. The top button of her blouse had popped somewhere over the Atlantic, revealing the hint of lingerie boosting her artificial tits.
The lace would’ve looked better on Mackenza.
Everything looked better on Mackenza.
Denim jeans. Pajama pants. Even a scowl.
She still believed she hated me.
And, after a spontaneous eight-hour flight, I wished I’d hated her too.
Instead, my head pounded with too little caffeine, too much alcohol, and absolutely no sleep. And, like a damned plague, the realization tormented me.
No matter what I did…
No matter where I went…
No matter how quickly I followed…
None of it made a goddamned difference to Mackenza.
Her pride was worth more than her own fucking heart. She’d deny herself everything to ensure I got nothing.
I couldn’t help but admire that persistence.
And loathe it.
The flight attendant took a quick call before winking at me with mascara-caked lashes.
“Mr. Mitchell…I contacted the Four Seasons like you requested. They’ve upgraded your room. You’ll be staying in the penthouse, and a car is waiting for you at the airport.”
The blonde was as perky as she was diligent, but I wasn’t sure if she wanted my wallet or my cock. Probably both.
And, if had it been any other time, I would’ve indulged in guiltless, meaningless pleasure.
But something had changed.
Something irritating. Something that grated against my skin like a brush burn doused in rubbing alcohol.
I wanted only one woman in my bed. Unfortunately, though the penthouse was twelve hundred square feet of absolute luxury, my ass would be stuck on the couch.
The blonde pressed her luck and her tits against my arm. She was made of so much plastic nothing even jiggled as the plane rumbled against the runway.
“Will you be sharing the penthouse with anyone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Will it be…good company?”
“Anyone would be better company.” I closed my laptop. “But, for whatever fucking reason, she’s the one I want.”
I downed the remaining whiskey and handed her the empty glass as the jet came to a halt. I immediately rose from the leather seat and shouldered my only bag.
The limo waited for me on the tarmac. One of the perks of being unrepentantly wealthy. Didn’t need to wait for anything. A ride. A woman. A business deal.
But, no matter the money, traffic foiled every man. At least the chaotic streets of Milan gave me time to think. Christ only knew what I could say to Mackenza which wouldn’t end with us fighting.
Then again, most fights ended with us in bed. It was an aggravating way to get what I wanted, but effective.
The tinted windows offered a marvelous view of the city. I stared straight ahead.
Miserable.
Frustrated.
Worried.
I usually enjoyed a trek around a new city. Wasn’t often a rural kid from the backward end of West Virginia had the opportunity to wine and dine in a place this sophisticated. Milan was especially interesting. The blend of old and new, neoclassical and modern, worked well. I could respect a city that reinvented itself and yet still remembered where everything began. Ancient churches and spires, statues and sculptures competed with the state-of-the-art, glass-covered skyscrapers. Milan was full of contradictions and mystery.
Even the mountains impressed me. I’d skied the Alps but quickly realized traveling down wasn’t nearly as challenging as climbing up.
Then again, after a full year’s worth of training for Everest, I’d summitted the peak, glanced around, and realized whatever the fuck I’d searched for wasn’t found at the top of the damned mountain.
Nor was it at the bottom of the ocean or in the defense industry.
Not in sailing competitions or chess master tournaments or skydiving.
I’d perfected the French omelet, tried free-diving in Belize, and created one of the most powerful and influential charities for malaria research.
And just when I feared I had nothing left to buy, nowhere left to travel, and nothing interesting left for me to experience…I’d gone into the fashion industry.
There I’d met the only woman in the world capable of irritating me with such efficacy that I’d cancelled my meetings, boarded my jet, and chased her across the world to start a damned fight.
And, despite being thoroughly within my right to terminate her employment and remove her from my life…
Fuck me, I was too goddamned worried about her to let her go.
I’d yelled at her. Insulted her. Humiliated her.
And I’d meant every infuriating word too.
I should’ve left the brat in Milan.
Instead, I couldn’t stop thinking about how perfectly content she rested in my arms at night. How in the dark and quiet, with her heat pressed against mine and her soft breath chasing away the perpetual loneliness, I’d never felt so connected to anyone in my life.
I had no idea why I needed her, but I’d learned long ago to follow my instincts.
Even if this one would end in utter ruin.
The limo delivered me to the Four Seasons, and the concierge eagerly retrieved my bag and led me to the private entrance and elevator.
I’d learned something valuable about being rich.
Money meant isolation. The more coin, the less time I needed to spend in public. Private elevators. Private concierges. Private rooms. No one ever needed to know I’d even been to the hotel, if I so chose.
“Your partner was…perplexed by the sudden room upgrade.” The concierge was an older gentleman, the sort of man who understood the appropriate way to discuss the appearance of a young lady in a man’s room. “She is awaiting you in the penthouse suite.”
And yet I doubted Mackenza would understand why I’d given her the best hotel room in the city.
More likely, she’d use the extra square footage to dig more trenches for our upcoming battle.
I refastened my tie in the reflection of the elevator’s golden doors. No sense looking a mess for my own execution. The doors opened directly within the penthouse, and I dismissed the concierge with a request for their finest food and champagne to be delivered in an hour. At least my last meal would be Michelin star.
The elevators opened into a marbled entryway which led me into an intimate sitting room filled with white leather furniture, ornate cherry wood shelving units, and a beautiful Oriental rug which cost more than most of the other rooms in the hotel.
The office, an industrious and modern creation of black lines and open space, was empty. As was the master bedroom with its sixteen-foot ceilings, king size bed, and personal Jacuzzi in the en suite bathroom.
The other bedrooms remained shuttered in darkness, unused and untouched. Mackenza had stuffed her bag onto a reclining chair in the sitting room, but her path through the penthouse hadn’t led her to the full-sized kitchen or wine refriger
ator. Didn’t surprise me. She might’ve been a brat, but she was professional. No sense drinking while she worked.
Though the penthouse was beautiful, immaculate, and the very pinnacle of luxury, it was still only as wide as a double-trailer, despite the multiple rooms and staircases leading downstairs to the cherry wood bar.
It had a claustrophobic feel. A tight, artificial indulgence.
And that’s why I knew where Mackenza had hidden.
The penthouse’s greatest attribute was the rooftop terrace overlooking Milan. The French doors led outside to a lovely dinette area, open to the night sky which was still as vibrant and awake as the city below.
The heavy lights prevented any stars from peeking over the haze, but it only added to the night’s charm. The frenzied excitement of Milan danced flares of light to chase away shadows. The streets dazzled with cars and people, flashing lights and the neon glow of a sleepless city.
But the terrace carved a silent niche for itself. Ivy spiraled along an iron fence, creating an accent wall of quiet greenery. White LEDs sparkled between pristinely manicured topiaries in the shape of bubbles and crisp geometric forms. Modern Milan rose from the darkness on the left—the looming glass monstrosities and sleek business empires. But, to the right, old Milan rested. Domes peeked over tiled roofs. Gentle light bathed old churches in haloes. The mountains embraced the horizon.
And Mackenza welcomed it all, sitting dead center on the terrace, sprawled in a reclining chaise lounger with a blanket over her legs and a glass of sparkling water in her hand. She lazily flipped through material books filled with swatches, bolts of cloth, and ordering sheets.
How the hell did this woman get more beautiful the more she frustrated me?
The brat belonged in Milan—just as sophisticated and exquisite as every inch of the city.
She refused to look up as I dropped my bags onto the concrete.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
One glance nearly brought me to my knees. Her dark, sultry eyes peeked over the binder, chastising me with a wiggle of her eyebrow.
“I’m picking out material,” she murmured. “Like you requested.”
“Here?”
“I had to go to the source,” she said. “As this was my one and only responsibility, I needed to ensure that my decision would meet my boss’s exacting standards.”
So, this was what she wanted to do in the middle of the most romantic city on the damned planet?
Fight?
Fine.
I grabbed a hunk of silk from the table behind her, stretched it between my hands, and shrugged.
“This one.” I pitched it to the ground. “Strap some elastic around the edge and tie it into a garter belt. We’re done. You’re coming home. Now.”
Mackenza leisurely sipped from her glass. “Do you even know what silk is?”
“No. And I don’t care.”
If my answer disappointed her, she didn’t show it. “Well. That’s the difference between you and me, Cameron.”
“We have a hell of a lot more differences than that.”
“For instance?”
“For starters—I know how to behave.”
And it fell on deaf ears. “Did you know the world has over fifty varieties of silk alone?”
I hadn’t expected my patience to be tested this quickly off an eight-hour plane ride.
“Did you know there are over fifty ways I can stuff you onto my jet and send you back to Ironfield where you belong?” I asked.
Her voice cooled. “Wild silk comes from silkworms which consumed oak leaves. Mulberry silk, of course, is derived from silkworms fed a diet of exclusively mulberry leaves. Most silk produced today is of the mulberry variety, but the two are very different products.”
“You didn’t travel all the way to Milan to lecture me about bugs.”
“Oh, not all silk comes from worms.” She stood and paced the terrace, glancing over concrete walls to the horns honking below. “Certain spiders can create an absolutely divine material. And muscles from the ocean are capable of creating the product as well.”
Great.
Something to consider while I admired the beautiful models on the runway traipsing around in lingerie crafted from bug, arachnid, and crustacean vomit.
“Why are you in Milan, Kenza?”
She delighted in denying me any answer. “Silk isn’t a fabric. It’s a category. It is used to create fabrics. And, in order to pick the right material—say, lingerie—one should understand how the garment is meant to be used, how heavy it should lay, and what transparency is required.”
I sunk into a chair at the table with a grunt. “What the hell does this have to do with me?”
“For most fashion applications, the silk you require is actually called a charmeuse. It’s a lightweight fabric with a satin weave. It has a smooth finish on top, a dull side beneath, and is soft to the touch. However, because the material is often too delicate, synthetic fibers are added for additional strength. For instance—spandex will grant the garment a flexibility which allows for modest stretching.”
I drummed my fingers against the table as she eroded the last vestige of my patience.
“I asked you to do one simple task, Kenza,” I said. “And you refused.”
She ignored me.
If only I possessed such a talent.
“As a lingerie designer, you would likely choose a chiffon silk for the garment. It’s a looser fabric, flowy. It would have made an excellent robe to cover more of your scandalous pieces.”
Enough of this. “Get your bag. We’re going home. Now.”
She refused, sinking into her chaise once more with a contented glance over the skyline. “Certain silks make for fancier gowns—such as a wedding dress. Others are used for lining garments. And some are made into dresses for the express purpose of preventing wrinkles. Of course, if you want a silk veil or a fancier undergarment, you’re looking for silk organza.”
“Is that the silk that blew up the Death Star?”
“No, no.” She wagged a finger. “That would be silk Leia Organa.”
“And unless you’re willing to recreate her golden bikini, I don’t give a fuck about silks.”
She dismissed me with a smirk. “I realize that. I’ve known it ever since you stepped foot inside Maxwell Intimates. You don’t care about silks or designs or fashion. You have no idea what is trending this season or how to create innovative, beautiful new styles.”
I snorted. “So?”
“I’m wondering why a man like you with no passion for this art would even consider owning a clothing company?”
“Would you believe me if I said the money was good?”
“No.” Mackenza nearly laughed. “Because there is no money.”
I pointed toward the swatches. “And that’s why you should be picking a damned fabric. And yet, you refuse to do even that.”
“Why do you need me to do this? Have one of the design team select it.”
Now she understood.
Pity it’d taken her this long.
“That’s it, princess. I don’t need you. I make the decisions. All of them. And if I ask you to do something, I expect you to do it—not flutter away to Milan and waste everyone’s time while you pout and sulk.”
The material book clattered to the ground.
The first shot in what promised to be a very long and bloody battle.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asked. “Sulking?”
“Seems like it.”
“Then let me clarify this for you…” Mackenza’s voice hollowed. “I realized that I couldn’t stay a minute longer in the same office as you. Or the same building. Or the same street, city, state, country, or continent. And I thought maybe putting an entire ocean between us would let me think a little more clearly about things which have complicated everything.”
“What’s so complicated about following my orders?”
Mackenza snickered. “
Oh, everything is more complicated now, Cameron. And I needed to put some space between us so that I could figure out what I’m supposed to do. But you couldn’t even grant me that. You can’t stand that someone might dare to defy you. How long did you wait to hop on your jet after you found out that I’d left? An hour? A half hour?”
It’d been fifteen minutes.
Just enough time to cancel my meetings and order my car.
“I wanted to prevent you from making a terrible decision,” I said.
“Too late for that.” She sighed. “And even worse for you. Because now I know there’s no place in this world for me to go that you wouldn’t follow.”
“Most women would find that flattering.”
“I’m not most women.”
What the hell did she want from me?
“Do you hate me that much?” I asked.
Her voice softened. “I wish I could hate you more.”
“Perfect.” I hadn’t expected her words to hurt, and yet there I was. Dagger in my side and me leaning down to help her slice it in deeper. “Then let me make it easy for you. You’re in downtown Milan—the fashion capital of the world. You have my blessing. Go out there. Find someone new to annoy.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you firing me?”
I only needed to strike a match. “Think of how easy it’ll be to find a new job. The big bad Cameron Mitchell, firing Reginald Maxwell’s only daughter. I’m sure a dozen designers would be eager to swoop in and rescue the damsel in distress. I’ll even help—tell them you pissed me off with your archaic knowledge of worm vomit, and I couldn’t concentrate on my own work. Maybe they’ll get off on talking fabric and swatches with you.”
I expected her to fight me.
Instead, tears welled in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled, and her first wavering words nearly sunk me to my knees.
“I can’t believe you’d be so heartless.”
My head threatened to bleed out my damned ears.
Holy Christ. I had no idea how to deal with this woman.
“Damn it, Kenza, what do you want me to say?” I snapped. “Tell me what you want me to do. I’m trying to help your family earn money they desperately need while keeping this company in one piece. But you only have two choices. Either you can trust my judgment, or you can find a new company and become your own designer. Get your name on some clothing that young women wear or design something for the red carpets. Make something worthy of Milan.”
