“This place must be very bright in the day,” Adelaide said. “Probably blinding.”
Quentin smiled. The architects for some of these houses often chose style over function, built to showcase the owners taste and wealth. White really wasn’t the best colour in such a sunny environment.
A waiter passed with champagne on a silver tray and Quentin grabbed a couple of glasses.
“So no more Sumneroff?” he said. She’d told him she’d lost her job.
“Nope,” Adelaide said. “Maybe it was time to move on anyway.”
“Well, if you need anything, let me know.”
Colour flared up her cheeks. “I’m alright. Staying with the girls. Actually nice to be on land for a while.”
Her hair was done up, giving her an edgy look and a drop of champagne glistened on her lips, giving him a strong urge to kiss her. It had to be said, he was really into this girl, although he didn’t quite know why. She was just cool. Maybe it was her tentative steps into this relationship, where he had to chase her more than push her away, which was his normal reaction to a girl prising her way into his life.
“Quentin,” said Roger Delling, one of his father acquaintances, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good to see you. And who is this gorgeous creature?”
Adelaide blushed at the complement, perhaps unused to the abundant compliments these guys regularly laid out there.
“This is Adelaide,” he said.
“Please to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.
“A Kiwi if I’m not mistaken,” Delling said brightly.
“Guilty.”
“I spent time there some five years back. Good skiing. Well, you are far from home.” Delling’s eyes perused her while trying to seem not to.
“We do tend to get restless feet.”
“No wonder, all down there on your lonesome.”
Quentin could see Roger’s mind cranking over, the dirty bastard, but Quentin knew someone like Roger had absolutely no chance with Adelaide. She didn’t put up with stuff like that—men pursuing a bit on the side. Adelaide was as straight as a ruler and she would never bend. Perhaps that is what he liked about her. She had values that had nothing to do with coffers—a rare commodity around here.
“Your father here tonight?” Delling said, finally turning his attention back to Quentin.
“I’m actually not sure. He did say a few days back that he was coming, but I haven’t heard since.”
“I’ll probably stumble onto him if he’s here.” Roger’s eyes were a little glassy, having likely consumed more than his share, or partaken prior to coming. Arabel was waving after him, his emaciated wife, her thin legs and knobbly knees holding up what looked like vintage Valentino. “Ah, the wife,” he said regretfully. “Can’t manage a conversation on her own.”
Roger meandered back to his wife and Adelaide stared after him, a look of surprise on her face at the man’s blatant slight. “Okay,” she said with exaggeration, acknowledging the awkwardness Roger left behind.
Quentin felt like he had to explain, but couldn’t really say anything to make the statement less garish. It felt a little like he was judged in the company of these people, like he was responsible for them. They were his social circle and he had brought her here to meet them—which wasn’t why he brought her. “And this is why I need someone sane here tonight. They tell you people get wiser as they grow older, but really, they just get stuck in their ways, even as the world changes around them. Some of these guys still think it’s the eighties. Come, there are some people I want you to meet.” And not the pointless arseholes like Roger Delling.
They walked through the crowd, through the drone of chatter and laughter. It seemed like everyone was in good humour, but Quentin knew a lot of it was for show. This was where status was measured and decided. The women judged each other’s jewellery, clothes and cosmetic surgery. The guys played a more subtle game. Long gone were the drinking competitions Quentin remembered from not so long ago, when coolness was measured in taking and holding as much alcohol as possible. The game had changed, the play for status and respect, and he didn’t quite know the full of how things were on this level.
“I’ll introduce you to Chad Jones. He is who Trump wished he was—owns half of Manhattan.” He guided her over to a group of men on the veranda outside, dressed in tuxes.
“Chad, good to see you. I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Quentin, geez,” the man said in his broad Midwestern accent, “how old are you these days? Lost your puppy fat.”
“Twenty-five,” Quentin said, smiling. He’d known Chad Jones as long as he remembered, the man who’d come to their house to play tennis in the evening with his dad. Chad had always taken the time to enquire how Quentin was getting on with his studies and ambitions.
“What have you been doing with yourself? You must be out of school now.”
“Just finished my MBA from LSB. Working a bit in Indonesia.” It was a stretch of the truth as nothing had happened in Indonesia.
Chad looked impressed and Quentin felt pride well up in his chest. He didn’t need to mention that he hadn’t actually found a deal he’d liked enough to settle on—he could still claim that he fully intended to at some point.
“There are a lot of opportunities in Asia for someone young and hungry.”
“Just a matter of sorting the wheat from the chaff.”
“That is always the art in business.”
“May I introduce my girlfriend, Adelaide?” He felt Adelaide stiffen a bit next to him. They’d certainly never had the girlfriend status discussion and he’d just sprung it on her, finding he kind of enjoyed springing such things on her. It was essentially harmless, just seemingly pushing her along a bit. Obviously there was no agreement, but they could present a couple front for the night, provided she played along.
“Charmed,” Chad said, taking her hand. “So this is the young woman that has caught Quentin’s eye. I can certainly see why.” If Adelaide blushed at Roger’s clumsy compliment; she flared red now. Chad was much better at giving compliments, because he’d practiced it all his life and the trick to a them was to be truthful. Some American’s, like Chad, it was in their life’s blood to charm. An art the British had never completely excelled at.
It didn’t serve to stay with this group longer, so Quentin said his goodbyes and they moved on. “Girlfriend, huh?” Adelaide said.
“Caught that, did you?”
“Kind of unmissable.”
“It was just easier. What should I have said? This is the girl that uses my body on a regular basis, but is more or less reticent to be seen in public with me.”
“I’m not reticent to be seen in public with you.”
“Reticent to be called my girlfriend.” Fine, he was kind of manipulating her into a corner.
“Boyfriend isn’t a title I give to just anyone.”
Smiling, he stepped closer, enough to let her feel the full length of his body. “So you are using me for sexual gratification.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. Reaching up, he put his arm around her shoulder. “Every single person here thinks you’re my girlfriend,” he teased. “You’re welcome to set them straight, but I won’t.”
Quentin knew this was a breaking point. She would either move ahead or back peddle. Although wrapped in how he introduced her at this specific party, the underlying discussion was more interesting. If she didn’t argue now, the motion was carried.
Her eyes flashed in the darkness of the Rondstadt garden, the scent of gardenias, or whatever it was, heady in the air.
“Do you always get your way?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, pulling her further away from the light. A moment alone with his girlfriend was just what he needed right now.
Chapter 38
“Hello, darling,” Cheyenne said as she approached Alexi where he sat at his usual table at Dyna. He wore a navy suit in the finest wool money could buy. A man she didn
’t know was sitting with him. She’d taken care to look spectacular tonight, forking out for the structured Armani dress with more of a conservative vibe she knew Alexi appreciated sometimes.
“Cheyenne,” he said, looking her over. No smile, but at least it wasn’t a ‘go away’—because Alexi could be that blunt. Operation Recover had its first victory. But he didn’t say anything further, like complementing her on her looks or style.
“I bought this dress for you a while back,” she lied. “So I’m glad you finally get to see it, even if in the context of bumping into you like this. How are you? You owe me an apology.” She had to play hard. Alexi didn’t go for mousy.
“Do I?”
“I was right and you accused me of despicable things, based on the word of a liar.” She emphasised her point with a manicured finger in the air. The waiter approached, seeing if there as anything needed. “I’ll have a bottle of Touramine Mesland 2007,” she said sharply to the waiter. Some wine no one had ever heard of, giving her the air of someone knew what she was talking about. She had heard some wine boffin order it the other day, but she had no idea what it tasted like or cost, hoping it wasn’t some unique taste only a true connoisseur would appreciate.
Laying her crystal-covered clutch on the table, she sat down, turning to him with her legs crossed. “How have you been?”
“Well,” Alexi said in his usual monotone speech. It was so hard to tell what went on behind his eyes. Them roaming her body was one thing, but when they weren’t, she had trouble distinguishing where his mind was at.
“Well, you’re not going to weasel your way out of this apology. I was falsely accused.” She re-crossed her legs slowly. It was a move that worked, drawing his attention down. She knew she looked good.
“Fine. I apologise,” he finally relented. Excitement flared up her body. Another victory for Operation Recover.
“Apology accepted. Would you like some wine? I found this vintage when I was travelling around the Rhône,” she lied, quoting what she remembered from listening to other people’s conversations. “It is excellent.” He didn’t answer and she took that as assent when the waiter returned with the bottle. “Another two glasses,” she said and he scuttled to do her bidding, leaving the bottle to air for a moment.
The process of tasting a wine was something she loved. Admittedly, she couldn’t really tell bad wine from good. Wine wasn’t to be her strength, but she could go through the motions well, swirling the liquid around and smelling it. The bouquet of wild flowers and apricots wasn’t something she could discern and she suspected it was complete bullshit. Arseholes convincing others that they could taste these ridiculous things because there was an apricot tree two hundred meters away from a grape wine. It couldn’t be anything other than bullshit. “Excellent,” she said after taking a sip. “Really lovely. I don’t think we’ve met,” she said, turning to the other man in Alexi’s company. “I am Cheyenne.” Her thousand watt smile graced her lips as she reached out her hand.
“Stan Johannesen,” the thin man said, with a hint of the accent of someone born somewhere non-English speaking, but had spent years and years assimilating a British accent. He held her hand a moment too long, but she knew he was a working stiff of some variety, and comprehensively uninteresting. In your dreams, she said silently while smiling broadly.
“What do you do, Mr. Johannesen?” It wouldn’t hurt Alexi seeing her flirting a little. She was, after all, a single woman, attractive to every man in this room. He needed to relearn that.
“I work in finance.”
“Wow,” she said, pretending to be impressed. Of course, Alexi was working on some deal somewhere. “I take it you two work together.” She wasn’t interested and it certainly wasn’t an invitation for Stan the man to go into what he did. “You’ve eaten, I take it?” The cleared table made it more than obvious.
“Yes,” Alexi said.
Watching him, Cheyenne wondered if she should leave—leave him wanting more. That was the trick sometimes, but there was that niggle in her that suspected he would be relieved—relieved that she wasn’t making a scene. There was also the chance that if she walked away, he wouldn’t chase her. It was one of her tried and true tactics. Men liked to chase, thinking it was only worth having if they had to work for it. But Stan the man’s presence meant they couldn’t have a deeper discussion.
“You look well,” she said to Alexi. Actually he looked exactly the same as always, his waist trim, expression passive. She missed fucking him, she realised—aside from the game she was playing, she actually liked sleeping with him.
Fortune threw her a bone and Stan got up to go to the bathroom.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, biting her lip and lowering her voice. “Missed what you do to me.”
He looked over at her slowly, his eyelashes catching the light. Still no smile, but that wasn’t necessarily indicative.
“I have to go,” she said. “I am meeting people. You should come over—apologise to me properly.” Alright it was time to do the walk away, and she was a professional at walking. She’d laid the hook, time to let the fish be mesmerised by it, and her arse looked spectacular in this dress.
“I think our time has gone,” he finally said with such finality it felt like a blow.
“But our finish was unjust,” she said before she had time to think. “She was the one lying to you.”
The look he gave her was a warning. How could he be warning her when the little slut had proved she was chasing Quentin Cartright?
“It is irrelevant,” he said.
“It’s not irrelevant. It’s certainly not irrelevant to me.” Her voice rose in pitch. This was not going how she wanted at all.
“I feel it is a good time to end. You are young, you go find someone else.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. Was he playing with her? She wasn’t young. That was the point; she was a season or two away from being put out to pasture. Retirement was fast approaching and she needed somewhere to go now. “But we are perfect together, Alexi.”
“Not so good.”
Her jaw dropped open. “How can you say that?” Okay, now she sounded like every idiot girl dumped by a married man, except Alexi wasn’t married and she was one of the hottest women on the planet.
He shrugged and his attention moved away from her, scanning the room, like the conversation was boring him. Like she was boring him.
“You know, you’re going to find yourself alone, sweetheart,” she said sharply. “And that’s coming from me.” She wasn’t putting on a face now, this was pure her. “Because, let’s face it: who else is going to want you? Some finishing school girl is never going to put up with your shit. You’re dirty, Alexi, and it shows through every pore.” Her breathing was hard and heavy as she stared into his eyes, into the truth he tried to hide from. Like her, he would never be part of these people. Money might make them bow to him, but he would never be part of the group, welcome amongst these people. But Alexi thought he was better, believed that these people would eventually accept him.
“Time for you to go, Cheyenne,” he said harshly.
Stan returned to the table, smiling as he checked the buttons on his jacket. “That is a lovely drop,” he said, indicating to the wine she’d ordered. Staring at the bottle, she knew she couldn’t manage another drop. Alexi had just, in his deluded mind, made a stand, telling her he was better than her, when he was no different.
Standing sharply, she spat on the table and walked away, too angry for the practiced walk that showed everyone in the room that she was a force to be reckoned with.
“Bastard,” she screamed when she got outside. “Think you’re better, when you’re just a grubby little grafter.” She knew he could hear her, everyone in the restaurant could.
Calming, she pulled herself together. She hadn’t intended on losing her cool so completely, but it had happened. His choice, she said—a stupid choice. Who else could he be himself with? None of these women would ever accept h
im. Little more than a thug and all these people knew it. Designer clothes couldn’t cover the stench of the gutter, and he was too stupid to realise that. They could have been a team. Didn’t he realise that? He could have had someone who knew exactly what he was and accepted it. Stupid, stupid man.
“Fuck,” she said as she tucked the clutch under her arm and unsteadily stepped away. Fire still burned through her blood as she walked down the street to her apartment. She hadn’t lost it like this in a long time, her façade completely cracking. Fuck Alexi and his stupidity. She would find someone better.
Chapter 39
Adelaide waited by Jesus’ locked door at nine in the morning. The club was open, but it was quiet and the staff were discreetly cleaning. Gently thudding her head on the wall, she tried to escape the boredom of just waiting. Chrissy was being a complete bitch for some reason, but truthfully, Adelaide couldn’t care less. If she was getting her knickers in a twist and not say what the issue was, that was her problem. Adelaide wasn’t going to run after her, worried about what she possibly could have done to offend Chrissy. That was the good thing about guys, they got their grievances out and dealt with, instead of resorting to cold shoulders and snobby attitudes. Whatever, Adelaide thought.
Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs and Adelaide straightened as she saw Jesus’ head coming up. She smiled.
“Thought I’d see you here sooner or later,” he said, pulling out a key from his pocket. His arms corded as he worked the lock. He really was a gorgeous guy. Not her type though, but she guessed it had helped him getting his way in this business. Atrocious taste in girls and all. Hopefully he wasn’t still seeing Cheyenne.
“I need a job,” she said.
“Trish told me what happened,” he said as he walked into his office and sat down behind the desk.
“I’m not as good as Trish, but I’m not too bad.”
He considered her and Adelaide blushed slightly, unused to being openly considered on her physical attributes.
Marbella Nights Page 19
