And Aimee? Well. She’d man her post at reception for the remaining few days of the Delacroix’s existence. And then, she’d buy a rain jacket and prepare to wear a perpetual frown.
She gradually drifted off to sleep, dipping into nightmares that involved Duchamp dumping her over the side of his yacht, and Fonti kissing her on the dancefloor before abandoning her, leaving her lost on a dark street corner. Another nightmare saw her father, homeless, with bloody hands and knees. He cried out to her, telling her that he’d lost everything—that he was sorry.
The sun began its journey up over the horizon far too soon, casting the hazy light of morning over the bright white bedspread. As Aimee’s eyelashes tickled her cheeks upon awakening, she sensed an immediate, sudden desire to run.
She flung the sheets from her naked legs and swung her feet onto the plush maroon rug. Beside her, the waves of the sea rushed forward over the empty beach. She didn’t have much time. Her heart rattled furiously against her ribcage.
If she didn’t leave in that moment, she’d lose everything.
TEN
Aimee took several deep breaths, tiptoeing toward the door. Her ears strained, searching for any noise down the hallway, any possibility that Enrico was awake and waiting to intercept her.
She closed her eyes, expecting the bedroom door to make a wild, loud creaking noise as she opened it. But it was quiet, well-greased. Her eyes widened with sudden understanding: if she made it across the living room, to the elevator, she could whizz down to the bottom of the casino and be free, just like that.
The hallway was shadowy, but the living room was clean and bright with the coming sunshine. Toward the beach, Aimee caught a glimpse of the Delacroix through the massive windows. A clock on the wall near the elevator told her that her shift was supposed to have started nearly an hour before. Her fingers itched, apprehensive, suddenly calculating that she hadn’t missed a single shift at the hotel since she started working there at 17. The Delacroix had been her lifeblood, her love—her father’s mission, and therefore her own. She swallowed harshly, realizing how thirsty she was.
She began her trek across the marble floor. It was chilly, unforgiving, and it caused her spine to shiver. As she got closer to the elevator, her brain felt aflame, light with hope. She gasped sharply as she quietly and slowly pushed the button. Around her, the apartment was dead with silence.
The elevator car began its trajectory to the top, and Aimee clutched her hands together, waiting, frozen. The doors finally parted, revealing the bright, mirrored interior once again.
Aimee’s jaw dropped. She took a step back, nearly falling to the floor, as a sleep-tousled Enrico stood before her, in the center of the mirrored elevator. He wore a long, silk robe, beneath which he wore only a pair of boxers. His black hair hung in easy, black curls around his ears, without the gel of the previous evening. He eyed her with a brief moment of humor, crossing his firm, muscular arms.
“I don’t suppose you could tell me where you’re off to?” he asked her, his voice easy, filled with sleep.
Aimee shuddered. She collapsed into the couch behind her, hiding her face with her hands. “Damn,” she whispered.
Enrico chuckled lightly, stepping into the room and allowing the elevator door to close behind him. “That’s right, my little hostage. You were trying to escape, as if I haven’t been watching that door all morning. Do you think I’m that much of a fool?”
Aimee bit her lip and shook her head, her sleep-mussed curls sweeping around her ears. Her eyes were defeated, edged with shadow. She couldn’t muster the energy to defend herself.
“Never mind that. Let’s put your little escape attempt behind us, along with everything else,” Enrico said. He winked at her, striding with confidence toward an archway which led to a bright, glistening kitchen. “I don’t suppose you’re as hungover as I am?” he asked her.
Aimee’s breath caught in her throat. Her head ached with whiskey. “The better question is—will I die in five minutes or ten?” she whispered, offering him a sliver of personality. A brief smile crept across her face as her eyes met Enrico’s across the room. “Because I don’t see myself living through the morning.”
Enrico swept his head back, laughing brightly. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it? The two of us, together—with that sassy attitude.” He brought two fingers to his temples. “I’m going to make coffee. A ton of coffee. And take some aspirin. Can I get you anything? Perhaps some breakfast?”
Aimee considered this, biting her lip. Despite the terror of being a hostage, she still felt that sizzling electricity as she spoke with Enrico. She wished she could distract herself from it, to abandon her feelings. But with him standing there before her, sleep tousled and shirtless, she felt called to follow his lead.
“Coffee would be wonderful,” she said, her eyes large.
Enrico gestured for her to enter the kitchen, and she did, taking tentative steps. Her shadow skirted behind her as she entered the brightly lit arena, with its stainless steel appliances and large collection of wines. She swept her fingers through her hair, watching as Enrico stuffed a coffee filter with ground coffee. The gestures weren’t that of a billionaire—he looked surprisingly normal.
“Do you like it strong?” Enrico said. “I hope so. I can’t stand the way you Americans’ water it down.”
“We really don’t know what we’re doing,” Aimee admitted, leaning against the countertop. “But I’ve lived in Europe my entire adult life. I don’t know the first thing about being an American who drinks watered-down coffee. The very thought of it chills me.” As she spoke, Enrico met her gaze, and she grinned, winking. A blush descended down her cheeks.
After a pause, Enrico spoke again. “That’s good to hear. I haven’t taken a hostage that’s completely clueless.”
Aimee sighed, listening as the coffee maker began to spit out a dark brew. Her stomach ached with hunger, and she splayed her fingers over her abdomen, wincing a little.
Enrico eyed her, giving her his signature dimpled smile. “I take it you do want breakfast, then?”
She nodded slightly, feeling awkward in the bizarre situation.
Enrico yanked open the refrigerator door, glossing over its contents. It was clear the man wanted for nothing; each row was brimming with fresh vegetables, fruits, eggs, meats and cheeses. Aimee’s head swam.
“Wow,” she whispered.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’m quite the skilled chef,” Enrico said. He pulled out several ingredients, placing a skillet upon the stove and drawing a knife up and over the different vegetables. A jaunty whistle erupted from between his lips, and the sound echoed throughout the kitchen like birdsong.
Aimee turned toward the speaker system on the wall, her eyes glowing with the light of the morning. Outside, the azure sea shone beneath the sun. But they were trapped, stuck with each other—and had to make do to draw the glory of the outdoors, in.
She began to leaf through the records in a glass display case, finally arriving at an Edith Piaf record—an oldie but goodie. She slipped it into the record player, dropping the needle upon the disk. The music began to hum through the air, and Enrico’s whistle matched it without pause.
Enrico kept cooking while, anxious to eat, Aimee placed plates, forks, knives and cups upon the breakfast nook’s table, tucked beside the window. She felt out of sync with reality, as if she existed in another dimension. She made swans out of the napkins, the way she’d seen her coworkers do in the hotel restaurant so many times before.
A while later, Enrico turned toward her with a plate of crepes filled with blueberries and syrup, and another with omelets overflowing with peppers, onions, and sausage.
Aimee’s stomach growled, and she fluttered her fingers together as if she was about to unwrap a gift. “This is gorgeous,” she cooed.
“When you’re hungover, it’s best to heal yourself with good ingredients,” he told her.
Enrico set the plates down and headed tow
ard the fridge once more, lifting out a bottle of champagne. He popped it expertly, without a single droplet lost, and poured half-glasses before adding glugs of orange juice. He lifted both glasses, handing one to Aimee, and they clinked them together, making brief, intense eye contact, before sipping on the sparkling liquid.
Aimee shivered slightly, caught in the feeling of being so close to him. Her eyes lingered upon the muscles above the elastic of his boxers, remembering that she hadn’t yet seen him naked.
They sat at the table together, Aimee crossing her legs up on the chair and stabbing her fork ravenously into her omelet. She chewed, nodding her head in eagerness, and Enrico laughed once more—unable to contain his pleasure. “I take it you like it.”
Aimee sighed happily as the incredible, complex flavors burst forth; she truly hadn’t tasted anything so wonderful in a long time. She sipped another bit of her mimosa, feeling relaxed and indulgent.
But Enrico’s eyes were still focused upon her. He’d only nibbled at his breakfast. He opened his mouth, launching unabashedly into his question. “I can’t help but wonder, Aimee. How is it that a sweet girl like you got involved with Jean-Claude Duchamp? I know he had a falling out with your father several years ago, but…”
Aimee put down her fork, pushing her plate back slightly. As she sat pondering, her brain humming with fear, she realized she no longer had any reason to keep secrets. She was Enrico’s prisoner, no longer a spy.
“It’s not that I had bad intentions,” she answered, shrugging slightly. “You probably understand my father’s reputation.”
“As a gambler,” Enrico said, his voice carefully neutral.
“And not a very successful one,” she said. “My entire life, it seems, he’s been throwing his money away. It’s the reason my mother left and returned to Seattle. And now—well,” she felt tears springing to her eyes, “it’s the reason that we’re going to lose the hotel. My father is declaring bankruptcy. It’s the end for us.”
Enrico’s face softened. His eyes filled with sadness, with compassion. “Oh wow, Aimee. I didn’t know. I mean—I had my suspicions that the money would run out soon; I rarely saw your father win, and if he did, he bet double on the next round, high on his luck.” He shook his head. “But the Delacroix. That’s been a Monte Carlo staple for years. I can’t imagine it gone.”
“I know. It’s been my life,” Aimee whispered. “I would do anything to keep it open. Anything.”
“And so Duchamp approached you. After he heard that we’d had that one night—”
“He has eyes everywhere,” Aimee said, smiling sheepishly. “He had his minion call me. And—silly as I was—I kind of thought I was being taken to you. For a date or something. How dumb.” She blushed, tilting her head. “But then, Duchamp was telling me I could save my father. I could save myself. You see, I don’t have any savings. I can’t afford to stay here once the hotel closes. I’ll have to return to the States and live with my mother in Seattle. I can’t even bear the thought of leaving here.” She hung her head, her eyes glazing over her uneaten food. She no longer felt hungry.
Enrico sighed. “This is a terrible situation,” he said, his eyes searching out the window. “Your father is a good man. One of the few decent men who still live in Monte Carlo, I’d say. He’s no fool, but his gambling is an addiction, Aimee. It’s an illness. It’s destroying your life, and his, and I see that. But you can’t be angry with him.” He brought his hand toward hers, slipping his fingers over hers. Aimee shivered with the feel of his touch. His compassion made her heart soar.
“I just wish he would have found help before he ruined everything,” she whispered.
“Life doesn’t always work out that way, does it?” Enrico said.
“It did for you,” Aimee huffed, raising her eyebrows. Her eyes found his, and he met her gaze steadily.
“But look at me; I have to constantly fight women like you who try to take me down.”
“We’re all fighting for our own space in the world,” Aimee laughed. “You can’t fault me for that.”
“You’re right,” Enrico said simply. He patted her fingers a final time before returning to his meal, halting the tender moment.
They continued their breakfast, then, a feeling of camaraderie palpable in the air between them. Aimee’s appreciation for his understanding seemed to stretch her heart, filling her with warmth.
As they ate, Enrico filled their glasses with another round of mimosas, and the vintage French music continued to fill the air, adding to the ambiance. A more perfect morning—despite her hostage status—was impossible to imagine.
***
After breakfast, Enrico rose, lifting the plates from the table. He carried them toward the dishwasher, eyeing Aimee as she filled the glasses with more champagne. He snickered slightly. “You’re still going for it, huh?”
“What else are we supposed to do, trapped here?” Aimee laughed. “Plus. If I get you drunk enough, maybe I can escape.” Her eyebrows rose high on her forehead as the bubbles burst from the bottle, collapsing to the bottom of each glass. She added a dash of orange juice, biting her lip in concentration.
“You American girls always have an angle,” Enrico joked. He slid the plates into the dishwasher before clicking it closed and accepting his fresh glass, smiling his thanks. He scratched at the dark hairs upon his chest, his eyes shifting toward the living room, avoiding the tension between them. Just hours before, they’d been locked in one another’s arms, fueled with passion.
“I was wondering if I could take a shower,” Aimee asked, breaking the silence.
Enrico leaped upon her words, snapping his fingers. “Of course. That’s what you should do.” This was an assurance that he wouldn’t have to linger with her, eyeing her curves, resisting his lust for her. “I have spare towels here.” He walked briskly toward the hallway, opening a closet door and flinging a soft, fluffy towel toward her. Aimee brought the fabric to her nose, closing her eyes at its luxurious quality.
“The bathroom’s just through there. And I’ll grab something for you to wear.”
“Just something comfortable, if that’s all right. We’re not leaving the house, and I don’t have to dress up for you any longer, do I?” Aimee teased, sticking her tongue out. “The tale of our budding romance has sailed out to sea.”
As she spoke the words, her heart thrust forward with shock, with understanding that she still wanted him. She blinked rapidly as her words hit him, as his response seemed to mirror her own.
It wasn’t over between them.
ELEVEN
Aimee stepped into the shower and turned the dial to its hottest setting. She stood beneath the steaming water, closing her eyes, thinking about Enrico, wishing he were there with her. But their situation was fraught, uncertain, making them nervous around each other.
After several moments more, Aimee stretched from the shower, wrapping herself in the cloud-like towel before slipping into a long T-shirt and a pair of shorts, gifted from Enrico’s closet. The shirt was soft and form-fitting, showing off her body. She turned toward the mirror, dragging her fingers through her drying waves, noting that she looked clean, scrubbed, the makeup of the previous evening now washed down the drain.
She walked back into the living room and found Enrico setting another record on the player. He’d showered, too, and his wet, black curls released small droplets down his cheeks. As he placed the needle on the record, the sounds of Sinatra hummed through the speakers.
“I see you like the classics,” Aimee said, giving him a shy grin.
“Today seems like a day for it,” Enrico replied, splaying out upon one of the couches. “A day for thought. A day to avoid normal schedules. A day to spend with my little hostage, before she flees to America.” He winked at her, tapping the space beside him on the couch.
Aimee sat in an armchair opposite him, several feet removed from his distracting allure. She felt he was a target, that the tension between them would draw her body clo
ser and closer to his, until she couldn’t take it any longer. She bit her lip, sensing his disappointment. But she charged forth, searching for conversation. A distraction.
“Was it exciting when you first moved to Monte Carlo?” she asked, her eyes hardly able to take in the whole of him, the muscles that pushed from his elbows and shoulders, and those dark, penetrating eyes. “I mean—what ultimately made you open your own place? I know you were a banker in London. But couldn’t you have stayed there, while taking the occasional vacation or three? Running a casino, living this daydream—it must take a lot out of you.”
Enrico chuckled, giving her a sideways grin. “You remember that first night we spent together, Aimee?” he asked her. “When we played blackjack?”
“And I lost in the most humiliating way possible?” Aimee snorted. She squeezed her eyes together, embarrassed.
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