Marbella Cool

by Oster, Camille

  Marbella Cool

  Book 2 Marbella Series

  By Camille Oster

  Copyright 2015 Camille Oster

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Camille Oster – Author

  www.camilleoster.com

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579

  @Camille_Oster

  Camille.osternz@gmail.com

  Chapter 1

  Alexi Sumneroff stepped out on the balcony of his penthouse apartment overlooking the coast just west of Marbella. It was the only high-rise building around for miles, which was why he’d wanted it. He liked being up high, being able to look down on birds flying past, untouchable by all. The coast was green and meandering, with houses up the hills, the sea a matte and bright blue from up here, and the breeze was a little cooler. He didn’t love the cold, which was why he’d started spending more time here than in Moscow. Or maybe because in Moscow he didn’t do anything other than work. Here the bright weather and long days pulled his attention away from his desk once in a while.

  Marbella was the centre of the world. People thought New York or London was, but this was where the people who had truly made it ended up. Who wanted to live in a tiny apartment in crowded Monte Carlo when you could be here, have whatever you want? The people who lived here didn’t have to work and this was where they hung out with their ilk.

  Alexi had achieved everything he’d ever wanted. He had it all—built on smart thinking, good political connection and bulging bank accounts in private Swiss banks where he was treated like a god.

  Soft feet padded behind him and feminine arms snuck around his waist. Malin, the beautiful Swedish girl he’d picked up in Milan a few months back, placed her head against his shoulder. She was alright, fundamentally a well-meaning girl with a taste for quality. She did go for quality rather than the flashy, which had intrigued him at the time. She was as gorgeous as women came, with silken blond hair and blueberry eyes, and bone structure that couldn’t be faulted. But she was boring enough for him to miss the crazier women he’d had in his life. And the crazy ones fucked better, too.

  Saying that, he couldn’t be bothered changing the situation, putting up with Malin’s endless dribble about organic and macrobiotic food; stuff he was never going to care about.

  “Are you going to the gym today?” she asked.

  He hadn’t been planning on it, but he did feel restless. With a sigh, he considered it. It would be good to burn some energy, feel a bit of pressure to do better, to strive. That desire to achieve had fleeted a bit with his business dealings. In the past, it was about taking on bigger projects, achieving more, getting bigger outcomes and richer rewards. Now he was rich and powerful enough to do anything he wanted; any project could be his with a snap of his fingers—now it was just a matter of if it was worth doing—if it was profitable, and that was boring, just like Malin. In fact, his life was boring, as if everything had been achieved and he should now settle down with his perfect wife, if he so chose, in the meticulously designed apartment. He just didn’t feel ready to retire. Why couldn’t he just be content when he had it all?

  “I will go,” he said gruffly.

  “I am going to take the Bentley,” Malin announced in her lilting Scandinavian accent. “There is a farmers’ market up in Santa Fe I want to go to.” Malin cared about authentic Spanish things. Alexi couldn’t care less. Spanish customs and food meant nothing to him. Marbella just happened to be in Spain. It had to be somewhere.

  “Then go,” he said. The good thing about Malin was that she didn’t get upset with his gruff behaviour. He knew it was more than rough around the edges, but he didn’t care—he didn’t have to. Caring hadn’t been required to achieve what he had and if he felt nothing, he wasn’t going to pretend he did.

  The valet at the Marbella Athletics Club took the keys to the Ferrari and Alexi headed inside, straight to the gym, where he would spend the next hour pushing himself with the weights. He’d denied the personal trainer the club had offered, not in the mood to listen to others’ opinions. As far as Alexi was concerned, this was a solitary activity.

  Without a doubt, he could afford to set up his own gym, but there was something appealing about coming here, being surrounded by other men. The women rarely came into the weights room. There were few male domains left these days and sometimes it was good to just be a guy.

  Taking a shower after his workout, he wrapped a towel around his hips and walked into the sauna, which he used fairly often—another thing he couldn’t bother building at home. It reminded him of his childhood in Nor-eastern Russia, the heat dry in his nose. His grandmother swore saunas cured everything. She had lived long enough, so he was ready to believe there was something in it.

  Looking down, he surveyed his body, which looked good, tanned even. He was getting stockier, more muscular, and the women lusted after more than his wallet these days. Before long, sweat began to run, but he stayed in there, torturing himself that bit more.

  The truth was that he was bored and unhappy, and nothing he could think of would fix it. That, he had never expected. He used to believe that if he got a little more powerful, a bit richer, he would be happy, but it wasn’t here, whatever it was that was missing. The people in Marbella were the cream of society, of every variety. Everything he could possibly want was on offer, but still he couldn’t be content.

  Maybe he needed a new girl; the excitement of something new. But new turned old too quickly these days. He’d seen everything there was to see with beautiful girls, even dirty girls. The answer didn’t lie there, but there was something missing. Maybe he needed a hobby where he could exercise his competitive urge, something like racing. He’d always loved Formula One—not that he was some twenty year-old with the necessary lightning fast reactions. That was one thing money couldn’t buy.

  Chapter 2

  Trish Daly sat on the balcony of her tiny flat overlooking a golf course in one of the new developments. Men and women in brightly coloured clothes were chipping away on the manicured green lawn, undulating unnaturally. Her coffee was cooling and she stretched her neck, trying to release the tense knot. Her new flatmate, the American girl, was in the shower. Her former flatmate’s boyfriend had asked if this girl could move in and being the pushover she was, Trish had agreed.

  Drawing her fingers through her messy, recently dyed, flame red hair, Trish sighed. It was awkward living with a stranger, but for some stupid reason she’d agreed to it. But then there wasn’t anyone else to move in, and one stranger was as good as another.

  Shania stepped out on the balcony, a white towel wrapped around her middle, slim, tanned legs crossing. “I love the weather here,” she said. Shania had recently arrived in Marbella, but other than that, Trish knew little about her.

  “It is nice. Gets a bit hot sometimes.”

  “I don’t mind hot. We have air-conditioning, after all,” she smiled. She had dark brown hair and a few freckles on her nose like this, when completely without makeup. Dark brown eyes smiled, but there was also something far away in them, something untouchable. Shania wasn’t some complete innocent. Her dancing more than showed that. She’d never ask, but Trish suspected Shania had done dancing of the more nude variety before her ex-flatmate’s boyfriend, Quentin, also shoed her into a job at the club where Trish worked as a dancer, in exchange for stealing her former flatmate, Adelaide, off to go live in some jungle in Indonesia.

  Trish missed Adelaide, but these things happened when it came to boyfriends, althou
gh not hers’, who’d turned out to be a complete douche.

  Considering Shania now, she looked a hell of a lot younger than when she had makeup on.

  “I’m starving,” Shania said.

  Trish just looked at her. They’d gone through the awkward moments with one completely not understanding the other’s eating habits. Trish had never heard of pop tarts, some kind of weird thing with icing that Americans put in toasters. Honestly, they were revolting. And Shania could not get the hang of beans on toast, even less when Trish explained that back home, they even went with spaghetti on toast.

  Shania watched with distaste as Trish took a bite of her toast triangle with Vegemite spread, obviously something else lost in translation.

  “Maybe I’ll just have some butter on toast,” she said and stood up, returning inside. “I’m going out tonight,” she called back, “after work.”

  “I won’t wait up, then,” Trish said, half way sarcastic. Trish wasn’t working tonight, and of late, she watched TV with an almond magnum ice cream out of the freezer on her nights off.

  Maybe it was time Trish started going out again, too. She’d been moping in this flat for too long. Avoiding Cory had been her excuse, but it was wearing thin pretty quickly. She’d wondered if it was time to move on from Marbella, but it felt a bit cowardly running away just because there was some guy she’d rather not see. She certainly wasn’t ready to go back to Australia.

  No, it was time to get over it. Picking up her phone, she texted Amber to find out what the girls were planning that night.

  We’re going to Empire, please come, Amber texted back.

  Fine, I’ll see you there, round eight. There, she’d done it, resoundingly putting an end to her post break-up blues. Not that they’d ever really been in a proper relationship, with all his cheating. And if she saw him, she would just act cool—ignore him mostly. It wasn’t hard; she’d done it before.

  “I’m going out,” she heard Shania call from inside the apartment.

  “Okay,” Trish said, still feeling awkward having this girl there. There was nothing wrong with her; they just weren’t clicking.

  Chapter 3

  Rosalie Wallis always expected a rough landing and was relieved when it was lighter than she’d feared. She wasn’t the best flyer around and she’d been putting this off for a while. Through the oval window she could see a squarish-looking stone airport building and the stewardess spoke in Spanish, a stream of words that blended together into one long sound. It certainly wasn’t friendly to non-native speakers; she couldn’t even tell the words apart. If slowly and carefully accentuated, Rosalie could understand a bit of Spanish, but not when they spoke as if it was a speed competition.

  The plane stopped with a slight forward swing and passengers started unbuckling their belts. It had been a year since Paul moved here and she hadn’t come to visit before now. She felt a bit ashamed, but she had finally made it, for an undeterminable amount of time. Paul wanted her to stay, but she wasn’t sure. She could. Her thesis allowed her to work anywhere, and staying with Paul would save her getting a place of her own. The university wasn’t paying wonderfully. It was enough, but until she made tenure, the pay was average. And then, once she completed her PhD, she would be Dr. Wallis, along with her brother and both of her parents, which made for some spectacular confusion, at times. Unlike her brother though, Rosalie had taken her time getting to her doctorate. That had always been something she’d planned, although she’d been side tracked by a masters or two.

  People slowly started shuffling out and Rosalie joined the queue, carrying her jacket over her arm. Even now she could feel how much warmer it was here, even considering the air-conditioning in the plane. They passed through a stifling hot air bridge, then into a perfectly cool terminal.

  Paul waited outside, his brown hair a little too long, making him look British in the Hugh Grant kind of way, except he was taller and with a rounder face. White linen pants looked crinkled. It was good to see him and Rosalie broke into a huge smile.

  “Sis,” he said. “About time you made the trek. How was your flight?”

  “Unremarkable.”

  “Good. The way it should be. Come. Car’s this way.” He took her bag and walked to the door. Heat enveloped her when she stepped outside, making a stark difference from the cold drizzle back home.

  “Welcome to Spain,” he said, clicking the key in his hand when they reached the carpark. A little, sporty-looking red car lit up.

  “A convertible, really, Paul?” she said.

  “I know it’s a bit naff, but I bought if off a colleague who was leaving. I suspect this was a part of his mid-life crisis. It would have been rude to say no,” he said with a glint in his eye. “And believe me, around here, this is conservative. Engine’s shit, really.”

  “Built for looks, then.”

  “Just like me,” he joked. His expression turned serious. “I’m glad you’re here. I think getting away from Oxford will do you good. It’s too stifling there.”

  As opposed to the Marbella School of Business, Rosalie thought. Not exactly the bastion of academic research, but for some reason Paul had decided to come here after his marriage had fallen apart. Rosalie supposed it was a new start. She smiled and turned her attention to the landscape rushing by. Only a few hours flight and so radically different from the UK.

  Paul’s house was nice. Three bedrooms and a nice outdoor area. It had an off-white colour painted inside and light tiles, which were cool under her feet.

  “I could have gotten a pool, but wouldn’t want my legs blinding the neighbours.”

  “It’s nice and cool.”

  “It was designed with the sun in mind,” he said. “It doesn’t quite reach in when it’s at its warmest, see.” He pointed to concrete shades built on the side of the house.

  “Clever.”

  “There are two spare rooms, pick the one you like. How about we go out to dinner tonight, or are you too tired?”

  “I’ve only come from London. It’s not like I have jet lag to deal with.”

  “True. I might check in with my students,” he said and walked over to the study off the lounge.

  She didn’t have students anymore, having just given up lecturing to focus on her thesis on nineteenth century public policy.

  The suitcase was light and she carried it upstairs, with a glance back at the study, thinking how much her brother was turning into their father. Slightly absent minded, a sharp tongue, but generally kind.

  The first room was sparse, overlooking the neighbour’s tropical garden. As Paul couldn’t tell one end of a plant from another, she expected that was as good as it would get garden wise, so she picked that room. It still felt a bit surreal being there. Lying down on the bed, she put her knees up and closed her eyes. She still wasn’t one hundred percent sure she wanted to be here, but there was nowhere else she particularly needed to be. Maybe it would do her good to get away from the academic community for a while. She’d been entrenched for years, accumulating degree after degree, now working on her PhD. Admittedly, there had been the two years she spent in Ecuador, working with the non-profit, but other than that, Oxford had been her life. Maybe being away from it would get her mind around her thesis topic, which seemed stuck in first gear.

  Chapter 4

  Cory twisted the tennis racquet in his hands, throwing a look at Victoria Turning, silently urging her to move over. The lob and the smash sent the ball flying over the net towards Victoria, who managed to return it in her strapless tennis ensemble, covering barely any of her slim tanned thighs. Victoria had the body only perfect diet and a personal trainer could achieve. The white dress looked incredibly sexy, but he suspected she knew that.

  Smiling to himself, he yet again acknowledged that he got paid for this. If the members begged for a fourth for their tennis game, how could he refuse? An hour away from the pool, where he lifeguarded, entrenched and on display for the beautiful but frustrated and often ignored wives of Marbella�
��s elite.

  Victoria was one of the most beautiful members of the Athletic Club, married to a QC who was working in Hong Kong more often than not, where it was said he lived with a mistress. Victoria obviously didn’t mind provided she could be here.

  The woman across the court, Clarity Jones, missed the return and Victoria jumped in excitement. “I think we can win this,” she said, turning to Cory, twisting her racquet over her shoulder and stepping that little bit too close. “Certainly brings out that competitive urge, doesn’t it?”

  “What do you say we wipe the floor with them?” Cory said in his Australian accent, wiping his hands on his white shorts to get a better grip.

  Victoria smiled conspiratorially, biting her lush, pink lower lip. Cory knew exactly why Victoria had requested him as a partner, and it wasn’t for the tennis, more the after game workout. He tightened at the thought, diverting the tension into the game. Reward always sharpened play. He smashed a volley in a way neither of their competitors could take and Victoria clapped with pleasure.

  “Nicely done,” admitted Hugo, Clarity’s partner and private yoga instructor. Cory felt a distinct difference between himself and Hugo. Hugo was a kept man. He served Clarity in more ways than one and he lived by her graces. Cory wasn’t. Sure he took what was on offer, but he wasn’t kept. He’d bounced into that issue and felt crap about it, so he refused to go there, no matter what they offered. He’d fuck anything that moved, but it was on his terms, take it or leave it.

  Returning to play, he stepped wide, anticipating the next ball, his mind returning to events he’d been trying to put behind him—Trish. He’d put his heart on the line and she’d smashed it, brutally rejecting him after he’d made tentative steps towards a relationship that was more than a fast fuck in the shower. He’d learned his lesson, hadn’t he? If you give the upper hand, they walk all over you, just like Hugo was sitting on command like a trained lapdog. Hugo was nice enough; Cory just couldn’t respect him.