Marbella Beauty
Book 3 Marbella Series
By Camille Oster
Copyright 2016 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
[email protected]
Chapter 1
The wind whipped Alistair Cartright’s dirty blond hair as he drove down the motorway along Spain’s eastern coast. At the last minute, he’d decided to drive, had loaded his grandfather’s old Jaguar on the Eurostar and driven off to Paris. Driving gave him a moment to think about the decisions he’d made to leave England for a while and head down to Marbella.
It had been years since he’d stayed there for more than three days, but now he’d decided on a change. His job at Barings had gotten tedious. Being part of the young, aggressive traders had been exciting for quite a few years, money rolling into his account. Not that he needed money. Money had always been. Earning his own had been ridiculously easy. The tricks of the trade were meticulously taught to him—money there for harvesting. The government was practically handing it out in truckloads with their quantitative easing. The gravy train had run and run.
It still did for some, but for some reason, things had turned ominous. There had been a moment at an inner city party where he’d concluded that he couldn’t actually stand Araminth, his girlfriend. Everything was right about her. She had the right family, the right connections, perfect English rose looks and a tongue to rip strips off anyone she saw fit for treatment. But everything that was right about her annoyed the fuck out of him of late.
But then maybe the fact that he was fucking everything that moved showed there was something ultimately wrong with the relationship. They weren’t even married and he was taking it elsewhere. Sadly, that was to be expected. Even Araminth expected it, but there was still a notion in him that he at least wanted to make it down the aisle before he started looking elsewhere.
So, he’d packed up and left, telling her he needed a moment to reflect. Araminth had stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Reflect what?” she’d demanded. “You’re barely twenty-six and you’re already having a mid-life crisis.”
“Hardly,” he’d said dismissively, cruising around his apartment, packing necessities into his Hermes duffle bag.
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know,” he’d said.
“I can’t believe you quit Barings. Winchester must be beside himself with disappointment in you. Wasn’t he treating you like the son he never had?”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You’re going to miss the Anhoven wedding.”
Even now, hundreds of miles away, Alistair rolled his eyes. Why the fuck would he care about missing a wedding? But this shit was important to Araminth—weddings, parties, gossip and bitchiness. It was all about proving who had the most and the best, but doing it with the right style. Bragging was fully acceptable as long as you did it in the right way.
It was getting late and he pulled over at some shitting roadside hotel, taking a room for the night and paying for the best they had, which turned out to be a two-bedroom suite they’d paid some designer to put together. It was marginally better than the general décor of the hotel, but still had absolutely no personality at all. The sheets were clean though and he threw himself down on the king-sized bed.
The sun was setting and out the large window, he could see the magnificent colours of Spain at dusk. England just didn’t have these types of sunsets.
Pulling out his phone, he considered sending Araminth a message, but didn’t. He didn’t want to and he wondered if he should want to. The whole domesticity of his relationship with Araminth was maybe what he objected to. She wanted to plan a wedding—for the reason of making hers better than anyone else’s, and the more weddings she went to, the more she coveted one. And then it would be sprogs and Range Rovers, and some decrepit house in the country. Probably something listed and they would spend the rest of their lives talking about what tiles fucking English Heritage would find acceptable.
He picked an orange out of the fruit bowl and peeled it. The smell of its juices filled the air. Nothing quite smelled like Spain as oranges did. The scent brought back memories of when he was younger and was living here.
It felt strange being away, shedding his life like a coat and walking away. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to give up his youth yet. He’d done everything he was supposed to. Got a job straight after Oxford, worked hard, played harder, and everything had been utterly predictable. He knew exactly where his life was heading; he could even say what was supposed to happen in six-month increments.
Well, this little sidestep had been unanticipated, but maybe that was exactly what he needed. Most would just get a dirtier girlfriend, seeking baser thrills, but sex was just sex at the end of the day, no matter what the wrapping looked like. Sex never hurt, but it wasn’t the answer either.
Alistair got up and walked to the window again, looking out. The Spanishness of the scenery was stark compared to the gently rolling, green hills he was used to back home, or the old stone everything of London. The Spanish landscape was stark and dramatic, driving away pretension and derivation. Obviously, Marbella was all about pretension, but the pretension was still superficial. Everyone was a foreigner in Marbella, but there was still that hint that things were possible—away from the hard line and relentless expectations that existed in England.
The house was empty when he arrived in Marbella. Alistair’s footsteps echoed off the high ceiling and he sat down in one of the sofas looking out over the view. He looked around at the house where the décor was the representation of some decorator’s vision. It was nice, rich, warm colours, and plush furniture.
Quentin wasn’t there—off in the Far East, pursuing some project. Mother occasionally spent time here, but she wasn’t around. He had no idea where she was. She could be anywhere in the world. Alistair hadn’t bothered telling his family about his plans. It would bring up all sorts of questions about what his plans were now. Why he’d quit his job and everything else. Questions he didn’t want to answer. He just needed a break.
It was only for a few months. He’d get laid, get drunk, and then think about heading back. It was probably time to leave finance anyway, or he’d get stuck there.
Leaning back, he ran his hand across his belly. Already he felt himself unwind a bit. What he really needed now was a drink.
Chapter 2
With complete exasperation, Paul Wilkes rolled his eyes. His sister was sitting on the sofa, running her bare feet down a cushion and giggling. She was giggling, for heaven’s sake. It was absolutely unbearable and with a groan of defeat, he rose from his chair and walked out the back of the house. Rosalie had been trying ever since she’d reconnected with her ex, Alexi.
Alexi was wooing her whenever he was in Marbella, which was too often in Paul’s book. His sister was in love. Her face would soften when she spoke to the Russian. And they were so careful around each other—small, tentative touches and blushes. It was like they were teenagers. In all honesty, it was revolting to watch.
But he guessed it was only a matter of time before Rosalie would relent and would move into Alexi’s penthouse down the coast. Then Paul would be free of his unwilling role as witness to their blossoming romance.
Sitting down with a pile of papers, he continued marking,
absently balancing the red pen between his fingers. Marking papers was the most tedious part of his job as senior lecturer at the Marbella Business School, but it had to be done.
Putting the pile aside again, he intertwined his fingers and closed his eyes, feeling the sun on his legs. He’d always assumed he was too English to tan, but he actually had a bit of colour—not enough for non-British people to notice, but it was there. Colour wasn’t his objective, but a good dose of vitamin D wouldn’t hurt and here it was as simple as sitting in the backyard.
He’d grown very comfortable in Marbella. Life here was easy. The social life was a much as one could take. The weather was mostly pleasant and the work wasn’t exactly challenging. It paid well, too. But he had the feeling that if he sat like this and close his eyes, he would wake up with ten years passed before he knew it. There was a problem with being too content.
Rosalie had started making noises questioning his contentment. Her re-acquaintance with love had given her a firm belief that one could not be happy without it. Paul was perfectly happy. What had made him unhappy had been his marriage. He hadn’t noticed at the time—until Sarah had started cheating. Then things had gone awry quite dramatically with irate solicitor’s calls and general nastiness. So, yes, he was supremely content being single. In fact, looking back, his marriage had added very little to his life, other than hassle.
“Paul.” Rosalie stepped outside and broke into his reverie. “The Marchams are having a dinner party and we’ve been invited.”
“You mean Alexi has been invited.”
“Us, as well.”
“I’m fairly sure I wasn’t invited, considering I hardly know them.”
“Don’t be difficult, Paul. I said we’d come.”
Paul sighed. He hated when she did that, accepted an invitation on his behalf. But she was adamant that he couldn’t be left on his own. Maybe she was right; he was much too contented. He probably did need to mingle a little more with women, lest he fall prey to the relentless girls at the school, with their tight clothes and overt sexuality. He wasn’t really one to lust after young girls, but lack of other attention made any man susceptible. Sometimes he wondered if there was a bet between them on who could make him fold. He’d never underestimate their deviousness.
Rosalie would never understand. She was never subjected to this in her academic career. Men feared sexual harassment, something that didn’t extend to the girl. They were fearless, and they had a point—what man would bring a sexual harassment suit against a young, nubile girl? He’d quietly be ridiculed by the entire school as strangely neurotic.
Some men would think it would be an enviable position to be in, young girls throwing themselves at you, but these girls had no care if their actions ended someone’s career. Their callousness knew no bounds.
Believe it or not, one had to grow wise dealing with these girls, because these particular girls were used to getting their way.
“Fine,” he said after a while. Agreeing to go to this thing likely meant a night of inane banter. Rich didn’t necessarily mean intelligent, and it certainly didn’t mean interesting, which these people tended to have an unshakeable belief they were. The most insane statements tumbled out of their mouths. Still, their quest for status and affirmation was never-ending. Confidence and insecurity in equal measure, both extreme.
“It will be an interesting night,” Rosalie said and walked inside again.
With renewed intent, he picked up his red pen and grabbed the pile of papers. “If the height of excitement is playing footsie under the table,” he mumbled.
Chapter 3
Cheyenne sat at her dressing table, wearing a silk kimono. Her spun brown and gold curls hung around her shoulders as she looked through her correspondence, including the invitations that still came on stiff, white paper. Her return was as successful as she’d expected. The baronessa title opened all sorts of doors. Well, not everyone was keen on including her, such as Mrs. Marcham, but a few well-placed flirt with Mr. Marcham had his wife unwillingly prying open her invitation list.
She placed the invitation down and looked at herself in the mirror. She was still stunning. Every feature was perfect. Shifting her focus, she saw the sleeping form in her bed. The young man she’d picked up. He lay nude, his firm backside deliciously curved. She liked them young, hot and hard. The bars were full of them, there for the picking, like ripe fruit. She toyed with them, keeping them frustrated until their balls ached for relief, and then she teased them some more.
Taking a deep breath, she sighed with contentment. She wasn’t done yet, but everything was falling into place. She actually enjoyed how grudgingly the women of Marbella had to accept her. She had everything—looks and money, and they hated it. Wealth was the thing they prided themselves on, compensating for their all-round mediocracy, but now they couldn’t compete. Not that she’d lower herself to playing with their pathetic husbands. No, really, they were quite safe. Cheyenne had bigger fish to fry.
“Time for you to go, my darling,” she said into the mirror, until the young man stirred.
“Can I see you tonight?”
She laughed. “I’m done with you. Now go.”
Quietly, he dressed, pulling on his tight jeans and cheap T-shirt, staring daggers at her through the mirror. Oh, if he thought that bothered her, he was so very mistaken. She waved as he angrily grabbed something, giving her a last narrowed-eyed look. From experience, she knew full well that these boys could dish it out, but they couldn’t take it.
The room still smelled of sex and Cheyenne got up and opened the doors to the balcony, walking out and seeing the coastline of Marbella, gleaming and green, the sea a misty blue today. It was good to be back. She’d done the work and now it was time to play. This was going to be fun.
But first, she needed to exact her revenge on Alexi, which should be ridiculously easy. Firstly, he was with that mouse of a girl, Rosalie, which was utterly incomprehensible. Word was he liked her and Cheyenne was going to find some way of ruining it. Stealing Alexi back was always an option, but the rub was: once her trust was broken, and Alexi had broken it by breaking up with her in the first place, it didn’t mend. She didn’t actually want Alexi back. It was a shame, because he had everything going for him—that gruffness she adored, status and more money than she could ever want. Who would have thought trust would be an issue?
Now she had to get ready for lunch. It was an important one. Some of the women were checking her out. When she’d been in Marbella before, she’d been a persona non grata, but now she had the right credentials. The pink Chanel jacket and tight grey jeans. She wasn’t quite ready to give up style. Rich women didn’t always understand style; they just went with the most expensive. Style was something different and she’d been tied to the fashion industry long enough to understand what it was.
The patio she was shown into was cool. Linen-covered tables covered the space and diners sat and gossiped. Cheyenne let the maître d lead her to hers, where she could already see Cassandra Wilson, sitting in what looked like Prada. There was also Bettany Mullbury, Ava French and Olivia Fessen-Wren.
“Ladies,” Cheyenne said as she approached, putting her clutch on the table. “So lovely to see you,” she said as she lightly kissed each on the cheek, before sitting down and crossing her lean legs.
The waiter approached straight away. Everyone around the table had wine. “Sparkling water.” No point taking in calories. She wasn’t quite as thin as when she’d been modelling. Too thin wasn’t sexy and now that her fortune wasn’t dependent on projecting the image designers wanted, she would project the image men wanted. Still, no point taking in useless calories.
“You look fantastic,” Olivia said. “You’re so lucky with your skin.”
There was no luck involved; it was proper management. Right care regime, lasers to increase blood flow and expensive collagen treatments. “I have been lucky. My mother had fantastic skin. Still does.” It didn’t serve to give her secrets away—why c
reate competition? Cheyenne smiled and directed her attention to Bettany. “Unless I’ve heard wrong, I understand you’ve bought a new house.”
“Not new exactly. The Sanderstone house came up after their divorce and we’ve bought it. It’s absolutely adorable. I can’t wait to move in, but the designers will be another three months.” She made an exaggerated frown. “But good design takes time, so we will just have to wait.”
“Now I heard from a friend in London that the Dunbury divorce is just about final,” Cassandra said.
“That was quick.”
“Dominic was never one to mess around. Apparently, all that unfortunate business last year is all behind him.”
“What unfortunate business?” Cheyenne asked, receiving her glass of sparkling water from a girl bringing it over on a tray.
“You didn’t hear?”
“No, I’ve been too busy to stay abreast of some of the goings on here.” In fact, she’d been working her tail off to secure her marriage and future. The baron had taken some convincing. Well, actually, it had been his mother that had needed convincing and it had taken quite a bit of coaxing to get Vennhagen to stand up to her. In the end, Cheyenne had her way as she always did. “Weddings,” she said with an eye roll. “They’re so consuming.”
“It was quite a scandal on the coast, and back in England. He went to prison.”
“How long was that for? It seemed a blink of an eye,” Olivia piped in.
“It was only a month or two, but Dominic apparently saw it as a way of doing a bit of spring cleaning.”
“See, I heard it was her that initiated it,” Bettany said dismissively. “She wasn’t the brightest girl in the stable. Has apparently taken up with some dried-up ponce back in England, some esteemed but too respectable man in the Home Office.”
Marbella Beauty Page 1
