by Alam, Donna
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, look!’ Fee nudges me so hard, the much-chased grains fall off my fork and onto the picnic rug. A picnic rug for a picnic lunch on a tiny square of lawn at the rear of the hotel and tower complex. There are a dozen or so Wolf Industry employees with the same idea, some sitting on a picnic bench, others lounging under the shade of trees.
‘Okay, what? Where is this unmissable Adonis?’ As I look up, I become aware of the powerful roar of a motorcycle, a beast of a machine all revs and no speed. ‘Do you think motorcycle riders look sexy because of the way they’re bowed over the machine?’ There’s something about it reminiscent of the bedroom.
‘Because of all that power between the legs.’
That’s not exactly what I mean, but yeah, I suppose.
The beast pulls up against the curb, the engine cutting out. A man is clearly in charge of the thing, though he’s not really dressed for it. A tailored suit jacket hugs to his broad shoulders and powerful thighs as a jet-coloured helmet covers his head, the visor glinting in the sun.
‘Men and machines aren’t really my thing. Besides, he might look like Shrek under all that.’ I guess some girls, or boys even, might make him keep the helmet on in that case because the picture he creates is pretty hot. For me, motorcycles conjure up images of denim and leather, beards and tattoos, not bespoke tailoring and shiny black shoes. Who knew these would be a good combination.
‘What’s wrong with men who ride?’ If it were anyone else other than Fee asking, I’d accuse them of having a dirty mind.
‘Nothing. If you like grease monkeys, I suppose.’ The words almost dry on my tongue as the driver dismounts, his hands rising to his helmet almost in slo-mo.
That’s right, daddy.
Change my perception.
You take that thing off slowly . . . make it last.
‘He knows how to play to an audience, am I . . . right?’ The latter leaves my mouth as a squeak, the dark helmet exposing my very own personal Adonis. I mean, not exposing him—his fly isn’t open or anything. Not that it matters because I’m still hit with the insane urge to make those around us avert their eyes because, Christ on a cracker, the suit, and the mighty beast combo looks so hot on him.
He places the helmet down on the bike, pulling wayfarer sunglasses from his inside jacket pocket; a must when you live somewhere that is sunny three hundred days a year. His shades hide his intentions as his purposeful stride in all his suit-porn glory heads our way.
‘What is he doing here?’ I protest while trying to compose myself. Placing the container down, I pluck at my skirt, shimmying it down my thighs. I was trying to catch a little sun, but now I’m just nervous. Nervous and a little excited at the prospect he’s sought me out. Anxious that it might not be the case. Maybe he’ll just pass me with a casual smile, or even a studied disinterest. Add in a little fear of the strength of my feelings and a little more loathing that I can’t help myself, and what I am right now, sitting on a patch of grass is emotional soup.
The tension inside me disappears as the corner of his lip quirks; he’s here for me.
‘Ladies. Charles.’ My internal organs seem to be attempting to rearrange themselves at the deep tenor of his voice. ‘You picked a beautiful day for a picnic lunch.’
For the sake of your mental health, don’t think about what’s going on under that suit.
‘Oh, would you like to join us?’ Fee is already twisting her legs under her to free up the edge of the rug, but he’s already shaking his head. The Remy of March would probably hunker down beside us, but the billionaire Remy? The demands on his time are just too great. It’s just as well. Yet he seems to find time for me.
‘Thank you, but no. I’ve already eaten.’ His gaze flicks my way. ‘Alone.’
Behold the field in which I grow my fucks. Lay thine eyes upon it and thou shalt see that it is barren. Which is just a fancy-assed way of saying, you’re a big boy, you can eat alone. And a picnic lunch with friends is an appointment, even if my neck is suddenly prickling with discomfort. Or did I say I had a meeting? I can’t remember.
‘I wondered if I could have a word with Rose.’
It’s a strangely formal request, but I guess he doesn’t know my friends would probably drag my ass up and throw me into his arms if I refused. I’m proved right as they begin to fuss.
‘I have to get back to the office.’ This from Fee, who doesn’t even work in an office.
‘I—I ’ave to see a man about a dog. A Pekinese!’ he exclaims, but we both know that party is over, Charlie boy.
‘You can just wait right here,’ I interject sternly, curling my legs under me to stand. ‘Both of you.’ It’s not like they’d actually leave, anyway. They’d just find another vantage point.
I follow him to the shade of a nearby tree where I adjust the monogrammed scarf I have tied loosely around my neck, purposely ignoring how the sun crests his head-turning the ends of his hair almost copper.
‘How was your meeting?’
You were just looking at it. ‘Good.’
‘And the rest of your day?’
‘It’s been pretty good up until now.’
At my answer, his lips quirk in the corner. ‘Good until I appeared?’
I lift and drop my shoulder because I’m not sure I could even attempt to put together an answer that wasn’t a lot of anger and half-formed thoughts.
‘Then I’m afraid you’re about to be very disappointed,’ he murmurs, his mouth not quite giving into a smile.
‘And you find that entertaining why?’
He tips his head back as though to watch the leaves above rustling in the breeze. The light shifts and dances, dappling his face. ‘I’d like you to come to dinner with me tonight.’
‘Ah, I get it. It’s a joke.’
‘No, I’m quite serious.’
‘And I’m not interested.’ My words are part incredulous huff, part dude, I can’t believe you’d even try.
‘Fine.’ A ripple of disappointment moves through me. Was that it? He asks, I say no, game over, move on? ‘Let me put in another way.’ He slides off his shade, his eyes seeming to reflect the exact shade of the leaves above, the depths of his determination revealed in their intensity. ‘Be ready for eight o’clock this evening because I’m taking you out.’
‘In your dreams, maybe.’
His gaze moves over me, blood rising to the surface of my skin as though it were a physical thing. ‘No, Rose. In my dreams we stay in. In my dreams, the only time we move from the bed is to change the room in which we fuck.’
The sound that next leaves my mouth was meant as derision. Instead, it hits the air as a gentle breath at his drawlingly dirty elocution. ‘I can’t stop you from imagining,’ I manage eventually, ‘but I don’t have to go anywhere with you.’
‘I anticipated as much, but you’re wrong, of course. You see, I own you.’ He steps into me, forcing me to tilt back my head. But I won’t cede any ground.
‘Maybe between the hours of nine and five.’ I look down at my hand, studying how my thumb slides over my fingernails as though checking for a rough spot. I’m conscious of the gawkers and refuse to satisfy any curiosity they might have by rising to the bait because that would suit him just perfectly, wouldn’t it? Maybe I’d get angry, and he’d get a little cockier, then I’d push him, and he’d wrap me in his arms and press a punishing kiss to my lips. Where was I again? Oh yeah. I refuse to give in to him or provide the gossips and gawkers a sideshow along with proving the only work I do for him I do on my back.
‘Perhaps you should reread your contract. I believe it reads as required.’
‘Hours to be determined, up to thirty-five per week,’ I parrot back. Read it? I’ve almost memorised it while looking for a way out of this job. A way out you wouldn’t have taken, my mind whispers anyway.
‘Even I don’t have that kind of stamina.’ His smile is disarming, contradicting his words. ‘But I wasn’t talking about your employment. I own you here
.’ Reaching out, he presses two fingers to my heart. It’s not a sexual touch but a blatant one. To those looking on, I guess it could look like a quiet reprimand for the way I’m wearing my scarf as he flicks it, withdrawing his hand. A quiet reprimand or borderline sexual harassment, I’d lay odds that there’s not one person looking on who wouldn’t swap places. If only they knew.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, stepping back. ‘Do you want people to talk?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I want them to do. I want them to talk you into my arms. Dinner tonight. I won’t take no for an answer. A car will pick you up at eight.’
‘Then you’d better square in with Olga. If I’m working tonight, I’ll need time off in the morning.’
‘That sounds like a good idea. Perhaps I’ll also block out my morning.’ There’s no need to guess what he means, his half smile pure sin.
‘Don’t get the wrong idea, Romeo. I’m just not working extra hours for free.’ And I’m not working under you. Unless you ask nicely. No, I mean I’m not working under you for anything.
When he finally finds his voice, it’s low and full of intensity. ‘I realise you don’t think a lot of me right now, but I want you to know that I’m going to do everything in my power to change that.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I huff. And with that less than satisfactory denouement, I make my way back to my friends. My smiling friends.
‘What was that all about?’ Fee.
‘What did he say?’ Charles.
‘I’ve been ordered to dinner.’
‘Ordered?’ Fee repeats with a frown.
‘Yup. So don’t expect to see me in the morning. Close your mouth, honey,’ I retort, turning to Charles, ‘it’s not like that. It’s a working dinner.’
But only one of us will be working hard.
32
Remy
I drop my bag in the entryway, still not quite believing I’d asked Rose to bring it to me. The thing is big enough to put her in! But it was another excuse to see her. One I just didn’t think through properly. To add insult to injury, Rhett annoyed me the whole evening, completely throwing me off my game. I’m not sure the way he fights really enters into the spirit of things; he salutes like he ought to, engages as he should, but it’s the constant running commentary of goading that sets him apart as far as things go.
As one of the original Olympic sports, he does the name of fencing no good. But he makes a worthy opponent, for someone who didn’t take it up at the age of twelve. Even if he sometimes behaves as though he’s twelve.
I head straight for the kitchen to examine what Marta left for dinner this evening. Chicken with tomatoes and tarragon, I can tell, before I’ve even opened the oven. I set the timer, pull out last night’s open bottle of Chapoutier Ermitage, thinking I must’ve had more than one glass judging by the bottle unless Marta used it to cook. At two hundred euros a bottle, the dish better be good. Splashing a little into a glass, I take it into the other room, heading for the second floor to change.
I take the stairs two at a time, knowing there is only a few minutes between my tarragon chicken being ready and inedible. Wine glass in one hand, I use the other to unbutton my shirt as my mind fills with a dozen inconsequential thoughts.
My hair is still damp from the shower at the club, which means it’s probably time for a haircut.
I’ll have Paulette call George and book in for a trim and a straight razor shave.
I should invite Rose to watch.
Perhaps she’d like to learn.
Though after this afternoon, a cut-throat razor might not be the best thing to hand her.
I’m hungry, having worked up an appetite, and in a hurry to get to my meal before it spoils. The final button on my shirt loosened, push open the bedroom door, simultaneously raising the glass to my lips. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied I might’ve registered the lights were on. And if I’d registered the lights, I might’ve realised that I wasn’t alone.
‘Amélie.’ Her eyes widen with satisfaction at my tone. But she’s mistaken if she thinks the husk in my voice is anything other than shock. ‘Que faites-vous?’ What are you doing?’
Here. In my bedroom.
With very few clothes on.
‘I didn’t like how we left things before,’ she answers, raising the glass in her hand to lips.
‘I thought you were out of the country.’ Like the child who believes any attention is good, the key to success with her is indifference. Besides, I only know where she’s supposed to be because I’d asked Rhett to keep an eye on her.
Because I trust her as far as I could pitch her across the room.
‘Just for a few days.’ She places one leg over the other, the opposite hand draping across her body, loosely clasping her hip. Some position, I suppose, she picked up from her modelling days.
‘Well, you can go home now. Nothing has changed.’ I don’t bother asking how she got in here, mainly because I couldn’t trust her answer, as I place my glass down on the dresser and consider how buttoning my shirt would seem like a weakness. But keeping it open might encourage her.
‘But Remy, why does it have to end? You know I’m good for you. I don’t place any demands on your time, but I’m always there by your side when you need me.’
‘When I need the illusion of a partner, you mean? A life mate?’ She nods gracefully, drawing closer, her walk something more at home on the catwalk. ‘I don’t need illusions any longer.’ Were my illusions her delusions? I think probably not. We were never suited. This is more about a loss of standing, a loss of finances.
‘Your little friend doesn’t even speak French. I heard she used to work in a strip club.’ She pouts as though pitying me my poor choices, her hand slides to the nape of my neck, her glass holding the other. ‘She won’t even fit into couture, Remy. How will that look at one of your mother’s fundraisers?’
‘You know, I always knew you were a bitch,’ I murmur, trailing my fingers up her slender arm, ‘but I didn’t realise you were quite so unpleasant.’ As I pull her wrist away, it drops to her side. ‘Rose knows the meaning of an honest day’s work. Something you wouldn’t understand. Put your clothes back on.’
‘Look at me—how can you possibly prefer her?’
‘If you really need to ask, it’s pointless asking me to explain. Put on your clothes. And. Get. Out.’ This time, I leave her in no doubt; it isn’t a request. But just in case, I leave the room first.
‘Where are you going?’ she calls after me.
‘Somewhere you aren’t.’
I’ll stay at the hotel, I suppose, as I have done many nights over the past two years. No, I decide. I’ll go down to the marina and stay on Le Loupe. My yacht.
33
Rose
How does a girl dress for a night with a billionaire she wants to hate but can’t? A night where there’s to be dinner, for which she’s negotiated overtime, along with a few hours off the following day. A sensible choice would be to don her uniform again. But she never was very sensible. At least, not when it comes to him.
‘This is not some voiceover for a rom-com,’ I mutter, examining the scant offerings of my wardrobe.
Included in the price of my flight out from the States was one twenty-five kilo piece of luggage, which contained workwear, a capsule wardrobe of weekend casuals. pyjamas. Underwear. Five pair of shoes. A fancy kimono that took forever to drop its creases. Going out dresses totalling three; one LBD, one floral cutesy number, one black lace with a nude underlay, super sexy, it also draws the eye to the girls.
I not sure I’m even convinced as I reach for the floral, feeding myself such excuses as the restaurant might be a little posh, and the LBD might be a little formal. Now the lace, though it provides full coverage from neck to knees, is the dress equivalent of an ostrich feather fan dance. Now you see the boobs, not you don’t. I guess that makes my choice a little easier for this working dinner.
Well, I’m certainly working it, I decide as I
examine myself in the mirror. The fabric of the dress works wonders for my shape, sort of sucking in and tucking up the usual things I don’t like about myself. I tell myself my updo has the fashionable tousled look, one that says take me to bed, or even, I just got out of it. Either of those will do. Both are better than plain old big.
My phone rings a little after seven-thirty; a car is waiting for me downstairs. A Bentley, more specifically.
‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Ryan.’ The driver inclines his head, all deference and dapper suit as he opens the rear door. Well, I guess he just confirmed this isn’t anyone else’s ride. Lord knows there are probably as many Bentleys on the roads in Monaco as there are Ubers in most other countries. Relatively speaking, I mean. ‘My name is Hénri. I am to take you to Monsieur Durrand.’
‘Thank you.’ I decorously slide inside, the buttery leather interior like an invitation to roll around in. An invitation I resist.
‘Which restaurant are we going to?’ From the back seat, I pitch my voice to be heard over the deep interior.
‘I have instructions to keep the destination a surprise,’ he replies, his eyes on the driver’s side mirror as he pulls out into the traffic.
‘Great. Super great.’ Because that’s not weird at all. ‘I’ll just text Fee and tell her if she hasn’t heard from me in an hour to alert the authorities.’
‘Pardon, Mademoiselle?’
‘Nothing.’ Catching the chauffer’s attention in the rear-view mirror, I smile and give my head a little shake. ‘Nothing at all. But if we get anywhere near an airfield, I’m bailing at the first opportunity,’ I mumble to myself.
The car drives west heading out of Monaco and in the direction of Italy, I think. I watch the scenery slip by the window; the landmarks unfamiliar to me as we make our way out of the city. The streetlamps become sparser as the car begins to wind its way up the hilly vista, and area that has just been a backdrop for my Monaco experience so far.
