by Donna Alam
‘You’re not staying at the chateau?’
‘I’m not single.’
‘You’ll forgive me for mentioning that you were engaged last time I was in Monaco.’
Oh, dear Lord.
‘Mother, you know the agreement I had with Amélie Pastor. You were party to it in its inception, as I recall.’
‘Yes, I was. And you know why. Wolf Industries is your birth right. But Amélie told me last month that things had changed. I saw her in Milan,’ she says, waving away the details. ‘She said that a fondness had developed between you both.’
‘The only thing Amélie has ever had a fondness for is my money.’
‘Remy, that was crass. Aside from being very uncomplimentary, it is beneath you to speak in such a way.’
Hmm. Seems like she’s one of those rich people who doesn’t like talking about money. I bet she’s never had her power cut off.
As though sensing my discomfort, Remy presses his thigh to mine as he answers. ‘But it is the truth, nonetheless.’
‘Our families have always been so close. We are of the same world.’
I . . . am not of the same world. I’m also tapping out. No way I’m sitting here to listen to his mother sing the praises of another, no matter how lukewarm.
‘Maybe this is a conversation you should both have alone.’ I begin to stand when Remy’s fingers tighten on mine.
‘Stay, please.’ His gaze runs warily across my face before his attention turns to his mother once more. ‘I was never in love with Amélie. Not for a minute, and I can assure you the lack of sentiment was returned. I’m not sure why she would tell you otherwise. And Ben is wrong. I’m not living alone. I’m living with Rose.’
Ho-boy. Talk about happy families.
In the mirror, she stares back at me. Dramatic eyed and voluptuous, the satin clinging to her breasts and hips before flowing to the floor, elongating and slimming and making her look like she belongs on the pages of a glossy magazine.
‘Hello, gorgeous.’ I finger a glossy braid running along the side of my head in a style the hairstylist had called a crown of curls and braids. I’m so pleased I’d allowed Charles to persuade me to book an appointment, rather than d-i-y it tonight.
‘I don’t know who you are, but I like what I see,’ I whisper to my reflection. And then, because I promised Amber I’d send her a selfie, I do. Pulling a ridiculously over the top duck-pout in the mirror, I take the snap, knowing it’ll give her a giggle. Then I take another more serious photograph as proof I ever looked this way.
Grabbing my clutch from the dresser, I make sure the contents of the plastic envelope from Omega is in my clutch before slotting away my phone.
Remy has yet to see my dress. It’s not like I’ve hidden it from him, we just happen to have separate dressing rooms. You know, like one does. I giggle, not sure if it’s a reaction to the way that sounded in my head, or because I feel so lucky, or if it’s because I’m loving the way I look, or that I’m giddy at the thoughts of seeing Remy’s reaction. Probably every one of those things.
I make my way out to the bedroom, not really expecting to find him there. I also don’t expect to find him waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs as I reach the halfway point of the staircase.
Waiting. For. Me.
My hand on the polished bannister rail, in the other, I’ve gathered my dress, holding it up and to the side as I attempt a graceful descent. Which is pretty difficult, considering the sight of him sends my insides aflutter.
Dust motes dance like fairies between us, his face made up of shadow and the piercing green of his eyes. But as I draw closer, I see the love shining there.
This beautiful man loves and desires me, and whatever happened in my life before, and whatever happens going forward, this moment feels as perfect as the lustre of his blue-black satin lapels as they catch the dying rays of the sun.
Oh, man, I knew he’d look good in a tux, but I didn’t expect it to make me want to strip him out of it tout de suite. I restrain the urge to say so as I reach the bottom stair but one, trying for something a little more dignified as I smooth my hand across his shoulder.
‘Don’t you look dashing.’ This is such an understatement. He looks like James Bond’s better-looking brother, his hair swept back from his face, the angles of his cheekbones and strong jaw smoothly shaved.
‘And you . . . you have stolen my breath, my thoughts, and my words.’
As he leans toward me, I press my hand to the centre of his chest. ‘This lipstick might promise twelve hours of staying power, but I’m still not sure it’d withstand a make-out session with your rakishly handsome self.’
‘Rakishly handsome?’ he repeats, his tone playing up to the role, the lift of a singular brow a perfect complement to my assertions. He’s Rhett to my Scarlett. Darcy to my Elizabeth. Jacob to my Hannah, and I am crazy, stupid (in) love.
‘Yep, you’re so deliciously right yet so deliciously wrong.’ I lower my voice as though there are people around who might hear. ‘Because I know what’s going on underneath that fine suiting.’ I trail my hand down his chest, my gaze following the path of my fingertips. As I reach his belt, he lifts my hand to his lips.
‘And you say I’m the wrong one.’ His eyes sparkle as he presses a kiss to the back of my hand. He’s still holding it as I take the final stair, somehow finding myself twirled into the curved space at the very bottom of the staircase.
‘I don’t need to ask you for a kiss, because this is the place kisses are stolen.’ His words are an echo of my much earlier ones. The first time I’d visited this house, I’d spoken of debutantes and brides, of the love affairs and lives the four walls of this house must’ve seen. The realisation that he remembers, as though he’d plucked my words from the air and kept them close causes, a tiny explosion of delight inside of me.
In an achingly perfect moment, his lips glance across mine. ‘You look so beautiful, Rose.’
‘No one ever called me beautiful before you,’ I find myself admitting.
‘That’s a little hard to believe.’ He twists an artfully curled lock of my hair, brushing it against my neck. His mouth follows his fingers and I sigh, my head rolling to the side as his lips press to the curve between my shoulder and neck. One kiss becomes two, two becomes a trembling sigh, my back pressed against the bannister in an attempt to keep myself upright. ‘My beautifully tempting Rose. Perhaps you were waiting for me to bloom.’
And bloom I do, under his wandering hands and his lips, under his beguiling attentions there, at the base of the stairs. And when he finally withdraws, my lipstick is right where it ought to be, though my wits are rolling about the floor like marbles.
He presses his palm low on my spine, leading me to the front door when a sudden realisation hits
‘I almost forgot.’ I turn to him, finding myself once more in the circle of his arms.
‘Do you want to test your lipstick again?’
‘First, the places you kissed weren’t wearing lipstick. Second,’ I say, sliding my hand into my clutch. ‘I thought you might like this.’ I place his grandfather’s watch in his palm, folding his fingers over it.
‘You had it repaired?’ His expression is a mixture of surprise and something I can’t quite identify as he looks down at it once more.
‘They had to replace the strap, but it’s almost the same. And the mechanism underwent some kind of repair.’ With genuine parts. I push away the thought. There would be nothing to gain from telling him what was discovered in store.
‘This is . . .’ He pulls me to his chest. ‘I have no words.’ His expression shines with such appreciation as he strips off the Rolex, discarding it to the table in the hallway, wrapping the new leather Omega strap around his wrist.
‘It’s wonderful, Rose. Thank you. I can’t believe you’ve done this for me.’
I feel ten feet tall, and as we begin to move once more, I make a silent vow.
This house will never before have witnessed a
love like ours.
44
Rose
The gala is being held at the Hôtel de Loup, the imposing building that sits almost at the heart of Monaco. Built at the height of the Belle Époque period, it’s well regarded to be the epitome of timeless grace and elegance.
Hénri brings the car to a halt outside of the grand entrance, my door immediately opened by a liveried valet.
‘This looks like it’s going to be trés fancy,’ I whisper as Remy settles my arm in the crook of his. The clip of my heels muffled by the lengthy red carpet leading into the hotel.
‘Oppressively so,’ he agrees before adding, ‘but I feel like I should temper your expectations.’
‘Don’t tell me I got all dressed up for an evening of snooze.’
‘Just don’t expect too much.’ His mouth twists a touch sardonically.
‘Will the food be good, at least?’
‘As best as can be expected when feeding hundreds at the same time.’
‘And there’ll be champagne?’
‘Rivers of it.’
‘And I’ll have you,’ I add, tightening my grip. ‘All my needs sound taken care of. I’ll be as happy as a clam.’
Remy nods his greetings to a couple of matronly looking women and shakes the hands of at least four couples on our way in, yet he doesn’t stop to chat. Instead he murmurs exactly how he intends to take care of my needs when we get home this evening. How he’ll take his time unravelling my braids before kissing me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, and some very particular places in between.
‘If you’re trying to make me blush, it’s working.’
‘I’m just giving you something to look forward to, that’s all.’
‘I’m not going to be able to look at your mother without wondering if she can read my thoughts.’
‘Well, she is remarkably astute,’ he agrees.
‘That’s not helping!’
I find myself coming to a halt at a pair of giant-sized doors that lead into a ballroom the length of a soccer field. The gilded domed ceiling gleams from above as crystal chandeliers glitter and glasses chink, the space already filled with guests; men in tuxedos and women in a rainbow of colours. An orchestra plays from a raised gallery at the front of the room, the space is heavy with the scent of fresh flowers and a hundred perfumes.
‘It’s like stepping back in time,’ I find myself whispering, awestruck. As a college kid, I’d worked a few weddings at fancy hotels, but I’ve never seen anything like this. European glamour and wealth meets history in one space.
‘You haven’t been to the hotel yet?’
I shake my head as I answer. ‘I’ve been to the kitchens. And the foyer. But that’s about it.’ And Remy owns this magnificence. The realisation is like an anvil to the head. I mean, I know he doesn’t own it all—Wolf Industries has shareholders and a board to placate. But oh my God, I thought Wolf Tower was a lot to get my mind around. But this—this is crazy.
‘Rose? You’ve gone a little pale.’
‘I’m fine.’ I shake my head and inhale. It feels like I’d forgotten to do that for a while.
Remy is rich. So rich he tried to give you a house—a chateau, not less. You’ll get over it.
Because he’s also very good looking. And very sweet, if not a little bossy.
He’s also the man you love.
And he puts his underwear on one leg at a time, just like everyone else.
Pep talk over, I tug on his arm. He tilts his head to my ear. ‘Are we late?’
‘Last in first out. That’s usually my plan of attack.’
‘We forgot to look at the seating plan on the way in. Unless we’re just doing a lap of the room before bailing,’ I say hopefully, because now that we’re here, actually in the ballroom, nervousness is beginning to creep in.
‘If it were any other night, we wouldn’t have even made it to the car. Because that dress . . .’
‘Stop looking down my cleavage.’
‘Ma Rose, a dress like that is an invitation to imagine peeling you out of it.’ His half smile could best be described as enigmatic. ‘But our table is here.’
Of course we’d be front and centre. The ball is named after his family, after all.
‘One thing.’ I find myself glancing down to where he covers my hand with his own, my spidey senses instantly tingling at his tone. ‘I probably should’ve told you earlier, but Amélie will be here.’
‘You did say. She helped your mom with the planning, right?’
It’s not like she’s the ex that’s been invited to our wedding. Only a petty bitch would demand “it’s me or her” and not only am I not petty, I’m also pretty certain I’d be the one on the bus home if I did pull this stunt, given his mother’s lukewarm reception to meeting me in Remy’s office.
‘But what I didn’t say is that she’ll be seated at the same table as my mother. The same table we are seated.’
‘Oh, boy.’ My laughter is hard, his fingers tightening. ‘Were you banking on me not noticing the gazelle in the room?’
‘What do gazelles have to do with anything?’
‘It really doesn’t matter.’
If you’ll let me explain—’
‘But what does matter is that you really are a piece of work.’ I nail a smile to my face as I begin to scan the space for an exit, other than the one behind me. I’m not leaving. At least, not yet. But this is something that requires a discussion in private. Somewhere without an audience that run into the hundreds.
‘Do you remember when I said that I would never set out to hurt you intentionally?’
‘Oh, so this was an accident? Right.’
‘This is not my doing,’ he replies, turning us in the direction of a side door and into another room. No, not a room; more a narrow hallway, staff to-ing and fro-ing, turning their bodies sideways as they pass, barely sparing us a second glance.
I’m pleased, at least, he had the same opinion about privacy.
My hand still secured in the crook of his arm, he leads me left into an alcove very much like the ones I’ve read about in historical romance novels. A seclude alcove. A dark curtain. A window seat. A place to canoodle without anyone seeing.
There will be no canoodling today. But there will be answers.
‘I swear to you I didn’t know.’ He stares down at me, his green eyes angry. ‘Not until Everett sent me a text when he saw Amélie’s name on the seating plan.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me then?’
‘No, because I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to track down my mother to correct the fuck up.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ I resist the urge to fold my arms across my chest because there’s no way I’m spoiling the fall of this gown. ‘So you went around town looking for your mother?’
‘I asked Paulette to find her, and when I spoke with her this afternoon, she agreed it would be tactless for Amélie to be seated at the same table. She was under the impression the event planner had removed her to another table.’
‘And?’
‘It seems she moved herself back.’
‘Which mean what, exactly?’
‘Apart from the fact the woman has a screw loose, I’m not sure. Unless you want to cause a scene.’
Which, I’m sure, would go down so well for me. ‘You should’ve told me, Remy.’ Yet another incidence of his high-handedness
‘And give you a chance not to come?’ he retorts.
‘And that would be my decision to make, not yours. You get that, right?’
‘Monaco is a small place. You’re going to come across her sometime.’
‘And I would’ve preferred it to not have been tonight,’ I counter, trying very hard to stay calm in the face of this overbearing, asshole side of him.
‘All right, love birds. Break it up.’
At the sound of Everett’s deep . . . ly annoying voice, I find myself growling at the ceiling. ‘I feel like breaking something.’
&nb
sp; ‘Not me,’ he says, pointing at the earpiece dangling from his ear. ‘I’m working.’ His gaze slides to Remy. ‘And not him, he’s got a speech to give.’
‘I suppose that leaves Amélie, then.’
‘I reckon you could take her. Let me know if you’re gonna throw down and I’ll start offering odds.’
‘Rhett,’ Remy murmurs wearily. ‘Don’t encourage her.’ But he’s smiling, even as he watches me roll my shoulders.
‘All right slugger. Your table awaits.’ Rhett flourishes bow, the kind suited more to a seventeenth century gent.
‘You smell nice,’ I say as I pass. ‘What is that? Chloroform by Tom Ford?’
‘I don’t need to knock them out, Heidi. I have to beat them off.’ He mimes something that looks a little like baseball but not quite. Cricket, maybe?
‘There’s a joke in there.’
‘Please don’t look too closely,’ Remy adds as we reach the hallway again.
‘I’m not sure I’m talking to you.’
‘I think you’re annoyed at the wrong person.’
‘I appreciate you tried to sort this out, but you can’t make my decisions for me. You get that, right?’ He doesn’t offer an answer, though a muscle begins to tick in his jaw. ‘Besides, do you really think I’m so petty as to throw some kind of tantrum and make you come on your own?’
‘I wasn’t sure what your reaction would be.’
‘Then you don’t really know me.’
‘I know you enough to trust you with my heart.’
My anger drains away, my throat suddenly tight as I tip up onto my toes and press my lips to his smooth cheek. ‘Then let me look after it. And let me make my own decisions.’
At the table, Remy has been placed to his mother’s left, my own seat almost facing his, as is often the way at formal dinners. Not that I have much experience from this side of the table. The guest side, I mean, not the proximity.
‘Will Rhett be close by?’ I ask, placing my clutch on my chair, not yet ready to sit.
‘Rhett’s working this evening.’ I guess my face must reflect my surprise as he adds, ‘He once told me he would rather take a vow of silence than sit through one of these things.’
