It All Began in Monte Carlo (22 page)

“And of grapes and more wine . . . and . . .” Mac had no need to say “of sex.” The look in Sunny's eyes told him she remembered.

“So, what now?” he asked, looking at her.

She was so coolly simple, with her hair pulled back in that braid and the gleam of diamond studs in her ears, reminding him of the tiny crystal buttons on the black chiffon dress she'd almost removed that night in the elevator. She was wearing her red lipstick, one he knew well because he often carried it in his pocket when they went out in the evening and she didn't want to take a purse. There were so many small intimacies between them. He was in love with the golden glow of her Latina inheritance, her skin; with the sweet curve of her cheek; the amber eyes that looked copper in the lamplight; the long legs with the smooth knees and a hint of even smoother thigh beneath that black skirt. And those boots, his would-have-been Christmas gift meant to be placed under the ratty fir tree that always listed to one side because they could never get it into the holder straight, needles already dropping but its piney scent filling the house, along with all those other scents . . .

He said, “Sunny, what are we going to do?”

The question hung in the silence between them, along with the memories.

Then, “All I know is I love you, you bastard,” she said.

They gripped hands under the table, their eyes were hot for each other, his leg pressed against her thigh, her lips trembled as she took a sip from her glass.

“It's hopeless,” she said with that unexpected smile that lit her face and lit a flame in his heart, the way it had from day one. “I just fuckin' love you.”

“And I love you, but I don't curse about it.”

She was smiling at him. Her hand was on his thigh. “If
fucking
is a curse word then I want to curse with you a lot. And right now.”

Mac leaned in and kissed her. He breathed in the subtle scent of Mitsouko and her warm skin.

His hand on her knee sent electric shocks through her; her lips drew him into another world.

“I want you naked,” he whispered. “Right now.”

She gave him that smile. “Room ten-oh-one,” she reminded him. “In ten minutes.”

He watched her walk away. So did Kitty Ratte who had not missed a second of the sexy little scene. Jealousy had a burn like acid; she would take care of little Miss Sunshine soon. Meanwhile, she had work to do.

 

 

Pru Hilson was wearing her new shoes, the scarlet sling-back Chanels she had finally been talked into because they reminded her of the women on reruns of
Sex and the City,
a favorite program on those long nights in front of the TV when “the husband” was off on his “travels,” or whatever he cared to call it. Finally knowing the truth about him had not made the memories of those nights any easier, but what women always said about buying shoes had turned out to be true. Pru felt better, if a little weak since all she had been living on since the Christmas turkey sandwich was a few olives and the small plates of food that though delicious, did not always fill her needs, especially at a moment like this. Right now, she needed
real
food. And lots of it. Desperately.

In fact what she really longed for was a good old-fashioned all-American hot dog. How the hell had she ended up in France anyway? Hah! All it had taken was one phone call and Allie saying of course you must come, I'll help you, and she had been there like an arrow flung from a bow.

She stepped from the elevator and cast a quick nervous glance around the foyer. No one in sight. Well, at least no one she knew. But oh my God there was someone she would
like
to know. A tall gorgeous man whose dark blond hair flopped silkily over his
eyes, and who was striding in an easy manner toward
her.
Eddie Johanssen.

“Good evening,” he said.

He stood politely to one side, smiling questioningly while Pru just stood there. Then she realized, Oh, oh my God, he was simply waiting for her to get out of the elevator so he could get in!

Mumbling apologies she hurried past him, forgetting all about the new three-and-a-half-inch red Chanels. Her ankles wobbled and she almost fell. Cheeks flaming she drew herself to her full plump height of five-four and strode on.

She loved those gosh-darn red heels, though. They made her feel better. Allie was right, her legs sure did look good in expensive designer shoes. Pru guessed that was why women mortgaged their houses or sold their kids to buy them. Just joking.

Another quick glance and she scuttled unobserved into the brasserie at the rear of the hotel, where she took a seat in a quiet corner and ordered a Diet Coke, a club sandwich and fries. She shrugged off the guilt. What the hell, the Coke was “diet.” And the french fry or two couldn't do her any harm. Could it?

She glanced down at her still ample bosom, captured this evening in a shapeless black silk top—expensive she'd have you know—with a black cardi slung over to hide any flaws. Of which there were many.

Like many French brasseries, this one's walls were lined with mirrors and there was no getting away from herself. There she was, life-size, reflected a hundred times. She sighed. Maybe she should rethink those fries after all. Besides, if Allie found out she would kill her. She was watching her like a hawk, not allowing a single extra morsel to find its way between her teeth. Very good teeth by the way, she thought, catching sight of her mirrored face. They were a little large perhaps, but white and even, and all her own, thanks to a mom who taught her how to take care of them. She had been a cute teenager then with a normal size-eight body—or was it even a
six?—which Allie had told her hotshot high school footballer Teddy Masters had said was
really
cute.

Giving herself another little secret look, Pru thought maybe, just maybe there might even be a hint of a cheekbone under that pink flesh. Which anyhow looked less pink because Allie had given her the correct tinted moisturizer and a tan blusher instead of the pink she had been using. Soon, she might even progress to mascara and lip gloss. Well, perhaps not lip gloss; she didn't feel like a “glossy” person. She wished she could wear red lipstick like Sunny Alvarez, who, along with Allie Ray, was the most lovely woman she had ever met. Anyhow, tomorrow she was to get her hair done. Allie had booked her in at Jacques Dessange in Cannes. She was to become a blonde.

She wondered hopefully if blondes really did have more fun. Perhaps it was just an old wives' tale, like the shoe-shopping thing. She patted her hair doubtfully in the mirror. Somehow she had never envisioned herself as a blonde and now wondered if, with her ample curves, she might look like the classic image of a barmaid. She grinned; that might not be all bad; maybe she'd get herself a new job!

French Coke was different from the homegrown stuff she was used to. Sweeter. In fact so sweet she could almost taste the sugar.

“This
is
Diet Coke?” she asked the waiter as he set the bowl of fries and the sandwich in front of her.

“Certainly,
madame.
”

“Well, then, I've changed my mind. I'll have Perrier please. And I'd like some lemon with that.”

Tasting a fry Pru felt better but still guilty.

She ate a quarter of the sandwich in the time it took for the waiter to bring the Perrier, pushing away the fries as she thought of the gym she was going to with Allie tomorrow, and then the spa where she was to receive thalassothérapy treatments, whatever that meant—something to do with seawater she believed; and hot stone massages, and derma-something . . . “The works,” Allie had promised her.

Somehow the sandwich didn't look so tempting anymore and Pru sat looking at her mirrored reflection, sipping her Perrier with lemon, wiggling her pretty toes in her expensive new shoes. For once she was thinking about tomorrow instead of only today. It was still hard though. For a woman to change her ingrained habits, that is.

The fries seemed to gaze back at her as she stared at them. An entire three quarters of a club sandwich was still on the plate. She knew she'd better get out of here before she ruined everything. Besides, guilt was not a good feeling. And in truth, she had not even enjoyed it.

Pru signed her name to the check, scrambled to her feet, left the food on the table and walked out. It was a small triumph, but still, a triumph.

She wondered if she would see the gorgeous man in the elevator again.

 

 

Mac and Sunny were in room 1001, lost in her downy, mint-green, silk-damask bed with the curtains closed around it, shut off from the world. Sunny thought that two alone was a lot different from being one, alone. Two was perfect.

Mac's tongue moved lazily from her lips and down her taut arched neck. His hands circled the pouty coral nipples, then smoothed down her long golden body, her oh-so-familiar, oh-so-loved golden body, until finally, he lifted her into his face, to his mouth, his tongue.

He heard Sunny giggle. He lifted his head. She was
laughing.

“I'm sorry,” she gasped. “Truly sorry, I didn't mean to laugh, but it's just all so . . .” She was laughing so hard, she had to bury her face in a pillow to hide the yelps.

He sat back, staring at her.
“What?”
he asked, baffled.

“What,
what
?” Sunny's muffled voice came from under the pillow.

“I've never had this happen to me before,” Mac said, sounding wounded.

“Hah, hah, hah! That's because you never made love to a woman this crazily happy before.”

Sunny clutched the pillow over her breasts. Her eyes were alight with laughter. Seeing his downcast face, and his downcast
member, she bit her lip to stop further giggles escaping. “I apologize,” she said, reaching for him. “I was just so happy in that moment, just so wonderfully not ‘alone,' except all alone with you. Ooh, Mac, I'm so in love with you, it makes me want to laugh, even at all the wrong moments. You can't know what I went through without you.”

He took her in his arms and they lay body-to-body alongside each other. “Oh yes I do know,” he said. “Oh yes I do know, and I'm telling you now, I won't ever let you leave me again.”

“You shouldn't have
let
me leave,” she objected. “You should have said, ‘Don't even think of leaving me, Sunny Alvarez, you belong right here.' ”

“I'm saying it now.”

She pulled her face back from his. “Say it,” she demanded. “Say it now.
Swear
it.”

“I swear it,” Mac said. “You are the love of my life, I will never let you go.”

“Oh God, oh God.” She relaxed, at peace in his arms, all laughter gone. They looked deep into each other's eyes. “I won't go, Mac,” she promised. “I won't ever run away from you again.”

“I guess that means we have to get married.”

Sunny hooked him with a long brown leg, pulling him closer. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe we will, and maybe we won't.”

“But I'm yours.” He put his hands under her. He was hard again, ready for her, for anything she wanted. “I'm your sex slave,” he murmured, his face half hidden under her long tangle of glossy black hair at the nape of her neck. “Do what you want with me.”

Sunny began to laugh again, and this time Mac joined in. “Oh God, I love you,” she said. “You always make me laugh.”

His cell phone vibrated on the glass coffee table. Sunny glanced up. She saw the chair where Mac had thrown his pants, next to her skirt and sweater. His shoes were by the door next to her boots, the black leather jacket was over the back of another chair, her
lace panties on the floor, her bra on the coffee table, next to his phone.

“You'd better answer it,” she said. “You always do.”

“Not this time,” he said. And he took her lips in his, sending those urgent electrical impulses that hot wired her until she vibrated like the cell phone. Only with a lot more pleasure.

 

 

Mac's phone had continued to buzz at ten-minute intervals but they had managed not to hear it. Finally, he lay back. His right arm was round her, and his left hand stroked her tangled black hair. Her head was tucked into his shoulder, her right leg slung possessively over him, her inner softness pressing against his hard thigh. It was her favorite position because with her head on his chest she could hear the beat of his heart, the rhythmic thudding of life and love.

The phone buzzed on like a demented fly.

Sunny lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were closed and by now the dark stubble on his chin had taken on a bluish look. A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. She leaned over and kissed it.

She loved Mac's body, long, lean and muscular, though she never saw him work out, unless walking the beach at Malibu counted as a workout which, since he often walked for miles while thinking about his next case, it probably did.

She said, “Don't you think you'd better answer it?”

Eyes still closed, his fingers tangled in her hair. He pulled her back into him. “Why?”

“Ma-a-ac . . . you
have
to answer it.”

“No I don't.” He dropped a kiss on her shoulder, still lost in the moment. “Smooth,” he murmured. “So smooth.”

The phone stopped buzzing. Sunny stared warily at it. That phone ruled Mac's life and therefore it ruled hers. Always, at the other end, there was trouble. Now she was nervous. What if someone was in danger? What if they needed help? An inner voice told her she should leave this alone; she had gotten what she wanted. She was with Mac, he was not answering. Finally, she came first.

It buzzed again. She couldn't stand it. She ran to pick it up.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mac raise himself on his elbow, watching her. The number on the screen was not one she knew. “Hello?” she said cautiously.