It All Began in Monte Carlo (3 page)

“No problem,” he said with that easy smile. “I only caught a hint of it, and anyhow, I liked it.”

The steward fixed small tables in front of them, then covered them in pale gray-blue linen cloths. A young flight attendant, smart in her gray-blue blouse and navy pencil skirt, a small patterned scarf tied jauntily at her neck, offered more champagne, which Sunny had the sense to refuse. She studied the wine list instead. They had already been offered the menu and made their choices. She thanked the Lord she wasn't flying Delta because she knew she would have been unable to say no to their ice cream sundae. The ice cream, with sprinkles and chocolate sauce plus nuts and cream and anything else they cared to pour over it might have taken some of the ache away, at least for the five minutes it would have taken for her to devour it. Instead, she tasted the white Burgundy she had chosen. It was astonishingly good, and unbidden, her mind went to Mac, a man who enjoyed fine wine.

“This drinking thing is quickly getting to be a habit,” she told Prince Charming, who was sipping a deep red Bordeaux that must surely have been distilled from very old and very precious rubies. “I'm likely to stagger off this plane.”

His laugh lit his whole face. She wondered again where he had gotten that tan. “Don't worry,” he said, “I'll hold you up.” He threw her a teasing glance. “It might suit you, being a bit tipsy,” he added. “For a day anyway. Because that's all this is, isn't it?”

Sunny wondered exactly what he meant. “I guess so.” She was cautious. “I'm not really a drinker, you know. A drinker-kind-of-drinker, I mean,” she added, sitting primly a bit straighter, wanting him to know that she didn't always act this way.

“Hey, a couple of glasses of champagne, a couple of glasses of wine, eleven hours . . .”

“Three,” she corrected him. “Three glasses of champagne. I had one in the lounge.”

He grinned. “Okay, you're the one who's counting.”

She took another slug of the white Burgundy, telling herself it was too good to take slugs of, but what the hell Prince Charming was
right.
Eleven hours was a long time. Eleven hours without Mac. Eleven hours alone . . . oh God . . .

“Where did you get that tan?” Once again the words flew right out of her mouth. She should not have asked such a personal question; he was a stranger and obviously meant to keep it that way.

He held out his glass, touched it to hers in a silent toast; took a sip. “Actually, Tahiti. A week on a beach.”

“Alone?” Shit, she'd done it again. But his words had brought to mind the image of a long white sugar-sand beach, a tranquil blue bay, the small thud of tiny waves, the gentle heat of the sun, the smoothness of bodies glistening with lotion and the sweet smell of sweat and sex. It had just jumped into her overstressed mind.

“Princess,” he said, “I will confess to you. Yes, I was alone.”

For the first time Sunny realized that Prince Charming had a slight accent. He was definitely not American. “By choice?” she asked, bolder now.

“Definitely by choice.”

Sunny was silent while the steward served their first course. “The red won't go with the smoked salmon,” she said, eyeing his plate.

“Then I'll have to taste your white.”

He was looking into her eyes, his glance intimate. And she was staring straight back. Jesus! Was she crazy? What was she doing!

He smiled. “I won't put you to that test,” he said, calling the steward over and ordering the white wine.

“How do you know you'll like it?'

“If you approve, then so will I.”

Sunny's smile finally emerged. “You know something?” She leaned over, touched her hand on his shirtsleeve, a blue fine-cotton shirtsleeve, rolled to show a tanned forearm with a dusting of golden hair. “I like you,” she said. And they both laughed.

Prince Charming said, “Actually, I'll confess something else.”

Uh-uh, now he was going to spill the beans, tell her everything; he was just a flirt after all, coming on to her. Sunny cut a small piece
of the smoked salmon, chewed it slowly, then forced herself to swallow. She
had
to ask him though. “What?”

“What, what?”

“What are you going to confess now? That you are an ax murderer? A movie star? A rock legend I'm too young to have heard of?”

His laugh boomed out causing the couple in front to turn their heads. “Actually, I was going to confess that I'm in love.”

Sunny looked down at her unwanted food. What did it matter to her if he was in love? He was simply a fellow traveler, trapped next to her on an eleven-hour flight. She said, “Who with?”

“You mean ‘with whom'?” Prince Charming finished his salmon. He put his knife and fork carefully on his plate at the correct angle, then took a sip of the white Burgundy. He pushed back his dead-straight, slightly too-long dark blond hair and leveled his eyes at her again.

Sunny lifted a shoulder in an exaggeratedly indifferent shrug. “So okay, with
whom
?”

“Actually, I'm in love with Paris.”

“You are?”

“Definitely.”

“
Actually,
definitely.”

“What?”

“It's just that you say
actually
a lot.”

He nodded. “
Actually,
I'm sure I do. It's a habit, but this time it seemed to fit the occasion.”

The steward cleared their dishes, poured a little more wine, brought extra bottles of Evian, smiled at them, asked if they had everything they needed, were they comfortable.

After he'd gone, Sunny, with a strange flutter of relief, asked Prince Charming,
why
Paris?

“Because it's simply the most beautiful city in the world. Especially at Christmastime, sparkling in the dark and the cold, like a woman wrapped in sables, and glimmering with diamonds.”

“So you're a romantic.”

“Certainly.”

She said, “I've always thought it's hard to beat New York at Christmas, but then I've never tried Paris.” She picked at the salad in front of her, sipped the wine that was flowing down like nectar. Who knew an airline served such excellent wine? “I lived in Paris for a couple of months when I was very young,” she added. “A sabbatical from college. But then I had to get a grip on reality and go to work.”

“I'm not permitted to ask what you do?” He did not touch his salad, watching her.

“No, but anyhow I'll tell you. I work in PR. Selling people to the public, if you want to look at it that way. Or at least selling what they do, or make. Actors, artists, anyone in need of an image, a public boost of their confidence.
Actually
,” she gave him a little wine-induced smirk, “I was in Paris last summer. I think it's the most beautiful city too.” She paused, thinking about it, then added sadly, “When you are with someone you love.”

Prince Charming's face was grave with understanding, but he said nothing.

“This trip was spur of the moment.” Sunny covered her sadness quickly. “I just decided I needed to see Paris . . . I threw a few things into a case, packed the dog, bought a ticket online and went straight to the airport.”

“Without even stopping to think?”

“Without even stopping to think.”

“Sometimes it's better that way. And do you know where you'll be staying, in Paris?”

The salads were replaced with a wild mushroom risotto. “Please don't think I'm asking you to tell me where, Princess,” he added quickly. “Your privacy is complete.”

Sudden tears welled in Sunny's eyes as she remembered Mac and the Ritz and the golden view of summer Paris rooftops from their
window, and the big bed, and the story of the strange art collector they were investigating together, and the delightful little restaurant later, with the great food, then the walk back to the hotel through the narrow streets and tree-lined boulevards, and oh God all the magic that was Paris and love. And now she was Alone and she didn't know how to handle
Alone.

Prince Charming reached for her hand. He didn't attempt to staunch her tears, he didn't fuss or say don't worry everything will be all right. He simply waited.

After a while Sunny mopped her face with her napkin. “Sorry,” she said.

“I understand. But Princess, let me ask you something. Do you think Paris is the right place for you now? It's cold, it's going to snow, the entire city will grind to a halt. You'll be trapped in some hotel, your favorite bistros will be closed, nothing happening anywhere, everyone with their families.”

“Oh God.” It sounded so depressing. Sunny gave him a watery smile.

“There's always Monte Carlo,” he said, squeezing her hand. He wasn't coming on to her, though, it was more of a comfort thing. Sunny gave him a sudden suspicious glare.
Why
wasn't he coming on to her? Did she look so terrible he didn't even fancy her a little bit?

“Monte Carlo?” she said.

“Actually, it is warmer on the Riviera, there's even a strong possibility that the sun will shine. The hotels are good, the food is wonderful and you'll very likely find good company, people like yourself, escaping for a while.”

“Monte Carlo,” Sunny said again, remembering the South of France, how wonderful it had been just last year with Mac and of course with the group of international misfits who had somehow become their friends. She and Mac had almost gotten married there. Story of her life, right! Hadn't
she
turned him down that time though? Still, perhaps Prince Charming was right, Paris would be
cold and deserted. Exactly like herself. Monte Carlo would be alive, bustling with people and distractions that might even take a woman's mind off her troubles.

“Okay, so I'll think about it,” she said cautiously.

“Then allow me to help you with a hotel reservation at a place I know.” Prince Charming plugged in his laptop. “Just one thing,” he said, “I need to know your name.”

So Sunny told him, but she did not ask for his. She wanted him to remain, quite simply, “Prince Charming.”

What with all the wine and the distress and her broken heart, in the darkened plane, Sunny found her eyes closing. Soon she was asleep. All she wanted was to forget.

It was still only lunchtime and Mac Reilly was alone. The goodbye note from Sunny was crumpled in his pocket, his phone was switched permanently onto her number, his urgent voice mails had gone unanswered. He had not seen Sunny since they'd had the row yesterday about putting off the wedding . . . “
one more time
” as Sunny had said bitterly. And Mac knew she was right. It wasn't that he didn't love her, it was simply that he had work that must be done. He had people, sometimes desperate people, depending on him. How could he put
that
off?

Anyhow, he'd always believed he and Sunny were good as they were. They were right for each other. They loved each other passionately, completely, wonderfully. There was only one woman for him, and that was Sunny Alvarez.

He took the crumpled note from his pocket, read it again, thought about the pink heart-shaped diamond she had chosen with such delight when they became engaged. Had he actually
asked
her to marry him then? Or was it meant always to be just an “engagement,” the sort many people “committed” to each other had and whose lives went smoothly on without all these complications. God, I mean he
Loved
Sunny.

She would come round, he told himself, while searching for a parking spot at the Cross Creek shopping center. He would buy her
something she really liked for Christmas. Then he would go to her place and apologize. They would make up, she would come and cook turkey at his cottage—they would have drinks on his deck overlooking the Pacific, warmly wrapped in sweaters—always his old cashmere, because Sunny said she liked the way it smelled of him, arms round each other, if Tesoro would allow them, that is, without biting at Mac's heels, or other more intimate parts. Still, he would even put up with the Chihuahua's bites if it meant having Sunny back in his arms.

After he had done Christmas shopping for her, he would go round to her place; she would open the door and see him standing there, gifts piled in his arms and love in his eyes. His Sunny would never leave him.

He swung speedily into a parking spot, barely giving the departing car time to leave and beating out an irate SUV driver. It was every man for himself in parking lots at Christmastime.

Mac's scruffy dog, Pirate, was on the front seat of the red Prius hybrid, already up and waiting, head sticking out the window, eager to be freed. The dog loved Mac, and Mac loved that dog. He had found Pirate one dark night, a couple of years ago, when he'd been driving over Malibu Canyon, a bloody, battered shape in the middle of the road. Mac had scooped him up, thinking he was dead, but then the dog opened one eye and looked gratefully at him. Of course, then Mac was sunk. He'd taken off his shirt, wrapped the dog in it and driven all the way to the emergency vet clinic in Santa Monica with the almost-dead dog on his knee. The vet amputated one leg, rescued one of his eyes and saved the dog's life. And Pirate had been Mac's best buddy ever since.

Mac opened the door and the dog jumped out, wobbling because of his missing back leg and shaking his rough gray-brown fur. His single bright brown eye blinked pleasure as he limped happily alongside Mac, who was checking shopwindows for he knew not what. Surely there would be something here Sunny would adore.

He stopped to look at a dress displayed at Madison. Red. Silky-looking.
A deep décolleté, smooth, sleek—and very Sunny. A pair of high boots stood next to it, the softest leather, spiky heels, black. He could just imagine Sunny in that outfit. It was exactly her.

The salesgirl smiled as he entered. She recognized him and besides Sunny often shopped there. “Sorry,” she said when he asked. “You're too late. Sunny was in here last week. She already bought that dress.
And
the boots.”