It All Began in Monte Carlo (4 page)

Mac's heart sank. He'd thought he had found the perfect gift, something that would really please his woman, and God knows he wanted to please her. The salesgirl showed him other dresses, sweaters, jackets, but nothing was right.

He headed out to Tiffany, the safety valve for a man in search of a gift for a woman. Tiffany would always come through with something in that pretty robin's-egg blue box tied with white ribbon.

It was seven o'clock in the evening and Sunny was in the bar of the luxury hotel where via e-mail Prince Charming had booked her a room. Happy to do her a favor, he'd said politely, as they stood, saying goodbye in Paris's Charles de Gaulle airport.

“Paris is no place for a woman alone at Christmastime,” he added. His hands gripped her shoulders as they gazed at each other. “Your flight leaves in an hour. Good luck, Princess.” And he'd kissed her lightly, two kisses, one on each cheek, then an extra one because, he told her, it was always three for “special” friends.

Sunny had watched him stride off into the crowd, taller than most, handsome in his black overcoat. Tesoro gave a mournful whine that Prince Charming must have heard because he'd turned his head, smiled, waved his hand and was gone. And Sunny was alone. Again.

She had not even known his name, who her savior was.
Savior
was not quite the correct word.
Mentor,
perhaps? And now, watching him leave, she never would. Pushing her carry-on and with Tesoro still whining she galloped through the immense airport, only just making it to the gate in time.

The flight to Nice was short but snow was falling as they left Paris and they were buffeted by strong winds that terrified the dog, and also terrified Sunny. She'd asked herself why she had done this. She
should simply have stayed in Paris, gone to a hotel, climbed into bed and hidden under the covers.

She fed Tesoro some dried food that the dog promptly threw up. Sunny sensed they were not popular with the flight attendants and certainly not with their fellow passengers. She was relieved when they finally landed in Nice and were in a taxi on their way to the Grand Hotel in Monte Carlo. The thought of a bed, snuggling under the covers, giving Tesoro some proper food, made the endless journey almost worthwhile. And besides the sun was shining, or almost anyway; fragile beams of sparkle, not quite yellow enough for sunshine, not quite transparent enough for fairy dust. And at that moment Sunny was wishing with all her might for a little fairy dust.

What she got was a beautiful hotel: an enormous Christmas tree smelling of pine in the hall, soaring arched ceilings, soft lighting, elegant décor, deep gray suede sofas and chairs, huge bouquets of flowers and a pretty room, not too big but certainly enough space for the “one” that she now was. Gold silk curtains, a downy mint-green Empire-style bed, one of those dark gray suede sofas, a coffee table, a desk, a flat-screen TV showing a French re-run of Christmas Eve's midnight mass in Rome, a pale marble bathroom to die for, and room service for dogs. Sunny herself was not hungry.

At seven that evening, after a restless nap, she made for the hotel's luxurious bar which was swagged with Christmas pine garlands and twinkling fairy lights. She perched on a tall chair with the little dog on her knee. A silver-haired barman who seemed to go with the muted gray decor, was shaking a martini.
Oh God, how she hated Christmas!

She had put on her best look, even though with a combination of stress and fatigue, it was tough to maintain. She was wearing her new red dress but had drawn the line at the tall leather boots, and instead pushed her bare feet into those flat clumsy comfy UGGs. Of course she no longer had her engagement pink diamond and wore no jewelry. Her long black hair swung over her face, hiding her
from prying eyes, or hiding her from herself, she was not sure which. Anyhow, she needn't have bothered since there was no one else in the bar. Well, only one person. Another woman, also alone.

“Where is everyone?” she asked the barman as he served her martini.

“
Madame,
it's Christmas Day. Everyone is home with their families.”

Of course they were. Everyone, that is, except her. And the woman tucked into the corner, a woman so ordinary that, apart from her bright red hair, she was all but invisible. Sunny took a quick look at her over the rim of her martini glass.

The woman's hair was that too-vivid red that gave away its origins in the supermarket do-it-yourself aisle, and she was wearing a blue shirtdress with the bottom three buttons undone, exposing quite a few inches of plump thigh to the gaze of anyone passing. Of course no one was passing so Sunny guessed it didn't really matter. The woman wore black stilettos with a classic black quilted Chanel bag prominently on her lap. Her dangling earrings spelled
DIOR
in white. She had the look of a bourgeois woman trying too hard to rise from suburban obscurity.

Sunny told herself she was a bitch for thinking that. Still, she took another peek at her. A fringe disguised a prominent forehead beneath which small predatory blue eyes were now gazing back at Sunny. There was a boldness about her that made Sunny nervous, and besides, she had a sort of “come-on” look, with the unbuttoned-up dress and the stilettos.

Then, before her eyes, the woman seemed to change. Her glance became gentle, intimate, as though she and Sunny were sharing their aloneness. She raised her glass and quietly wished Sunny a Happy Christmas. She spoke English, but with an accent that Sunny thought was probably Slavic or Russian.

 

 

The redhead's name was Kitty Ratte and she was in the bar looking for “company.” Unfortunately, it was Christmas and any “company” she might have found was at home with their families. Not that Kitty was a high-end call girl; she was too old and ordinary for that. The only thing that drew the eye to Kitty was her flaming red hair. She'd had a few years as a blonde but had recently decided red was her color, and men—her “company”—seemed to like it. Of course the red hair was only on her head. There was not a hair anywhere else on Kitty's body; she took care of that herself with hot wax strips that hurt like hell but did the trick and solved the problem of not matching all over. Kitty was a practical woman.

She was alone in the bar when Sunny walked in. Of course Kitty did not know her name, had no idea who she was, but the fact that she was alone in a hotel bar on Christmas Day evening, to a professional like Kitty spelled trouble. And there was nothing Kitty liked more than trouble.

She noticed the new woman was wearing an expensive dress but oddly with old fur boots. There were no rings though Kitty's eagle eye caught the slender lighter circle around that telltale left hand third finger. Husband dumped her? Boyfriend found someone
else? Kitty drained the Red Bull that gave her a permanent caffeine high, ordered another and poured a third glass of red wine.

The new woman looked expensive, an air that Kitty longed to acquire. So far she'd only managed to buy a secondhand Chanel bag on eBay and a pair of Louboutin stilettos at an outlet sale. Kitty did not own a diamond ring, not even a small one; not even the diamond ear studs that were a simple symbol of a woman's success; and certainly not that pricy gold Rolex. Kitty did not even own her own apartment. Age was creeping up on her and with it had come a desperate need for money and a new career.

Kitty Ratte was a predator. Seduction was her game, man or woman. And she was good at it, always playing the subservient friend, the wannabe lover who promises to give you everything you ever wanted sexually, and then more, who could flatter a man into feeling twenty years old again.

Kitty was admitting to forty-nine, at least that's what she told her current lover, Jimmy, the failed English accountant and used-car salesman, married and living in suburban Surrey, England, where, of course, he was at this moment. In fact the true number was twelve years higher, and now her body was starting to reflect that lie. No towering stilettos could disguise the cellulite thighs, and no padded bra could give her breasts the lovely upward thrust of youth, nor take away the creases between them that were becoming daily more apparent. Faking it was becoming more and more difficult. Time was running out.

Kitty had almost had her chance for the brass ring once. Not so long ago. He was married of course. Weren't they all? And old. In his seventies. But he was rich. After all, why else would a woman fuck an old man but for his money?

She'd seduced him, parading in front of him in leopard bikini pants and stilettos. She told him she loved him and the poor old idiot believed her. He was wonderful, she said. He was so attractive, and so sexy. How could his wife
not
want him? Ooh, how he'd loved
it. She had him entranced. Of course she made him promise never to betray her, never to tell the wife, or anyone her name, because she didn't want to be named in the divorce. She threatened him with silence, if he did tell her name, she said her “real” lover would make sure the man and his wife would suffer in ways he couldn't even begin to dream of. I'll never name you, never betray you he promised eagerly.

Let's run away together, she said to him. To Paris, St. Tropez. Just you and me. How wonderful it will be. I love you so much.

He said he would give up everything for her. But first he had to go back, work out the financial situation. What financial situation? Kitty wondered.

Still, she'd won. He left the wife, the family, the home, even the three dogs. He had nothing.

Turned out that was the truth. He had nothing. The wife was the one with all the money.

What do I want with an old man like you, with no money? she'd asked, when he tried to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right, they loved each other and he would be divorced and they would be together and that was all that mattered. Go back to your wife, she said contemptuously. She'll take you back. They always do. And she was right. The wife did. And that was that.

At least, sort of. He still promised he would get his hands on the money. Half of it was his, he said. So Kitty kept up the torture just in case. Besides she wanted to hurt him for deceiving her about his finances.

Just wait, he begged.

So Kitty waited. Screw the wife. Now Kitty wanted
the wife's
life; she wanted to
be
the woman his wife was; she wanted the respect and the money that came along with it. She wanted to be
her.

She left a message for him on their private phone, the prepaid one where only she and he had the number. She told him she was
coming back. She needed him, she wanted him, only him. She would give up her lover for him. They had to be together.

He was away on a vacation but he called her when he got her message and they arranged to meet.

He took a room at their usual hotel and she met him there. She told him she still loved him, but they could not be together without the money. He had to get it. She was expensive; only five-star hotels for her. She pushed it to the hilt.

I'll get it, he said, desperate. We'll be together. I'll never betray you. I'll always love you.

And the poor bastard probably would always have loved her, if his wife, grief-stricken over the demise of her long and loving marriage, had not shot him dead, and then turned the gun on herself. First, though, she killed their three dogs.

Kitty thought it was a pity about the dogs. But then Kitty was a psychopath, she cared for no one but herself. Her needs came first.

The whole event left her in a financial dilemma. Age was not making it any easier in her work as an escort. She wasn't being chosen from her Craigslist and
Eros.com
ads, or picked up in the bars and clubs. There were younger and certainly sexier women than the “mature Russian redhead” she claimed to be in her ads, and the truth of the matter was that Kitty was not a sexy woman. She did not even like sex, only the control she felt. And of course the money. Now, money was at the heart of her problems.

She and her English lover, Jimmy, had devised a new plan. Blackmail. They had successfully tried it out several times, using Ecstasy pills and the date-rape drug on small-time businessmen, in town for a convention, but had only made small amounts. And the expenses were terrific, especially the cost of the video camera, so precise it could capture every expression, and so tiny, the size of a nail head, it was easily hidden in a corner of her ceiling, in the AC duct. The payoff wasn't enough and now Kitty was desperate. She owed three months' rent. She had to do something. Something big.

Eyeing the dark-haired American woman sitting alone at the bar, Kitty recognized her vulnerability. She was troubled and Kitty would bet it was about a man. Plus she looked like money. That dress was expensive. Kitty pulled down her skirt and tucked her old Louboutins under her chair, red soles flashing. She'd bet this woman didn't have to buy good accessories secondhand. Plus, despite the fact that she wasn't wearing a ring, she would also bet she had a rich husband. Whatever, there might be an opportunity there. And besides, Kitty was bored, alone in the hotel bar on Christmas Day.