by Jianne Carlo
MANACLED IN MONACO
Jianne Carlo
www.loose-id.com
Warning
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
Manacled in Monaco
Jianne Carlo
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Loose Id LLC
1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924
Carson City NV 89701-1215
www.loose-id.com
Copyright © June 2008 by Jianne Carlo
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.
ISBN 978-1-59632-717-7
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Georgia A. Woods
Cover Artist: Christine M. Griffin
Dedication
This one's for my editor and friend, Georgia Woods.
Thanks for believing in me, and for doing such a terrific job.
“Religious faith in the case of the Hindus has never been allowed to run counter to scientific laws, moreover the former is never made a condition for the knowledge they teach, but there are always scrupulously careful to take into consideration the possibility that by reason both the agnostic and atheist may attain truth in their own way. Such tolerance may be surprising to religious believers in the West, but it is an integral part of Vedantic belief.
“The true Vedantic spirit does not start out with a system of preconceived ideas. It possesses absolute liberty and unrivalled courage among religions with regard to the facts to be observed and the diverse hypotheses it has laid down for their coordination. Never having been hampered by a priestly order, each man has been entirely free to search wherever he pleased for the spiritual explanation of the spectacle of the universe.”
-- Romain Rolland, French Nobel Laureate.
Chapter One
Rolan Anthony Paxton’s dawn fantasy had him in a state of rapture.
One hand cradling his neck, the other thrown across a king-size pillow, he slid his thighs apart over the cool satin sheets to give the expert mouth cocooning his randy prick better access. A light twirl over the crown, and that delectable tongue worked its way down the length of him.
“Rolan, sweetie?”
Stifling an automatic wince, he lifted one eyelid and looked at the blonde servicing him. Cindy-something, a Pamela Anderson look-alike on the verge of stardom, great tits and a god-awful high-pitched, nails-on-the-blackboard voice. He should have picked the other one.
“Hmmh?”
The yacht’s engines hummed to life and the boat vibrated and rocked. An open porthole let Mediterranean brine into the room, along with an unexpected morning chill. Monte Carlo’s perpetual traffic buzzed in the background.
At least she hadn’t stopped using those wonderful hands, but that happy thought evaporated with the dig of a nail.
“Ouch,” he snapped. “Watch those talons.”
“Oops, sorry,” she said, and cupped a hand over her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle.
A barrage of firm knocks hit the cabin door and he cut to the sound, mood souring and lips curling. Figured; it took him longer and longer these days, and the slightest mishap turned him off. Age, it had to be, since he was twenty-nine and tired of the same old, same old.
Money, fame, success, and nothing counted anymore.
He knew he should be grateful. How many athletes made it to the Super Bowl, not once, not twice, but three times? Startled out of his brooding by a repeat of rapping on the burnished mahogany door, he shot a glance at the blonde and ordered, “Cover up.” In a louder tone, he called, “Come in.”
Without looking up, he snagged the cover sheet and began drawing it over his calves. He stopped when an audibly gasped, “Oh, no” penetrated the silence.
His head snapped up and a stunned paralysis claimed his limbs.
He’d never forgotten those eyes, the color of liquid caramel, that wild hair, every shade of a fiery sunset, and a bottom lip so plump, so inviting that one night he hadn’t been able to resist nibbling on it for hours.
Sarita Khan, the nose-in-a-book classmate he’d been forced to serve four Saturdays of detention with during his last year in high school. The girl whose virginity he’d taken on prom night after breaking up with the captain of the cheerleading team. Those sweet elfin features had haunted his dreams intermittently over the last ten years. Adrenalin surged in his veins and his heartbeat accelerated. Sarita, his Sarita.
That bronze-dusted complexion paled beneath his scrutiny and she swayed, the breakfast tray balanced on her forearms listing back and forth. She swallowed, slapped a palm onto the table cemented to the left, and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and hopped out of the bed, oblivious to his nudity, stalking forward. “Here, let me take that.”
For a few seconds she gripped the tray tighter, but didn’t lift her lids. Then her hold slackened.
He tugged the tray away and set it on the table. Eyes Krazy Glued to her delicate, heart-shaped face, raking a quick assessment of the changes over the last ten years, he forgot Cindy, the boat, the injuries plaguing his career, everything save Sarita and sweet memories. The urge to trace the soft curve of her cheek, cup her face, and suck that lower lip, defeated only by a nervous giggle in the background. Rolan stifled an internal groan and his hands fisted.
Sarita’s jaw clenched and the pulse at her throat beat like a cartoon character’s heart, thump, thump, in time to the rise and fall of her chest.
“Thank you,” she said.
And the memory of that low throaty voice during their lovemaking cascaded like a waterfall, showering gooseflesh on the back of his neck. Enthralled, stun gunned, he didn’t react when she twirled, stalked to the door, exited, and slammed it so hard it reverberated.
Cindy-something, the woman in his bed, began a torrent of idle, Valley girl chitchat. It never penetrated his mind, and became an irritating background buzz. Rolan slumped into the chair and stared unseeing at the laden breakfast tray.
Those four Saturdays they’d spent together in the detention room had started off as the worst punishment for a teenager in the throes of athletic vigor. King of the senior year, dating the cheerleader captain and giving it to her almost every day, his arrogance knew no bounds. At that time in his life, he believed himself invincible. And he was, on the football field.
Little Sarita Khan, from the wrong side of the tracks, the product of a mixed marriage, her father from Bombay, her mother an Irish woman with a riot of flaming tresses and the temperament to go with it. Mrs. Khan cleaned houses for the country club members and he often caught a glimpse of her at his friends’ residences. The father, the famous town drunk, had disappeared sometime between middle and high school, or so he’d heard.
Her father was Hindu, and in the stodgy close-knit town of Orangeville, it didn’t pay to be anything but Bible Belt Christian. Until that four-week detention, he’d been vaguely aware of the
town’s disapproval when Sarita’s father attempted to celebrate some exotic Hindu festival. All of them were shunned after that and she’d faded into the background at school.
“Rolan, sweetie. You’re not eating. The food’s gonna get cold,” whined Cindy-something, breaking into his reminisces.
He stifled another groan as he took in the clothes strewn across the burgundy Persian rug, the rumpled bed sheets, Cindy’s naked double-D breasts, the platinum nipple rings, and the diamonds dangling from her navel.
What had Sarita seen?
Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the scene she’d interrupted: Cindy on her haunches, one palm on his groin, his erect prick. He choked back a moan. What a disastrous way to reunite with the girl who’d haunted his dreams for ten years.
Ten years ago, he’d taken her virginity.
And on each twenty-seventh of May for every year since then, he’d awoken aroused with her face burned on his pupils. He’d learned after the first couple of years not to bother with substitutes, not when their faces were replaced by hers at the height of his climax.
He downed a glass of orange juice, all the while wondering how Sarita had ended up on Sir Geoffrey Stanford’s yacht in Monte Carlo. Previous lassitude dissipated and a burst of energy commandeered his appetite.
Over the years, he’d often wondered if he’d been able to see her again as he had planned, no, had been determined to, what would have happened? Sarita was the kind of girl you took home to Mom, the marrying kind. They’d been too young to make things work back then and marriage certainly hadn’t been on his mind. The bright lights of the NFL and Super Bowl stardom had been his sole goal. But he had been addicted to her laugh, the way she felt in his arms, the molasses taste of her mouth.
A church bell rang eight times and his gaze fell upon the calendar, May twenty-fifth. This had to be the hand of fate. Suddenly starved, he wolfed down scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast, and then finished the whole pitcher of OJ.
“Rolan sweetie, what’re we doing today?” Cindy-something asked.
“I have team meetings all day. I’ll get someone to drive you back to the hotel in the Lamborghini,” he said, the last part a deliberate bribe. “Spend the day at the spa and have them charge it to my account.”
Her initial pouty expression morphed with the mention of the luxury car, and the offer of the exclusive spa sealed the deal.
Rolan eyed her and tried to hide his distaste at the calculating gleam in her somewhat vacant eyes. He must have been pissed to the gills last night. A vague recollection of the Casino at the Hotel de Paris flashed through his mind, a private room, champagne, a bowl of cocaine, not that he indulged. No white death for him.
He finished dressing before she even began. She kept up a stream of mild vacuous chatter, but donned the requisite spandex glove of an evening gown, scarlet no less. Once she’d jiggled on three-inch stilettos, he cupped her elbow and hurried her up the stairs, out the doors, and down the gangplank.
“Will I see you tonight?” she asked, and those talons dug vicious “U”s into his forearms.
Disengaging her hands, he answered, “It’s all business for the next few days. Stay on at the hotel for the weekend, put in on my tab. You’ll probably run into some of the other players. Tell the concierge I requested your room be on their floor.”
“Why Rolan, you’re such a sweetheart,” she said, one hand stroking his forearm.
The possessive gesture raised his hackles and he had to repress a shudder.
Again, Cindy-something’s practiced pout turned into a calculated smile at the mention of a free weekend and access to the rest of the team.
“You’re the sweetheart for being so understanding.”
As soon as her heels hit Monte Carlo’s immaculate sidewalk, he spun about and headed down the hallway trying to remember the kitchen’s location. It took him half an hour to find the frigging room. Gleaming stainless steel encased every surface, every appliance. Compact, but designed for efficiency, the three major centers, sink, stove, and refrigerator formed a neat triangle.
Besides the appliances, the kitchen was empty.
A tray loaded with miniature smoked salmon rosettes dotted with sour cream and the requisite black caviar graced one counter, while the other held a cutting board and a bunch of fresh parsley. Two barstools cozied up to a narrow table to the left and Rolan took a seat on one, prepared to wait.
As he settled in, the galley door slammed open.
One young male, maybe ten-ish, skidded inside. His long legs braked as he spotted Rolan. Grubby smoke-streaked cheeks flushed a deep rose, and emerald eyes the exact color of Rolan’s darted around the empty space.
“Where’s Mom? Who’re you?”
Something snaked up Rolan’s spine inch by inch, becoming more menacing as it climbed. An unfamiliar déjà vu sensation settled at his temples, throbbing, pulsing. The boy was him at ten. Feature for feature, except for his reconstructed nose, the consequence of one too many barroom fights. The tightness is his chest grew and his lungs stopped functioning.
“Hey, mister, you okay? You’re not one of those squeamish kind of guys are you? ’Cause you look like you’re going to faint. Don’ cha know only sissies faint?”
Nonchalant, too composed and devil-may-care for such a tender age, the boy sauntered to the fridge, sliced it open, and stuck his head into the appliance’s depths. His muffled voice carried on a one-sided conversation. “You want an OJ?”
He stuck his dirty face around the fridge door. “Well?”
Mustering some elements of composure, Rolan replied, “Sure. What’s your name?”
“Anthony Rolan Khan. Call me Tony. Mom hates it, but I kinda like it. It’s better than Anthony.”
His son.
Had to be.
Entranced, benumbed, unable to move a limb or foster an intelligent thought, Rolan stared, inspecting every inch of the boy’s face, his torso.
“So, who are you?”
“Rolan Anthony Paxton.”
“Cool, like the opposite of mine. You pals with Geoff?”
“You know Geoff?”
“Sure. He hired Mom. Had to go back to England. He has his own castle. We’re going to spend a week there. Geoff’s gonna teach me how to ride a horse and fish. Mom said no at first. She’s such a nerd. She’s like the most spastic person on the planet.” The boy cocked his head and his mouth curved. “Hey, you’re Rolan Paxton, the Patriots wide receiver. What happened to your beard? Can I get your autograph? I play football too, quarterback. Mom didn’t want to let me, but coach talked her into it. She’s afraid I’ll get hurt.”
“What’s your mother’s name?” He had to hear the boy say it.
“Sarita Khan. Are you looking for her?”
“Yes. Tony, is your mother married?”
For a brief moment, uncertainty and embarrassment flicked across the boy’s face, and he rocked on his heels, shoving grubby hands into too-tight denim pockets. “I don’t have a dad, right. It’s not the end of the world. My mom’s good enough.”
For a few brief seconds, they stared at each other. It was like looking into the mirror of youth, his face, his gangly limbs, his insecurities as a prepubescent youth. Rage warred with a curious protectiveness, and shock had him scrambling to his feet.
Sarita sashayed into the now claustrophobic kitchen, her jean clad butt swaying in unconscious provocation.
“Anthony Khan, what have you been up to? How you can get so dirty in such a short time, I’ll never know.” She crossed the room and lifted the ends of a white apron to the boy’s cheeks. “You went to the engine room, didn’t you? How many times must I tell you it’s dangerous down there?”
“Aw, Mom, stop it will ya? I can wash my own face. I’m not a little boy anymore.” He dashed her hands away and marched over to the sink. “Besides, that man’s waiting for you.” Tony jerked his head in Rolan’s direction.
Sarita pivoted, a slow motion spin, and when she faced him, a
mask descended over her features.
Fury won out over Rolan’s shock.
“Tony, go above deck. Your mom and I need to talk.”
“Mom?” The boy seemed to sense the undercurrents between the two adults and he sidled closer to his mother.
“Anthony, go to your room.” Not the shy reclusive adolescent any longer, his Sarita. “Now.” She issued the clipped order with military precision.
“Anthony Rolan Khan?” Accusation and bitterness laced his voice, accelerating with each word, and Rolan’s leashed anger began to unravel. He clenched his fists so hard the skin over his knuckles stretched painfully.
Their gazes met, locked, battled.
“Mom?” The boy’s voice wavered.
“Go son. I’ll be there in a while.” She glanced at Tony and waved elegant fingers in the direction of the doorway.
Chastened, the boy followed his mother’s command with a glum over-the-shoulder dart, green eyes dancing back and forth between his elders.
The silence drew out like a bowstring plucked to fire. Sarita scrunched the white apron with both hands, drawing the ends into a taut line. She had long fingers, short unpainted oval nails, and a Band-Aid wrapped around the base of one thumb.
He hadn’t been able to really assess her this morning, sleep fuddled mind reeling from the shock of seeing her again. Those honey eyes still had that oriental slant and were fringed by inky lashes, which cast shadows on her high cheekbones. Sarita’s delicate features were belied by an arrogant, almost aristocratic nose, and a lower lip so plump, so red, it begged to be nibbled on. And she’d loved it when he did, breaking into soft startled moans.
For years he’d wondered if it had all been a fantasy, that night on the centerline under the stars, and time and time again he’d pulled out the stark memento, the captured prize, one pink thong, to force reality home. Now he had another shock to absorb, a definite outcome of the first and only time he’d not used a condom.