Manacled in Monaco

by Jianne Carlo

  She went over the edge first and her hot passage fastened around him, wringing an explosive climax from his prick, sperm blasting a jerky stream. As he began to collapse onto her, she pushed at his chest and his eyes flicked open.

  “Damn,” he muttered, disengaged her legs from his shoulders and gently rolled them over. “Better?”

  “Mmmm,” she mumbled.

  Unable to stop caressing her, his fingers trailed up and down Sarita’s spine, tracing a slow path, vertebra by vertebra. He encountered the diamond near her nape and fingered it, flipping it to the side, and gravity pulled it along her collarbone.

  “Rolan?” Her soft voice broke the hushed silence and a waft of cinnamon reached his nostrils.

  “Sarita?” His fingers encountered damp hair at her nape, and his lips curled at the evidence of how excited she’d been.

  “I understand now.”

  “What honey?” In the mirror’s reflection, he saw the paradise of future tomorrows ‑‑ good mornings and good nights with Sarita in his arms.

  “The more you do it, the more you want to.”

  “Damn right. But, only with me, honey. Only with me.” And he’d make sure of that, bind her to him in every way possible, and then some.

  “I think I need to sleep now.” She brushed her lips over his left nipple. “All right?”

  “I forgot to tell you. I promised Suresh we’d return tomorrow. He’s located another spot for our headquarters and the owner of the lot is flying in. He figures we can seal the deal over a lavish dinner.”

  “Am I cooking?”

  “It’s up to you. I can always arrange for something at the Hotel de Paris.”

  “I read somewhere negotiations are always more successful if held on home turf?”

  He had to listen hard to decipher her mumbled question and his mouth curved. She was one sated woman.

  “That’s true,”

  “I’ll cook.”

  She fell asleep on an audible sigh and for long moments, he stared at them in the mirror. Sarita’s cheek curled onto one hand, riotous sunset ringlets streaming down her back and one thigh splayed over his pelvis,

  Rolan toed the covers up, grabbed the soft cotton, and tucked it around them, nipping the ends over her shoulders. Before drifting off, he made a mental note to keep a tube of lubricant in every room.

  Chapter Ten

  The following day felt like a lifetime later for Sarita. Rolan raced the Lamborghini across Monaco’s famed motor ways heading for the Glory, while she pondered the events of the last three days. After colliding with the passenger door on a hairpin bend for the third time, she lost any remaining serenity.

  “You’re showing off. Do you drive this fast when Tony’s in the car?”

  “What do you think?” The corners of his mouth lifted. “Think a ten-year-old boy wants a slow crawl? In a car like this?”

  “It’d be safer, but still get us where we’re going.”

  “If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s nagging and griping. Don’t start with me.”

  “That’s two things,” she said, folding her arms under her breasts. “I don’t nag and I don’t gripe. And my son’s safety is paramount. You like riding life on the edge, I don’t. And I promise you, if you drive at this speed with Tony in the car, you won’t be seeing us in Salem.”

  “Cut it, woman. Let’s get some things straight. We’re married. You and Tony are moving to Salem. You don’t want me driving fast with Tony in the car. Fine, I won’t. I agree I have to set an example, but for Christ’s sake, give me time to adjust to being a role model. It won’t happen overnight. No blackmailing or threatening. We might as well end this marriage now if that’s how you intend to negotiate.”

  She chewed on his words and stifled her automatic denial contemplating the situation. Marriage meant commitment to making a relationship work. He was right; she couldn’t resort to threatening to run away every time they quarreled.

  “A valid point. All right, no threats, no blackmail, on either side. You have to admit though, we have a lot to work out. Like the fact that I signed a contract with Sir Stanford to be the Glory chef for three months. You’re only here for one week. Also, he’s paid for our return flight to Orangeville and it’s already booked.”

  Monaco’s famous Mediterranean weather had morphed today, and gray skies and fog dogged the gleaming charcoal asphalt. Rolan drove with the top down, and the side windows up, and Sarita’s hair whipped cheeks chilled in the morning air. A perpetual lemon scent haunted the mountains, a soothing citrus balm.

  “Geoff will let you out of the contract. I have to be on the training field in two weeks. We can have your stuff transferred from storage to my house in Salem while we’re in Monaco. ”

  “The diner’s expecting me to come back full time at the end of the summer.”

  “If they managed without you for almost two years, they’ll plod on. I’m a rich man, Sarita. You don’t have to work another day.”

  “I told you before I want to earn my own money.”

  “Being married to me is a full-time job. And our life will revolve around football. Today I’m hosting the whole team, the owner, and the general managers for dinner. Tomorrow we have to charm that realtor into a quick lease. I’m hoping to parlay this last season into a coaching position with the team. And that means your full-time support.”

  His tone had altered when he said the words last season and she shot him a look. The taut line of his mouth and his white knuckles on the steering wheel pointed to one conclusion ‑‑ saying that sentence had rattled Rolan.

  “This is your last season? But you’re only twenty-nine. Didn’t Marino play until he was in his late thirties?”

  “Yeah but I’m not going that way. I’m at my peak and I’m going out on a high note. The Pats have Jimmy Rizzo primed for my position. The damned kid doesn’t let me forget it for a minute.”

  The vehicle screeched to a halt four feet from the dock’s edge. He swiveled to face her. “First things first. Today we get you outfitted. My wife doesn’t dress off the rack.”

  All sympathy for him and his pending retirement vanished as her temper ignited. Since she reconnected with Rolan, all her carefully laid plans had vaporized. In the last three days, he’d bulldozed her into marriage and moving to Salem, but her hard-won independence would not go the same way.

  “I dress the way I want Rolan, and let that settle in your noggin. I may enjoy you bullying me in the bedroom, but that’s where it stops. Don’t think I’ll give into your macho whims for a minute. And I will work. Football may control your life, but it won’t mine.”

  “You’re not Sarita Khan from the railroad station anymore. You’re my wife and I insist you dress accordingly.”

  “This isn’t about dressing and you damned well know it.”

  She slammed out of the car taking her fury out on the door, and felt grimly satisfied when he glared at her. Arrogant ass. This was Tony’s role model?

  “Damn it. It’s a cocktail event. You can’t wear jeans. Be reasonable and stop acting like a sulky teenager.”

  “Excuse me?” She glared at him, whirled, and stalked down the sidewalk, fisted hands pumping at her sides.

  He caught up to her in no time, grabbed her elbow, and growled, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “For a walk. I need some breathing space. Let go of my arm.”

  They faced each other down. Pedestrians, both tourists and Monegasque citizens, eyed them with veiled curiosity.

  A white flash impaired her vision for a minute. She blinked. “What was that?”

  “Paparazzi. Great, now our first fight will be splashed all over the gossip sheets. Are you pleased with yourself? This adolescent behavior is fodder for the Inquirer rags of the world.”

  Seething rage surged through her veins and Sarita bit down so hard on her lip, she tasted blood. A bus stopped on the road beside them, and without a second’s hesitation, she jumped onboard moments before th
e doors closed.

  The anger drawing Rolan’s mouth to a thin line gave her a level of satisfaction she’d didn’t know existed. That last glimpse of him, eyebrows slashed together, hands fisted on hips, proved most gratifying. However, as the bus wound its way up the left side of the bay, her wrath collapsed, and something empty and cold shrouded her soul.

  What had she done by marrying Rolan?

  All they’d done over the last three days, the intimacies they’d shared, gave him a hold over her, she realized. In a twisted indirect way, she’d gifted him with her trust.

  Tony.

  In a blind panic, she stumbled to the exit. At the next stop, Sarita hopped off the bus directly in front of the Hotel de Paris. She’d forgotten her own son.

  Tony.

  Squaring her shoulders, she climbed the stairs intending to request a cab from the doorman.

  “Sarita, what are you doing here? Not that I’m unhappy about this chance meeting.” Suresh’s sable eyes twinkled. He personified the epitome of the rich billionaire in an immaculate pinstriped suit, crisp snow shirt, and a scarlet slash of a tie.

  Cheeks heating, she reached his level and answered with the first thought that popped into her mind. “I wanted to find out if there were any people coming this evening who require special meals.”

  “You really are a professional, aren’t you? Coming all this way to ensure everything’s perfect. Why don’t you join me for an early lunch? I went through each team member’s profile, so I can fill you in. I’ll drop you back to the Glory when we’re finished.”

  The wind picked up in the circle formed by the hotel and the casino. Sarita’s gypsy skirt swirled against her legs and she had to clutch at the turquoise cotton to prevent it flying up to her waist. Cornered, she gave in gracefully. “That would be lovely, Suresh.”

  “You’ve already experienced the Grill Room, so how about le Louis XV? We can do the Aquarium?”

  Her jaw unhinged, she stared at him, and managed to croak, “Isn’t that Alain Ducasse’s personal area for entertaining his friends?”

  “Alain and I hike together about four times a year with a couple of other friends.”

  She shook her head. “Just how old are you?”

  “Old enough, Sarita.”

  His palm cupped her elbow and he guided her through the hotel lobby with its intricate carved ceiling and priceless handmade rugs. Tempted to pinch her forearm, she hesitated at the entrance to the world famous Le Louis XV restaurant.

  Sarita didn’t hear a word Suresh said, taking in the exquisite room and inhaling the opulent ambiance. Her eyes moved from the diamond cut crystal wine and champagne glasses sparkling under soft lights to the clever silver birds pecking at each table. And her lungs stuttered when she glimpsed the magnificent centerpiece in the middle of the room.

  Standing on an exquisite gold-dusted marble-topped table was a vase with an exotic floral arrangement at least five feet wide and maybe six feet high. Flimsy variegated ivies with delicate whispery leaves caressed the sides of a cylindrical cream ceramic vase about eighteen inches shorter than the bouquet’s height.

  Crowned with exotic tropical blossoms and greenery, Sarita identified the orange and blue blossoms of birds of paradise, white amaryllis, green goddesses, rose-tipped ivory clematis, gold-hued calla lilies, all reaching to the famed Félix Hyppolite Lucas fresco of fairies and nymphs set into a circular tray in the ceiling.

  “Sarita, Sarita,” Suresh snapped his fingers. “Where are you?”

  “Gosh,” she said. “What I wouldn’t give to cook alongside Alain Ducasse in this restaurant. It’s beautiful. I never thought I’d ever step inside here, far less have lunch.”

  She did a quick scan of the elegant room taking in the gilt-edged arches over wall length paintings of courtesans, the large French doors leading to a wide terrace, the famous marble clocks with their hands stopped at noon. Shaky fingers fluttered at her neck.

  He chuckled. “How about I make that my wedding gift to you? One night cooking here with Alain.”

  “I think I’m going to faint. You mean that, don’t you?” She held a palm against her white tank top and the thudding of her heart pulsed against it. “You can arrange that?”

  Another chuckle. “You look like a five-year-old who’s just been given her own toy store. Lunch hasn’t officially begun, but I arranged for them to open the Aquarium early to accommodate the team. I’m not sure who will turn up. We may actually have the place to ourselves.”

  “Be still my heart,” she murmured. Following him through the restaurant, Sarita noted the sparkling wall mirrors reflecting myriad angles of the room, the glowing chandeliers, the antique side tables with marble busts here and there, the bowl-sized circles of yellow tea roses on each table.

  The kitchen made her mouth water.

  “You’re drooling, Sarita,” Suresh said and chucked her chin.

  “Oh.” Her face warmed, “I feel like I’ve landed in chef heaven. I could stay here all day.”

  “I’ll arrange it for another time. Right now, if you don’t mind, I need some fuel. I’ve been on the go since four this morning and haven’t had a bite to eat. Okay with you?”

  “I’m sorry, of course it is.”

  In the heart of the kitchen, three executive chefs, several assistants, and a couple of bus boys and waiters conversed in low murmurs as they bustled about different centers. Sarita drank it in, getting high off watching the sous-chef plate an entrée. Engrossed, she never noticed when Suresh eased her into a chair.

  He snapped his fingers again and drew her back to ground zero.

  “Sarita, I’d like you to meet Jimmy Rizzo. Jimmy, Sarita.”

  She wished Suresh would take a seat, as he blocked the sous-chef’s movements. Sighing, she turned to the left and met Antonio Banderas as a young buck. A bit taken aback, she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch your name.”

  Dark soulful eyes raked her features, trailed down to her neck, and paused at the cleavage the tank top exposed. A pouty mouth, much too full to gift such rugged features, curled up at the corners.

  “Jimmy Rizzo,” he said in a low baritone and reached across to flick her pink heart pendant slightly to the right. His forefinger lingered on her collarbone, following the tiny beads on the platinum necklace. “Sarita’s a very unusual name and you are one very unusual woman.”

  Astonished, she opened her mouth to give him a scathing set down, but a growled voice interrupted before she could get a word out.

  “Get your hands off my wife.” Rolan stepped in between their chairs.

  After-Eight chocolate eyes flickered from Sarita to Rolan and one onyx eyebrow arched.

  “First a son, now a wife. What other surprises do you have up your sleeve, Paxton?”

  A raucous laugh and rumbling male voices broke the strained silence Rizzo’s question heralded. Sarita looked in the direction of the sudden noise and froze. Cindy-something and Shannon Cartwright encircled by a mob of Patriots football players stood two feet away from the doorway.

  The familiar face in the Grill Room the night of their marriage, Shannon Cartwright. Her stomach caved in, every drop of blood recoiling from her fingers and toes.

  All at once, the air-conditioning ratcheted up ten notches, or so it seemed. Sarita shivered and wondered what odds a broker would give on this particular event.

  “That’s Shannon du Blaire. She’s the one who owns the building and the three acres we want to buy. Rizzo, Paxton, cut the cockfighting and turn on the charm.” With that order, Suresh bounded to his feet, strode to the hourglass figured blonde, took both her hands in his, and kissed each peach cheek.

  If a hole opened in the ground right then, Sarita would have plunged into it. Deciding retreat proved the best option, she sidled to the kitchen.

  A cut backward showed Rolan glaring at Rizzo, Rizzo sneering in return, and Suresh ordering them to his side.

  No one noticed her departure.

  The concierge called a
cab for her and Sarita made it back to the Glory before one. After a quick shower and change, she headed to the kitchen and found Austen and Madame Yvonne in a passionate embrace. The Hepburn look-alike sat on the gleaming countertop and Austen stood between her legs cradling her face in both hands.

  Sarita coughed.

  No response.

  Another cough.

  A familiar squeaking skid had her spinning around and bumping into her son.

  “Hi Mom,” Tony said and hugged her around the waist. He stuck his head over one shoulder. “Hey you two, don’ cha know you’re supposed to set an example for us youth? What was the castle like, Mom? Was it spooky? Wanna see my stitches?”

  A glacier would prove warmer than her extremities. She touched icy trembling fingertips to Tony’s brow. “Did I hear you right? Stitches?”

  “Yeah,” he said and whirled so the back of his head faced her. “See, right there.”

  The sight that met her eyes, the shaved circle on her son’s head, the two ugly black slashes at its center, stamped her pupils, and black spots danced a jig in front of her pupils before blankness descended.

  “What the hell happened?”

  The growled voice penetrated her foggy brain and it took a few seconds before she realized it belonged to Rolan. A waterfall of images followed, Shannon Cartwright, Cindy-something, Jimmy Rizzo, the shaved circle on the back of Tony’s head. Her eyelids flew open and Sarita fought the arms restraining her, but those familiar muscled biceps tightened.

  “Anthony, come here,” she ordered. “Rolan, let go of me. I’m fine now.”

  “Mom,” her son said and drew the word out into a wailing complaint. “Why’d you faint? It’s just a little cut.”

  “Let me see.” She straightened and examined the two stark black staples marring Tony’s skull. “How did this happen?”

  “I slipped off the gangplank and hit my head on the edge. It didn’t hurt, Mom, honest.”

  “The doctor said it’s a minor injury.”

  Sarita looked to the doorway and saw Suresh standing there with Shannon and Cindy-something crowded behind his lanky form. All at once, everything became too overwhelming and something snapped.