by Cynthia Dane
“You love him, don’t you? You love the other man.”
Tears dripped down her cheeks. She refused to wipe them away. “You’re an asshole, Seth. You’re everything I ever heard about doctors and artists. Asshole.”
“You’re a…”
She whipped around, ready to hear whatever slurs passed his chauvinistic lips. “I’m a what, huh?” Judith marched to him, determined to slap him if fucking necessary. Not the first client I’ve slapped, either. Out of anger, that is. Usually she charged extra for a slap. “A whore? A prostitute? A hooker? A damaged girl with daddy issues? Go on! I’ve heard them all!”
His leveled glare shook her core. “A woman I clearly don’t deserve.”
What was that manipulative bullshit? Judith raised her hand, the tears now pouring down her face. Her hand faltered. I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to do it! Instead, she made a fist and held it to her chest. “Fuck you, Seth.” Against her better judgment, she lunged forward and kissed him.
Even with her salty tears falling between them, he kissed her back, hard, hands in her hair and pulling on her sundress. She wasn’t much better. Buttons weaved in and out of his shirt. Undershirt came up. Zipper was down and the two of them fell to the floor in a frenzy that screamed at Judith to put a stop to it now.
She didn’t. For fifteen years she had been playing it safe. So much distance between herself and others. A cool, collected exterior and nothing but calculations in her brain. Maybe, for once, she wanted to throw all that in the wind and fuck one of the few men she would ever call a boyfriend.
Judith was in a daze afterward. She resumed her plan to go back to the Château alone, having already activated the Uber app on her phone. “No, no,” she kept saying whenever Seth insisted on taking her. “I need to think. Goodbye.”
She stumbled out of his townhouse and into the lavender Prius pulling up to the stoop. A young woman with thick-rimmed glasses and a flannel shirt waved and smiled. Thank God. A woman. Judith was worried the Château would be too far away, but after checking in with her boyfriend, the girl agreed to drive Judith all the way up there. In return, Judith left her a huge tip and a partial promise that someone else would want driven back into town.
Good thing the woman didn’t want to chat on the two-hour drive into the mountains, because Judith was busy cleaning herself up and trying to think about anything but Seth. I can’t believe he made me cry. Nobody makes me cry. She touched up her makeup before staring at her phone. Also a good thing that there was a strict policy about never exchanging phone numbers with clients. Some did it anyway, but Judith had always seen the sense in such a rule. Now she really felt it. If Seth was in her phone, she would’ve done something stupid. Like text him.
Also a good thing that Miguel was not in her phone. She didn’t know why, though.
By the time she arrived at the Château, her face was back in somber order, but not her head. Judith thanked her driver and ascended the stairs to the Château, greeted by the bouncer and tended to by one of the maids. In a few hours, Judith would be wearing one of her best designer dresses and draping herself across the laps of a few good and rich men.
Before that, however, she had to check in with the boss.
“You’re back early.” Monica gazed at Judith from behind a piece of paper. “Did everything go all right with Dr. Christens?”
Judith could only nod. “Any messages for me?”
Monica noted her employee’s mood before answering. “Yes, actually. Mr. Bolivar called. He wants to take you out this weekend.” The end piece of her eyeglasses tapped against her mouth. “He asked to take you out for more than a night.”
“Hope you told him no.”
Monica’s smile was not reassuring. “Au contraire, Ms. King. You need to go pack your bags for this Saturday morning. By Saturday night, you won’t even be in the country anymore.”
Judith dropped her overnight bag onto Monica’s Persian rug. That’s what I think about that.
Chapter 22
MIGUEL
No one looked better in the family jet than Judith, dressed for comfort in a stylish off-the-shoulder shift and a wide-brimmed hat. Miguel would have his mouth all over those delicious shoulders by now, but Judith looked like she was off in her own world. Maybe she had airplane jitters. I can think of a few ways to soothe those. He’d wait until they were airborne.
“We’ll be departing in about ten minutes, Mr. Bolivar… Miss…”
“King,” Judith supplied to the flight attendant. “And thank you.”
Miguel chuckled at how well she handled staff. Of course she does. She’s a woman used to some means by now. He wanted to reach over and stroke that soft skin exposed in her shift, but she was too far away. “It’s an eight hour flight, ma cherie.” Somehow he had taken to using French, the language of love. Usually Miguel avoided the language unless he had to use it. Spanish or English was much more natural. Yet Judith had surprised him with her limited language skills that she had picked up from clients over the years. Soon she would be worldlier than him. “Soon enough we’ll be in Monaco.”
Three months ago Miguel would have never guessed he would be taking one of his paid girlfriends back home with him. Yet when Monica offered him this opportunity to spend some quality time with Judith, he took it. After all, this was the woman he claimed to love in the middle of heated passion. For the few subsequent weeks in which he played a mad dash between Monaco and America, having little time to see his new beloved let alone bid on her beauty, Miguel thought long and hard about how he really felt about her. After a while, he was able to convince himself that it was nothing more than his cock telling stories. Then he saw her again. The moment Judith was in his sight, his heart knew.
That fucking bastard love.
She was standoffish at the moment, but Miguel had every reassurance that she would be his when they landed in Nice, France. From there it would be endless luxury for two nights and three glorious days. Miguel didn’t even have to work. This was purely a pleasure trip to show Judith what he offered.
Who knew what that other guy had done to woo her. For all Miguel knew, his rival for Judith’s permanent affections was Bill Gates himself.
He was ready to be chatty during the flight, but Judith conked out asleep before they even reached maximum altitude. If Miguel wanted to talk to someone, he needed to get on his phone. Who would he call? It was the wrong time zone everywhere in the world.
The only way to amuse himself and keep Judith comfortable was to slide over to her side of the plane and wrap his arms around her. “Mi amour,” he growled into her ear. Good, his brain finally abandoned French. That’ll change when we land in France. Until then? His real language of love. “No, don’t wake up. You can sleep.”
“Good,” she mumbled. “Because I was up really late last night.”
He didn’t ask for an explanation. He knew what she did for a living. “Sleep well, then. You’ll be refreshed for when we land.
What Miguel didn’t count on was falling asleep next to her. He never fell asleep on planes. Yet having her by him let him drift off to a void of comfort.
They landed in Nice late in the afternoon. Judith didn’t need to be told to wait for immigration to board the plane. This was probably old hat for her, in a way. Not her first international pony show with a billionaire, anyway. I really have my work cut out for me. She was, however, gasping at the sight of a helicopter awaiting them as soon as they got off the plane.
“What? You thought we were going to drive?” Miguel put his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the helicopter. “You ever been in a helicopter before?”
Her grin was the first since that morning. “No!”
“Finally! A first for her!”
They were helped aboard and situated. This was the usual life for Miguel, who took a helicopter from Nice to Monaco and vice versa whenever the weather permitted, but fuck it. Seeing Judith’s face lighting up from the renewed sense of advent
ure made him happy as well.
“Oh my God,” she leaned in to whisper, even though Miguel could barely hear her over the roar of the blades whipping overhead. “The pilot is hot.”
His hand searched for her thigh beneath that baggy shift. “Not as hot as you, I assure you.”
“Yes, yes, you are so straight.” Still grinning, Judith sat back in her seat and held on to the handlebar above her head as the helicopter lifted up into the air. After their stomachs settled, she cried, “How do you say ‘let’s have a threesome’ in French?”
Miguel was glad their pilot didn’t speak English. He might think he gets a piece of this tonight. He made sure to squeeze Judith’s leg when the pilot looked back at them.
It was a clear, beautiful evening as they flew from one port to the other. Miguel didn’t have the heart to tell his amour that the trip was a mere seven minutes long – she was so jubilant, plastered to the window and staring at the cerulean blue Mediterranean waters below. France slowly drifted away, replaced by sloping hillsides and large, white cruisers that belonged to some of the richest men in Europe. Miguel tried to recognize some of them, but they were too far away to make out details.
“Is that it?” Judith cried, pointing to an expensive settlement next to a marina. “Looks smaller…”
“No. That’s not it.” He jerked his thumb to his window. “That’s Monaco.”
Judith almost raised the pilot’s ire by straining against her seatbelt and leaning over Miguel’s lap. Finally. I have her in my lap. He put a firm hand on her to hold her in place. The pilot said nothing, not even in French.
“Oh my God! It’s gorgeous!”
Miguel had taken his fair city – and country – for granted since growing up there. Now he looked at it through Judith’s fresh eyes, taking in contemporary resorts and centuries old apartment buildings. Tomorrow he would give her a real tour. For now, he was content to point and say, “There is the Cathedral… yes, where Grace Kelly is buried. There’s the palace. The Princes of Monaco have lived there for 700 years. There’s a museum… and yes, there’s my apartment. You can’t see it, but I know which one it is.” He laughed. “Great view of my boat right there!”
Judith pretended to see it all, although from her vantage it was probably endless white and beige with the occasional glass wall.
“Everything is so packed together!”
“Yes. It’s forty thousand people crammed into the second smallest country in the world. That doesn’t count all the tourists, either.”
“Fuuuck!”
Hopefully.
There was one spot open at the heliport when it came time to land three minutes later. By then, Judith looked like she had an orgasm.
“Bienvenue a Monaco,” he muttered to her.
She was in a daze while Miguel led her through the heliport and to his car waiting outside. Too tired to drive tonight, he had called up one of the family chauffeurs and asked to have him meet them there with the black Maserati Quattroporte. Judith was still all giggles – must be the jetlag settling in – as she tried to see out the tinted windows on the short trip to his apartment. Reminder: take a different car out tomorrow. No point enjoying playing tourist if they couldn’t see anything!
“We’re here already?” That was the second time that day Judith said it. The driver had pulled up in front of Miguel’s apartment building and was about to get out to grab their luggage. “Aren’t we going to park somewhere else? What if someone sees us?”
“Ma cherie,” Miguel couldn’t pick, could he? “There are almost no paparazzi in Monaco. Everyone may know me here, but nobody can photograph me. Back in America, nobody knows me. It’s perfect.”
She brazenly took his hand as they exited the car. I never hold a woman’s hand like this. If he were walking the streets of Monaco with a date – let alone hopping into his apartment – he kept a respectful distance. There may be no photographers, but family gossips abounded.
Whatever. Feeling her hand in his was worth a glib comment at his father’s birthday party.
Miguel lived in the sort of luxury that was expected of him, let alone in a place like Monaco, but his apartment building didn’t have elevator attendants – just the standard sliding keycard lock. The French receptionist standing behind the front counter looked up with a large smile. “Bon retour parmi nous, Monsieur Bolivar,” he said. “Do you need anything?”
“Nothing tonight, thanks.” Miguel slid his keycard and waited for the elevator to come down. Judith, meanwhile, turned in little circles as she took in the restored detailing combined with high-tech security. She smiled directly into a camera disguised as a hanging plant. Good eye. I shouldn’t be surprised. There were similarly disguised cameras all over the Château. “Come, mi amour. We can order dinner once we’re upstairs.”
“Ven conmigo!” she cried with an exaggerated accent as she leaped into the elevator ahead of Miguel. He punched in the code for his level. The doors closed to reveal a floor length mirror reflecting his tailored suit and her travel-wrinkled shift. She hadn’t removed the sunglasses yet. Probably too blinded by the diamond-encrusted elevator buttons.
“Your Spanish is pretty good,” he said, stomach lurching as they launched upward. “Not sure where that accent comes from.”
“Eh, we learn Mexican Spanish across the pond.” Judith shrugged. “We prefer ustedes to nosotros. I’m sure you’re fluent in both major dialects.”
“I may surprise you.” True, Miguel spoke motherland Spanish, more specifically the Barcelonan dialect – although Monegasque inspired French had snuck in there over the years. Miguel’s accent was a class of its own. “What if I told you I’ve never been to Mexico?”
“What! Even I’ve been to Mexico!” She playfully slapped his arm. “You should take me to the Yucatan. I’ve always wanted to see Machu Picchu.”
“So now you’re dictating where we go? Why, ma cherie, you’re acting like my girlfriend.”
She winked as the doors opened. “This weekend I sure am.”
Miguel was only one of two apartments on his floor. His, of course, was the better one, overlooking the marina and his sporty vessels. Not that he could see them well from his window, but he knew they were there, and he couldn’t wait to take Judith out the next day, weather permitting.
He checked his phone as they entered his home. Excellent. Balmy and beautiful. A usual day in Monaco.
“Wow.” Judith ambled into the maw of his apartment. “Wow. This is not what I was expecting after seeing the outside.”
The façade? Authentically late 17th century, when it was originally built. Only things here and there had been updated to fit with modern safety codes while still retaining the historical beauty of the time period. The Prince of the day used to stay in this building. With his mistresses, of course.
The inside, however, was decidedly modern. Miguel enjoyed the old architecture – and would daresay he was proud of it, as any European worth his homeland would declare – but he loved the comforts of modernity. Even more so than his family, the first family in their part of Spain to hire merciless Indonesian guards to patrol their compound.
Everything was computerized and touch controlled, from the fridge, to the entertainment center, to the window blinds, to even the floors. Miguel checked their temperature and if there were any wet spots. Everything was clear.
“Wowowowow.” Judith ran to the east-facing windows overlooking the marina. No beautiful sunset from this angle, but the water was calm, dark blue, and bobbing with white yachts and other sporty vessels. Across the marina was more beige and white architecture that spoke of centuries long past. Miguel could guarantee they were as updated as his abode, even if they didn’t look it. “This is absolutely stunning. I knew you were fucking loaded, man, but even I couldn’t guess that Monaco was like this. Some of my old clients were seriously holding out. Just how loaded are you, Mr. Bolivar?” Her cheeky look almost matched her voice.
“We are pretty ‘loaded,’ to be su
re.” Miguel chuckled as he went into the stainless steel kitchen and found some glasses and a bottle of champagne. “That’s mostly my family, though. Don’t worry. I have my own money.”
“Of course. How much did this place cost?”
Usually women, regardless of background, didn’t ask that question so bluntly. If they were sophisticated like him, they dropped hints implying they wanted to know. Miguel hated those games, but he knew they asked only out of propriety. Lower-class girls would never in a million years ask unless they were that uncouth – and Miguel usually avoided that uncouth, let alone there in Monaco. Judith, however, was a unique case. She was used to dating high-rolling men of means. Or at least having them dote on her with their money. She had been all over the world at one point or another. Dined at the fanciest restaurants. Worn the finest designer clothes, purchased for her by her various lovers and clients. She didn’t just sell sexual services and general entertainment. She sold a girlfriend experience. Miguel had to remind himself of that.
That was also why he couldn’t have his off-grounds date with her back in America. That wasn’t special. Any schmuck could wine and dine her in her own country. Even flying to Miami or the west coast wasn’t good enough. Hawaii? She had probably been there a dozen times.
She had never been to Monaco, however. Who else could give her this unique experience? Not the other guy vying for her affections, that was for sure.
So he didn’t feel bad one bit replying to her original question. “A cool seventy million. Of course, that was a few years ago, when places were a little more inflated… but still. Dent in my bank account. Worth every penny, of course.”
“Naturally.” Still smiling – and still wearing her sunglasses – Judith ran her hands over a burnt orange leather couch and stared at a yellow and green statue on top of the fireplace. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Actually, about half of that was paying for the original owner to move his ass out. He was reluctant, but I absolutely wanted this unit.”