The night we’d returned from Piraña’s studio we’d fought and then fucked like there was no tomorrow, our lovemaking culminating in me asking, no begging to let me taste all of her. To see Amada submit to me in that particular way was almost more than I could bear, the way she obediently followed my command to turn over and wait for me was possibly the greatest aphrodisiac I’ve ever known. Rock hard and throbbing I lay on my stomach tending to her needs and my own, my mouth and fingers for her, the soft, dense rug beneath us for me. Instinctively I gave her the heel of my hand to bite when she came, then leaped astride her and exploded in the cleft of her ass while professing my love, perfect except for the overwhelming thought of how much I’d like to be inside her there, too. I’d been careful with everything before and after, and grudgingly used a barrier between us knowing it was the safe thing to do, resisting my primitive craving for her bare skin on mine in every way possible. But oh dear god, what incomparable bliss it would be to yield to my lizard brain and fuck her every which way she would allow.
Barely able to scroll through my phone and call her number again, for possibly the hundredth time, this time I spoke when her voice mail picked up. I’d avoided it all week, but now, under the influence of alcohol and lovesickness, I said everything pride had kept me from revealing. It would be around one in the morning in France, and maybe she’d hear when she woke up and kindly put me out of my misery by calling back.
“Amada,” I slurred, my words measured, my voice deep. “I can’t anymore.” Ya no puedo más. In spite of myself, the tears came, and I was acutely aware of how pathetic I sounded, the message a permanent record of my misery and emotional neediness, yet I continued. “If you were here, I would crawl on my hands and knees like a dog and beg you to believe me. I don’t want anyone but you, I don’t see anyone but you.” No quiero a más nadie, no existe más nadie. “There’s so much I have to tell you so that you understand.”
Stupidly I still hadn’t told her about the visits from my muertos and the more dangerous aspects of my involvement with the rich and powerful, and I certainly couldn’t tell her I’d met William yet. She would never believe an ambitious Caribbean drug kingpin and possibly aspiring dictator had poisoned me in an effort to ruin my family and business just to get me out of his way. It was all too fantastic to dump on her now all at once, especially now that she’d lost faith in me. It had been a grave mistake on my part to protect her by keeping her in the dark, and now I had to suffer the consequences for my arrogance.
“Mamita, you have no idea how much I love you.” Mamita, no sabes lo mucho que te amo. I shifted in the chair, physically uncomfortable at the thought of her. “I smell you everywhere. I don’t know what to do with my mouth and my hands if you’re not here, underneath me. I’m only half a man without you. Amada, I want you home with me before I go crazy. This struggle between us—it’s over. You’re the mistress of my soul.” Esta lucha entre nosotros—se acabó. Eres dueña de mi alma. There might have been more, but it was the last thing I remember saying before I passed out cold.
Hours later I awoke in the same chair, head pounding and stomach churning from the most horrific hangover I’d ever experienced in my life, my phone still in my lap. It was about noon, and the partial memory of the message I’d left her came rushing back. Looking down at the phone, there had been no calls or messages from her in spite of my pleas, and the realization that this might be it washed over me, as well as the sad truth that I’d self-destruct if I didn’t accept it soon. I couldn’t go on like this any longer. Today, for my own health and sanity, I’d pack my bags and move out.
I was just about to call Sandro and ask him to come and pick me up in an hour when I noticed one more Instagram notification. I opened it, devastated at the image of her at a party having fun at the exact same time I’d been drinking myself into a coma. She’d posted a group photo tagged with a new location, Monaco, taken last night at dinner. Someone at the head of the table had taken a photo of Amada and about a dozen other beautifully dressed people at an open air restaurant on the water, the entire group holding up their champagne glasses in a toast. She had on a beautiful white off the shoulder gown, the perfect shade to show off her new golden tan. As one last act of self-torture, I enlarged the photo and moved the photo around in increments, scanning her dinner companions. They all looked young and filthy rich like Amada, the type of group I could never fit in with no matter how much money I accumulated in my lifetime. I brought the phone closer to my face and studied them all, recognizing no one except her friend Charlotte, seated to her immediate left, and one other man, seated to her right. It was him.
CHAPTER SIX
At first, I’d been sure there had been something with the redhead, but after hours of wine and deep conversation, my very free spirited French friend Charlotte had convinced me it was quite possible I’d seen a woman throw herself at him and nothing more. The topless photo could have been a prank or a joke, but more than likely a trophy or even a pathetic attempt at blackmail for a payout. Without context, she said, a photograph meant nothing. According to her, there were people who made their living by taking intimate photos during drunken one night stands, then demanding money in exchange for not posting them online. Yes, there were laws against revenge porn, but how much easier was it to just throw a few dollars at the problem to make it go away?
To further underscore her argument, Charlotte pulled out an entire album from a crazy summer she’d had in her twenties where almost every woman had been drunk and topless in the photos. Rafa, she assured me, was a newly rich, handsome, high profile man who was very likely to be targeted for these sorts of scams, and if he’d been impaired or even asleep he wouldn’t have been able to react quickly enough. He hadn’t been born rich and didn’t understand how much of a target he was for gold diggers and the like, and she urged me to really consider what I’d seen versus what I’d assumed, and which of them had been the aggressor. After a few days she started to make sense and I began to think about answering Rafa’s calls, but Charlotte told me to let him sweat a little first. That way, she said, in the future he’d be much more careful, for my sake and for his own.
On the other hand, Kieran had refused to give an opinion, and Ken had truly been offended for me and for himself, urging me to take as much time as I needed to ‘properly ascertain my personal value.’ (Translation: dump him.) Ken also mentioned Rafa had called them in a panic right after I left, begging for their help, but that Kieran had only told him to fix his own mess, while Ken didn’t trust himself to get on the phone, because he knew he’d say things that would make it very awkward between them if I took him back. Ken swore up and down that if I chose to walk, not to worry for one second, as he’d make it his personal mission to find someone even hotter than Rafa, a stud hung like a horse who was so talented in bed it would feel like he had four hands and two tongues. God, I loved Ken so much.
For five days, Charlotte and I spent most of our time on the beach near her palatial villa in St. Tropez, shopping, sunbathing and drinking. Though she was an old high school friend, I’d seen Charlotte many times over the years, her jet-set lifestyle one even royalty would envy. The super rich used friends’ homes as interchangeable landing pads, preferring them to hotels for their unequalled privacy. We didn’t keep much of a staff, but we did allow old trusted friends to come and go as they pleased. She’d stayed at Boxwood more than once when Kieran and I were traveling, so when I told her I was back in Europe she’d been thrilled to return the favor, especially since she happened to be home for a change.
On the evening of what turned out to be our last night in St. Tropez, I’d been particularly lonely for Rafa. Until then I hadn’t allowed myself to think about him beyond the events of the past week, but now that my anger was beginning to subside, my deep longing for him resurfaced. I imagined him next to me in the bed, his blue eyes on mine, filling the small space between us with stories of his youth, his husky-voiced attempts to read in English from Don Quijote, an
d the deeply comforting sensation of his flesh on mine. My friend, my lover, the healer of all my maladies was, all of a sudden, too far away.
An hour after I’d fallen asleep, Charlotte woke me to ask if I’d like to meet up with some of her boarding school friends in Monte Carlo who’d just stopped in for dinner en route from Greece to Bermuda. I assumed she meant in the morning, but no, the helicopter was waiting now. An hour later, we were dining alfresco at the Port Palace Hotel with about a dozen of Charlotte’s best friends from Rosey.
There were about a dozen of us that night, most of whom I recognized from the relatively small circle of friends we all kept. There weren’t many people our age who could travel as extensively and impulsively as we could, so we generally all ran into the same people over and over. Kieran and I had attended Choate in Connecticut, and some of Charlotte’s crowd had spent time in America for school as she had, but mostly they’d stayed in Europe. The group that night included several well-known socialites, three celebrity offspring, the son of an African dictator and two cousins from America’s most distinguished political dynasty. Kieran definitely enjoyed socializing with the international crowd much more so than I, but since I had a little time to kill before I could go back to Miami, it was entertaining enough, the killer view of the yachts in the marina more than making up for any shortcomings among the rather pretty but vacuous crowd. However, toward the end of the evening things became infinitely more interesting after the main course but just before dessert, when Charlotte’s British friend Chip returned from the bar with a friend in tow.
“Everyone,” said Chip, pushing his floppy blond mop out of his eyes, “I’ve just run into another Rosean, my old flat mate Achille Desmarais.” Elated to see his old pal, Chip raised his hand high in the air and slammed it down into Achille’s upturned palm, both of them laughing heartily at the extra effort it took them not to lose their balance. “Or as we called him, Ménage.” The two women across from me were obviously pleased he’d joined the group, one commenting quite loudly to the other, “Now that is what I call dessert.”
Dressed casually in an ivory linen suit, Achille said hello to everyone until he spotted me, then raised his brows in shock as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Excusing himself from the far end of the table he came straight over and extended his hand, gracefully bowing at the waist, an exaggerated gesture intended to charm as well as amuse.
“Amanda Rose, what an unexpected pleasure,” he said, smiling down at me. I’d only ever seen him in dark suits until tonight, and I had to say the brighter, more casual attire was very becoming. It was clear he was in his element here, relaxed and confident in a way only locals can be.
“Hello,” I said. The last time we crossed paths had been in my living room, the night he came in uninvited and scared Rafa and Sal to death, prompting Rafa to hire an army of security. For whatever reason, Rafa despised Achille, though he’d never been anything but courteous to me, but if he hadn’t been Chip’s friend, his sudden appearance would have frightened me to death.
“How lovely to see you in my favorite city,” said Achille. “May I?” He pointed to the chair beside me and waited until I motioned for him to have a seat, turning his entire body in my direction, his full attention on me. The breeze coming in from the marina picked up a little, rattling the stemware and extinguishing the candles on the beautifully arranged table. “I figured we’d run into each other like this sooner or later.”
“That’s right.” I took a sip of champagne, the memories rushing back. “You told me you visit friends in Europe often. You know, the night you came into my house looking for Rafa.” Achille rubbed his hands together and leaned back in his chair, regarding me with curiosity. Like all of us, he was highly articulate and perfectly fluent in multiple languages, yet at this moment he was at a loss for words.
“I’m not sure what he told you about that, Amanda,” he began, “but the plan was to have a word with Rafa, not to bother you and your friend. Even though his refusal to speak with me had become tiresome, I never would have come over unannounced if I’d known it was your house. I tend to be very assertive when it comes to business matters, but only with people who are needlessly difficult, like your fiancée. Unfortunately, because of inexperience he confuses my persistence for aggression, which it most certainly is not. My only regret is causing a problem for you.”
“Well,” I said, raising a glass. “Rafa wasn’t happy.”
“Then I’m sorry, for your sake,” he said.
“Don’t be,” I said. “And I agree with you. Dealing with Rafa isn’t for the meek,” I laughed. Returning my smile, Achille found a freshly poured flute of champagne on the table and touched it to mine, then took a sip. I don’t know why I felt compelled to talk to Achille when Rafa regarded him as a threat to us, but he had a way of drawing me in that made it hard to remember exactly why I shouldn’t. Perhaps it was as simple as Achille’s own good looks and thinly veiled interest in me.
“Picture!” Tipsy and red faced, Charlotte’s friend Kara motioned for us all to look at her as she snapped a photo of the entire table. “Oh, what a great photo!” she squealed, but then her elation gave way to a surly frown when she noticed Chip’s drunken expression. “Chip, your eyes are closed! I have to take another.”
“Wait,” I said, handing her my phone. “Take it with mine.”
“Code?” asked Kara, rolling her eyes at the passcode lock.
“1234,” I said. “I’ll put it on my Instagram if anyone else wants a copy.”
This time Kara got a great photo, and after texting it to a few people at the table I uploaded it, captioning it, “Champagne not Bordeaux in Monte Carlo,” a direct jab at Kieran, the only person I suspected checked my photos with any regularity.
A little while later Chip told the story of how Achille earned his nickname one summer in Ibiza. Along with two other friends, he and Achille had rented a four bedroom house, only to arrive and find it had also been leased to a group of eight women from Denmark. Ever the gentleman, Achille had offered to share the rental but pay for the whole thing, resulting in a group of very friendly, appreciative ladies who ended up sleeping two to a bed, one on either side of their new male traveling companions. It had turned out to be quite a vacation.
My phone began to vibrate in the middle of Chip’s story, and by the time I snuck off to the side away from the boisterous laughter and pressed accept, the call had gone to voicemail. It had been Rafa again, and now that my desire to ‘see him sweat’ had plummeted to an all-time low, for the first time all week I was sorry to have missed the call. I was just about to call him back when the voicemail icon popped up.
The world fell out from beneath me when I heard the message from Rafa. He sounded very drunk, as if he’d been pounding them down all night, his speech barely intelligible. He’d been calling relentlessly all week, but I knew if I spoke to him he’d know exactly what to say and I’d cave. I’d never heard him quite like this and found it worrying, so I pressed the phone to my ear and struggled to listen, only able to make out bits here and there.
“I can’t anymore,” said Rafa at the very beginning. Ya no puedo más. Then then there was something about being “like a dog.” Finally, after what sounded like a full minute of the microphone rubbing against his shirt or something rough, came the words, “I don’t want.” No quiero. “This . . . between us, it’s over.” Esto . . . entre nosotros, se acabó.
I listened to it again, my heart outside my body, as if watching a car crash in slow motion over and over. I’d pushed him too far and now it was his turn to be angry at my rejection and childish refusal to speak to him. I had no idea what to do now that he’d called my bluff. Or even worse, what if he wasn’t bluffing? What if he’d met a beautiful young Latin woman who was everything I wasn’t? A woman who understood him and was dying to give him babies and let him be completely in charge, who spoke his language and understood his customs and had far more in common with him than I ever could? My mind raced and
all at once I understood the severity of what I’d done.
I wandered back to the table in shock, and all but one person was too wasted to watch me drop into my chair, hands shaking as I downed another glass of champagne all in one big swig. Achille promptly excused himself from a conversation with the two women who had fancied him for dessert and was at my side in an instant.
“What’s wrong, ma chère?” he said, his French accent a little more pronounced after a few drinks. I hesitated to answer until I remembered there was no longer a reason to be concerned about Rafa’s wishes. He was done with me, so why push away someone who so clearly wanted to be my friend? Achille to put his hand on mine and the tears came.
“That was Rafa,” I sobbed, dabbing at my eyes. “We’re not together anymore.”
“Ma chérie,” he purred, rubbing my hand, his diamond encrusted Patek Phillipe watch grazing my skin. “What happened?” His eyes blazed with concern, willing me to share everything with him, so I did. As we watched our dinner companions drop like flies, either off to sleep or into the darkness to do god knows what, I told Achille about the redhead, the calls I’d been ignoring all week, and finally about the message he left. To my complete disbelief, Achille’s first and only real reaction was to laugh.
“I’m sorry, mon oisillon, but how stupide can a man be? Doesn’t he know he will never find a more cultured, elegant, intelligent, beautiful woman than you? Doesn’t he realize how lucky he was that you ever gave him a second glance in the first place, and that you’ll go on to a far more distinguished partner, while he’ll end up with some woman from the gutter just like himself? It’s perfectly fitting, as far as I’m concerned, but I do question his grasp on reality. Come, mon ange, his loss is another man’s gain.” Achille offered me his arm and after just a moment of hesitation, I accepted it.
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