Monaco, Money and Mad Love - Chapter Two

Misty peeled her eyes open, adjusting to her surrounds in the dim light—the creamy doona, the gauzy canopy, the gilt frame hanging over the dresser. It was all more ornate than her usual digs.

Of course, she was in Monaco! She felt herself ping like lift doors opening.
Lift doors. It hit her with a thud.

She was in Monaco—at the home of her big boss, Luc Cardiff.

The devastatingly handsome, doesn’t-mince-his-words Luc Cardiff, who no doubt liked to control women as tightly as his business interests. She knew that type. She’d grown up under the same roof as one.

Great. Misty threw back the covers, praying Luc would be too busy with business matters today, even on a Saturday—the weekend unlikely to dent his professional focus. Then she’d be free to explore Monte Carlo as planned; get her bearings before the trade show—alone.

She’d slept like a baby and now felt deliciously awake. She padded towards the cream curtains in her rumpled, day-old clothing, pondering what time it might be. Perhaps 7am or 8—

Oh!

Brilliant sunshine pierced her eyes. The curtains covered French doors not windows, leading to a balcony. And below, she could see an infinity-edge pool, blending with the line of the sea. Not that Misty was the swimming type, but she could enjoy the view.

Feeling like Shakespeare’s Juliet, she reached for her glasses and stepped out onto the balcony. Frames in place, her hands resting on the glass edge, she drank it all in, relishing the sunny warmth on her skin—

Misty’s heart skidded to a stop, before starting up again at a frenzied pace.

There, surfacing from the water like some kind of merman was Luc Cardiff, his jet-black hair slicked back and the water beading off his honeyed, muscular chest, sprigs of dark hair highlighting the well-defined lines.

Inhaling sharply, Misty watched him pull himself up the pool ladder. The enhanced view revealed he was also wearing navy swimming trunks, which left little to the imagination.

And there was much to imagine.

In fact, Luc could have given Daniel Craig a run for his money in the emerging-from-the-water hotness stakes. A strange sense of déjà vu kicked in, almost as though Misty had dreamt such a scene the night before, which would be mortifying. Perhaps the different time zones had somehow muddled her brain temporarily.

Ducking her head down, Misty turned to go back inside before the dangerously handsome marine creature noticed her—

‘The princess has arisen.’ His voice came out loud and clear from down below.

Misty paused, wondering if she should continue inside, feigning not to have heard. But she did work for his company and he was putting her up for a week in his palatial pad. She spun back around, pasting on a bright smile, hoping it would somehow make up for her bed-head hair and wrinkled attire. ‘Good morning.’

Luc rubbed a navy-and-white striped towel over one shoulder, revealing a bulging bicep. ‘Good afternoon, I think you mean.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s 2 o’clock,’ he clipped.

‘Oh, gosh. I had no idea. Must be the jet-la—’

Luc cut her off, seemingly tired of her and her sloppy manner. ‘You can show me how punctual you can be at the trade show. Lunch is downstairs.’

‘Right, okay—’

But he had already turned and disappeared from view inside the house, almost as though he was just the stuff of her wayward dreams. Misty banged her fists on the balcony edge. Could she not get anything right in front of this man? It was only Day Two! Though bunking with the boss was hardly natural. She’d just have to make the best of the situation—avoiding Luc Cardiff at all costs, unless in a professional sense, like at the trade show.

Misty showered and dressed in a pale blue shirt, black trousers and matching Mary-Janes—her usual work garb—then arranged her chocolate-coloured hair into a sleek ponytail and applied a touch of make-up.

Wandering down the hall, she passed numerous abstract paintings on the way to the lift, which whisked her down to the ground floor. Stepping out, a delicious aroma of seafood frying filled her nostrils, tantalising her empty stomach.

She continued forwards, following her nose, pushing on an ornate, dark, wooden door, assuming it led to the kitchen. She fell though into, well—she looked up at the shelves and shelves of colourful books—a library. There was a brown leather Chesterfield armchair, a hefty timber desk and maroon-and-gold carpeting. On the desk sat a half-completed ship-in-a-bottle.

It was in sharp contrast to the rest of the palatial pad’s décor—like it had Luc’s own stamp on it. As though she’d entered his inner sanctum. His private thoughts.

Unable to help herself, she tiptoed forward, her skin prickling and her heartbeat pounding in her ears, knowing she was doing the forbidden. That any moment Luc’s frame could loom in the doorway and he could send her packing all the way back to Australia. But she couldn’t help herself. She put it down to natural, journalistic curiosity.

Fingers trailing along the desk, Misty paused at a gold, rectangular picture frame, with an engraved edge, and picked it up. There was a woman in the photo. A beautiful blonde in a bohemian-style maxi dress, with layers of different floral fabrics at the end, like the frills of a ra-ra skirt. Her tanned feet were bare and she looked to be in some exotic place, perhaps a bazaar in India. There were bowls of bright spices behind her and flower leis hanging up. She was laughing. In fact, she looked like the happiest woman Misty had ever seen—

‘What do you think you are doing?’

His voice exploded behind her. Misty almost dropped the picture frame in fright.

Sucking in a breath, she wheeled around, trying to control her tremors, picture frame still in hand.

Luc loomed in the doorway, fully clothed now—thank God!—though in no way any less appealing in his form-fitting navy tee and beige chinos.

Misty’s chin jutted up. ‘I got the wrong door. An easy thing to do, considering there are a thousand here.’

In three strides, he was mere inches from her, his amber-coloured eyes burning into her and his lemony cologne lassoing her in place. ‘I think it might be time for some ground rules if we are to share this space for the next week as boss and employee.’

The way he spat out the word, employee, made the hair on the back of Misty’s neck stand up. Still, it irritated her that she was equally distracted by how luscious and pink his lips looked when mouthing the words. Adjusting her gaze to be level with his, she retorted: ‘Fine with me. Space is something I’m a fan of.’

Luc was silent, his caramel-coloured eyes infusing hers, paralysing her. Misty felt unable to breathe, unable to move. It was as though the heat of his stare ran from her tips to her toes, so that the soles of her Mary-Janes were welded to the carpet.

He stepped closer now, invading her personal space, looming over her. So close she could make out the individual dark whiskers on his jawline; felt drugged by his spicy scent.

He reached toward her. The warmth of his fingers brushed against hers. Her pulse quickened, her lips moistening. Thrashing waves outside the window matched the wallop of her heart.

Then, just as quickly, she felt the picture frame being prised from her fingertips and heard it hit the desk again with a clunk. Right.

‘Rule number one: this room is off-limits.’ His voice was low and smooth, but it turned Misty’s blood to icicles.

She nodded, her cheeks warm, folding her arms across her chest as he gave her one last penetrating look—the kind that could cause bra straps to snap and fall off—before he strode away.

He was at the door, when Misty dared to speak again, almost to herself. ‘Who is she? . . . She’s beautiful.’

Luc didn’t turn back, but she detected his back stiffening. ‘None of your damned business’ was all he said.

And then, he was gone.

*
Luc watched Misty tucking in with abandon to her plate of lightly battered fish with orange and fennel salad. Table manners obviously weren’t something she’d gleaned growing up in Australia. A vision of her eating with such obvious enjoyment at a glittering Monaco party, causing all the socialites’ jaws to drop, danced in his head and he had to force down a smile.

It was a wonder she had such a petite frame. Of course, he’d run a careful eye over her legging-clad body last night and she had curves only in all the right places.

Misty paused from her shovelling, pinning him with her sapphire-blue eyes, so that he felt like he were drowning in them. ‘Did you make this?’ she inquired. ‘It’s delicious.’

‘No, I have a chef,’ he barked. He watched her shrivel at his gruff tone. He didn’t mean to keep growling at her, but it seemed the only way to stop her from getting under his skin—from seeping inside, leaving her perfumed imprint. Just like Anita had. He sat up straighter. ‘I caught the fish this morning though, while you were nestled up in bed.’

Misty’s face flamed at the last word and Luc enjoyed watching her squirm. He also enjoyed the thought that sprang to mind of her in bed, clinging to his sheets, all soft, naked skin, as he rode her into oblivion.

Perhaps that would be the way to get her out of his head—a night of his own brand of abandon—and then he could cast her aside, like an under-sized fish. Besides, the publishing company would soon no longer be his and she would no longer be his employee.

So why did that thought—that he would no longer have some kind of claim on her— twist in his stomach? Luc put it down to male instinct. A desire to conquer territory, and then move on.

The thought of her rifling through his library—his private things—muddied his thoughts and he felt a frown etching into his brow again. ‘So did they lose one of your suitcases too?’ he snapped. ‘Along with your hotel reservation?’

‘What do you mean?’ Misty exclaimed, a forkful of fish hovering mid-air.

He ran a critical eye over the top half of her outfit. The shirt-and-trousers combo did nothing for that lithe body he knew was lurking beneath. ‘You do know it’s a yacht and resort wear trade show, not an accountants’ convention. The fashion set will be there, along with the billionaire yacht owners. You don’t need to dress like a man to do business like one here.’

Misty’s face darkened. ‘Next you’ll be telling me to wear a skirt of a certain length and pantyhose!’ she exclaimed.

A smile teased the corners of Luc’s lips. ‘I would never presume to direct a woman in the area of pantyhose.’

Misty narrowed her eyes. ‘I didn’t think you’d be shy of giving any sort of direction!’ Her expression read 'in the board room or the bedroom'.

Luc composed his features. ‘The parties are where the all-important networking happens and you’ll need to be suitably attired. You’re in Monaco now, not Bondi Beach. Chain-store chic won’t do. You need to dress the part.’

‘What? You’re telling me image here is more important than brains, than . . . than business savvy?’

He couldn’t help thinking how adorable she looked, with her pencil-thin, dark brows knotted together, her eyes glinting like sapphires behind those wretched glasses. In fact, it took all of his might not to sweep her up into his arms, hit the lift button and throw her on his king-sized bed.

Though the dining table would do just as nicely for such business.

Luc stood up abruptly, his mind made up. ‘Get ready. I’m taking you shopping.’

‘What? No!’ Misty protested. ‘I’m on an editor’s wage, not a publisher’s. I’ve read about shopping in Monte Carlo and I’d much prefer to invest in—I don’t know!—shares than the likes of Louis Vuitton and Prada.’

‘I’ll put it on expenses,’ Luc clipped. ‘I assure you, it won’t take up much of your afternoon. I’m well aware that work starts tomorrow. And you’ll have plenty of time for a dip in the ocean later on.’

Misty’s eyes dropped to her almost-empty plate, mumbling, ‘Thanks, but I won’t be swimming.’

Luc arched an eyebrow. ‘What? You really thought I expected you to be holed up with your laptop today? The private beach is yours for the afternoon. Tomorrow, however, I’ll expect your nose to the grindstone.’

Misty looked up again, pinning him with her gaze, something dark and dangerous skating across her eyes. She cleared her throat. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I don’t swim, so that won’t be necessary.’

Luc drank in her pretty features, sizing her up. ‘You mean, you don’t do bikinis like you don’t do dresses?’

‘No!’ Her face was now as bright red as his gleaming Lamborghini. ‘I mean, I don’t swim. I—I can’t. I don’t know how.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘And I don’t want to.’

Misty looked down at her hands. She hadn’t touched the water for twenty years. Not since she and her family had holidayed with friends from her father’s sailing club in Port Stephens, a beach town north of Sydney. The memory was as crystal-clear as the glassy surface of Luc’s pool.

The group had been outside, enjoying a barbecue in the summer night. Misty had wandered off to find the outdoor toilet, but had taken a wrong turn, like she had done earlier with Luc’s library. She’d wound up near the glass-fronted pool house—and found her father in a passionate clinch with another woman in the pool. All the while, Misty’s mother was mere metres away on the porch, laughing and smiling with the guests, oblivious to what was going on. But Misty’s view of marriage, of love, was shattered. And she’d barely dipped a toe in the water again.

Feeling Luc’s eyes seering into her, she peeked up again. He was studying her like some kind of unidentified species.

His expression was grim. ‘Well, I find it senseless. Utterly senseless! You live in Australia, an island nation famed for its sandy beaches. You edit a yachting magazine, for goodness sake! Did it ever occur to you that mastering such a lifesaving skill might come in handy one day? Might save your neck in the unforgiving ocean?’

Misty shrugged her shoulders, feeling petulant. ‘Isn’t that what life jackets are for?’

Luc hissed out a sigh, appraising her like a naughty child. ‘Well, I’ll just have to teach you then.’ His mind appeared to be made up.

But, under the table, her hands balled into fists. There was no way she was getting in a pool with Luc Cardiff! Just the thought of him all slick and merman-like sent her body into overdrive, like her finger had been plugged into an electric socket. And she hadn’t even factored in the swimming part yet.

If Luc Cardiff wanted to shower her with a designer wardrobe, so be it. It was his money and she was in his employ for the time being. But there was no way she was getting into the water with him. No way!

Still, she was tired of arguing and she didn’t want to dredge up the sordid details of her family’s past. So, she remained silent, finishing her lunch, praying he would forget the conversation altogether.

Ten minutes later, she trailed behind him to the lift, the elevator sailing downwards. He led her to an underground car space, which looked more like a showroom than a garage. There were cars in more colours than the rainbow and a variety of European makes. There was also a hulking motorbike. Thankfully, Luc ventured over to the Lamborghini Aventador again, not the motorbike, and this time, she knew which side to slide in.

As they purred along the street, she found the view of Monte Carlo from the car window even more spectacular in the daylight. It was like a toy town, with its tall buildings, supercars zooming past, and the endless blue of the Mediterranean always beckoning. And somewhere, breathing in the same air, were Monaco’s Prince Albert II and Princess Charlene. Misty couldn’t help feeling a thrill of delight—despite her travelling companion and their destination.

Twenty minutes later though, she felt more like a fish out of water than ever. She’d rifled through all of the hangers at the first designer boutique they’d lobbed on the doorstep of at the Métropole Shopping Centre, and so far, still had no clue what to try on.

Misty wheeled around to face Luc, who was lurking in a corner of the marble-floored boutique like a hulking, dark angel. She threw her hands up in the air, her earlier enthusiasm now AWOL. ‘Fashion isn’t my thing. I much prefer the media world to playing dress-ups. I give up! This was your idea. What do you suggest?’

‘If you’re patient, I have organised someone to come and help you—’

Luc was cut off by a honey-haired, coiffured woman, barreling into the boutique in a flurry of air kisses and Chanel No. 5.

She headed over to Misty after Luc. ‘You must be Misty from Australia!’ the woman drawled, her emerald eyes flashing, likely at the prospect of a new project to work on. Fresh meat. ‘I would so love to visit your country one day. Maybe even—’ She waggled groomed eyebrows. ‘—stay awhile!’

Misty nodded meekly. This woman, in her beige corset dress and impossibly high black heels, was every bit as glamorous as Princess Grace, whose image dotted the street signage. No wonder women here felt they had high expectations to live up to. They had to compare themselves with the gorgeous Grace Kelly every day!

‘Anyway, I’m Portia,’ the woman powered on, squeezing Misty’s arm and standing a little too close for comfort. Misty detected coloured contact lenses—her eyes were unnaturally green. ‘Luc texted me to get you sorted in the wardrobe department.’ Portia turned to wink at Luc.

I’ll bet he texted you! Misty suddenly shook herself free. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but this is all a mistake. Really! The clothes I’ve brought along should be fine. I’m an editor, not a clothes hanger!’

Besides, she had packed one dress: a simple black shift, which she had figured would cover all bases. Back home, Misty preferred to leave the networking and champagne-laden parties to her staff, being more comfortable in the office, fielding the important calls and honing the design layouts. Though she was beginning to realise Monaco was an entirely different playing field.

Portia, seemingly playing deaf, reached out to run her hands over Misty’s waist and hips, as though measuring them up, murmuring, ‘No, this shouldn’t take too long at all.’

Then, like a whirlwind, the glamazon began grabbing at clothes off the racks, while the sales assistant looked on, with dollar signs sparkling in her eyes. Thankfully, Luc’s dollars and not Misty’s own.

She trailed behind Portia, her shoulders hunched, defeated. She noticed Luc hovering in the background, absorbed in his iPhone. He couldn’t look less interested now. Misty turned to Portia. ‘So you’re a stylist, I gather?’

Portia threw back her head and laughed, exposing a faux-tanned neck. It was a tinkling sort of sound. ‘Oh no.’ She waved a bejewelled hand in the air. ‘I work for Luc! I’m the deputy editor of his yachting mag in New York.’ She turned to him, flashing dimples. ‘I haven’t made editor yet, have I?’

Her words were like ice-cold water being tipped down Misty’s spine. No wonder Portia had such an interest in heading Down Under and had been so keen to help out! She was out to impress Luc, and Misty smelled blood—her own.

She chanced a look at Luc, hoping for a hint of amusement in his eyes. But his expression had a dangerous stillness to it. ‘Things move fast in the media world—you never know when an opening might occur.'

Portia smirked, her expression reading, ‘Portia 1, Misty 0.’ Then she thrust a bundle of clothing into Misty’s arms and spun her in the direction of the fitting room, so fast that she felt dizzy. The shrill ringing of Portia’s mobile phone caused her to click-clack away, leaving Misty to face the mirror-less change room alone.

Peeling off her shirt and trousers, Misty fumed. Portia’s veiled threat, Luc’s lack of loyalty and this game of dress-ups had her seeing red. There was nothing wrong with her wardrobe. Nothing at all! And she was tired of the focus being on her appearance rather than her prowess as an editor. Furious, she could barely muster up the energy to work out which item of clothing to try on first.

Frozen to the spot, in her lace black bra and panties (a feminine indulgence she could keep under wraps), she wondered how long she could stay in the cubicle, before they gave up on her and left—

The curtain slammed back.

Luc Cardiff’s frame filled the doorway, his gaze raking over her near-naked figure as intently as a full-body scan at the airport. ‘What the hell is going on in here? I thought you’d passed out. Or gone to sleep!’

Misty felt her skin break out in a rash. She crossed one arm over her chest and the other over her thighs. It barely helped. ‘Trying to get some privacy, if you don’t mind!’ This was the final straw!

Luc stepped inside, pulling the curtain shut tight. He was so close she could feel the tantalising warmth of his breath on her face. ‘I think we went beyond the point of privacy when you trespassed in my library.’ His eyes shimmered like pots of gold.

Misty’s chin hiked up, well aware her nipples were hardening like bullets behind their flimsy fabric. She blamed it on the boutique’s air-conditioning. ‘That wasn’t intentional! And I can handle my way into a dress on my own, thank you very much.’

Luc licked his lips. ‘You seem to be handling yourself out of one right now.’ He gave her another scorching once-over, which sliced through her like machine gun tracer fire. She was surprised there wasn’t smoke.

His hand lifted up and she sucked in a breath, her heartbeat thundering over the store’s dance music track. Her skin pinged, anticipating the contact of his fingertips, like a magnet to a paperclip.

But, his sizeable, tanned hand sailed past her ear, coming back into view with a navy shirt dress on a coat-hanger in its possession. ‘Try this one on,’ he growled. ‘Time is money.’

The silky fabric cooled Misty’s fingertips, but not the flames licking at the rest of her. Barely daring to breathe, she watched Luc yank the curtain. He paused, his caramel eyes lingering on her underdressed frame. ‘You do have some taste. Unfortunately, it’s just hidden from view.’ He vanished.

Misty slumped against the change room wall, trembling, sucking in breaths like an asthmatic in need of an inhaler. The sooner the trade show was over, the better. She was no longer sure she could stop herself from crossing that dangerous line between business and pleasure.

And she was terrified of drowning under the pull of Luc Cardiff if she did.