Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
‘Thank you.’ I decorously slide inside, the buttery leather interior like an invitation to roll around in. An invitation I resist.
‘Which restaurant are we going to?’ From the back seat, I pitch my voice to be heard over the deep interior.
‘I have instructions to keep the destination a surprise,’ he replies, his eyes on the driver’s side mirror as he pulls out into the traffic.
‘Great. Super great.’ Because that’s not weird at all. ‘I’ll just text Fee and tell her if she hasn’t heard from me in an hour to alert the authorities.’
‘Pardon, Mademoiselle?’
‘Nothing.’ Catching the chauffer’s attention in the rear-view mirror, I smile and give my head a little shake. ‘Nothing at all. But if we get anywhere near an airfield, I’m bailing at the first opportunity,’ I mumble to myself.
The car drives west heading out of Monaco and in the direction of Italy, I think. I watch the scenery slip by the window; the landmarks unfamiliar to me as we make our way out of the city. The streetlamps become sparser as the car begins to wind its way up the hilly vista, and area that has just been a backdrop for my Monaco experience so far.
The houses are more spread out up here, some more like estates behind imposing privacy gates. We slow in front of one such set of gates, gigantic wrought iron set back from the road. Palm trees sway in the breeze as they tower over high walls. This is either the kind of restaurant that’s so exclusive it doesn’t advertise its name, or it’s not a restaurant at all.
Hénri murmurs something into the microphone, kind of like the one at a McDonald’s drive-through. The gates swing slowly open, gravel crackling under the wheels as we follow the line of lush trees, lit by lanterns from below. Up ahead, the house—no, mansion—stands grand and imposing in the Belle Époque style. Something else I’ve learned since I moved to Monaco. A pale stucco front and mullioned windows, the building is all style and balanced aesthetic with Juliet balconies made of lacy ironwork. The car slows to a stop at the porticoed entryway. I’m not so green or uncultured to know I should wait for Hénri to open the rear passenger door. But when the door to the house doesn’t open, I find myself glancing back at him.
‘You must follow the path to the back of the house.’ His smile is encouraging, his manner almost avuncular despite being around my age. My heels sink into gaps between the gravel, now doubt being destroyed, but a little farther ahead, the tiny stones give way to paving edged by lanterns. Though it’s still light, dusk not appearing until late during the European summertime, leaves from the trees have darkened the sky above. As I round the house and the precisely trimmed greenery, breath catches in my throat, the space opening up to the most breathtaking view. I live pretty high above parts of Monaco myself, and the views are pretty spectacular, but there’s a starkness about them. A modern austerity. But not here. Lush greenery frames an azure infinity pool drawing the eye to the view beyond. And what a view. It stretches out for miles, high above the whole of Monaco and out to the Mediterranean beyond. Mountains stretch left and right framing gardens that are a riot of colours. It’s all so beautiful; it takes me a moment to remember why I’m here, but my feet begin to move again eventually.
Down a set of wide sandstone steps, the path splits in two; one way leads to the pool, the other to a pergola clasped in vines and divinely scented honeysuckle I can smell from here. I take the second option, drawn by the heavenly scent of the tiny blooms and the view. Oh, the view. Which includes a casually dressed Remy, which is a feast for the eyes. Dark loafers, navy shorts, and a light blue shirt, open at the neck, rolled at the sleeves, tan skin showing in all the places in between. Riviera chic.
His smile spreads rich and sweet like honey as I approach.
‘You made it.’ As I reach him, his hands find my shoulders, kisses pressed to each cheek. I try not to stiffen, and I think I manage mostly, until he pulls back, sweetness replaced with melancholy. ‘When on the French Riviera . . .’ The pause he left was long enough for me to understand his meaning.
‘Greetings come with kisses.’
‘But not always French ones.’
I find myself struggling to hide my smile and duck my head. In truth, it wasn’t his greeting that was startling; it was more his touch. The shock of his fingertips, the nearness of him. It somehow caught me off guard. Made me want.
‘Please, sit.’ He gestures to a refectory-style table; iron legs with a marble top, the table settings as fancy as any hotel. Ever the gentleman, he pulls out my chair before taking the seat opposite me. ‘Would you like a drink? Maybe a cocktail?’