The Charmers: A Novel(32)
“So he is,” Mirabella noticed. “I’d forgotten how good-looking he is,” she added. The Boss was smart, even chic, in a dinner jacket that slid over his broad shoulders as though it was made for them, which of course it was. The Boss would not stoop to ready-to-wear; he was way beyond that. Just take a look at his villa, a palace. Lights gleaming from every window, gardens lit so every blossom showed its petals, even the sea was prettily floodlit to show its cresting white waves. Tall, black-lacquered tubs were placed on the steps leading to the open front door, each with a flowering syringa bush whose lilac scent permeated the night air. Music filtered from the terraces along with the sound of laughter, the clink of ice in glasses.
The Boss spotted them and came quickly over, holding out his arms to help lift Verity from the tight backseat. “Welcome to my party.”
She quickly tugged down her white silk skirt, which unfortunately had creased on the short journey.
But the Boss’s eyes were not on Verity’s skirt right now. They had moved on to Mirabella. His prey was here, on his turf.
Chad went to help Mirabella, but the Boss was there first, already holding open the door, eyes checking her head to toe.
“I remember your aunt wearing those pearls,” the Boss said as he walked with her up the steps.
“Is that right?” She was surprised because to her knowledge Aunt Jolly had rarely worn the pearls. “Well, now they are mine,” she added, patting them against her chest.
“Those and the Villa Romantica,” he said. “My, aren’t you the lucky girl.”
Mirabella gave him a quick sideways look. Could he be laughing at her? “I am a lucky girl to have had an aunt like Jolly Matthews. We didn’t see each other often, but there was always a connection.”
“Which I assume is why she left you her property.”
She gave him another sideways glance, but he was looking away from her. She thought surely they would not be going to get into this “sell me your land” business at the party.
“Chad.” The Boss had moved on and was shaking Prescott’s hand. “I think you will find everything you need, and whatever drink you want, it’s available. Pink champagne, of course, as always. And my chefs have prepared a veritable banquet. They do so love the opportunity to show off their talents.”
Mounting the steps, Chad thought he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, behind the line of waiting valet parkers, of a man he recognized. The next minute he was gone. Now Chad remembered who he was. He’d seen him on the café terrace. He was the man known as “the Russian.”
24
Mirabella
This is the grandest party I have ever attended. My life as a writer is by its nature solitary, except for those spurts in between books when I escape into what I call “the real world” and take myself off to places like Paris or Venice, where I gorge on historic beauty, and where I prefer to be alone. Other places, for more intimate reasons, I travel with the man of the moment, though lately, no one special enough to last the course all the way to the altar. I recently contemplated getting engaged, but he changed his mind before I could. So there it was, three down, all escapees from my clutches, and maybe more to go. Not many though, are as attractive as Chad Prescott, even though I consider him a shit and full of himself. Still, he is good-looking and a good doctor, I’ll have to give him that. And now, he is my escort for the party of the year.
Never doubt the allure of a man in a tuxedo; there’s just something about that crisp black-and-white look, or maybe it’s simply seeing a man wearing a jacket in this era of casual dressing that can make a girl’s heart flutter.
He put a hand under my elbow as we walked up the steps and into the Villa Mara. The Boss, our beaming host, was already holding Verity’s hand firmly in his own. She threw back her head in a laugh and I wondered what he was saying that was so amusing. I was uneasy. She was so unworldly. She had already been taken by one man, and this one was rich and powerful, a dangerous combination to any young woman.
The Villa Mara looked like the Acropolis with double-height white columns supporting an upper verandah, lined with zebra-striped pots of flowering jasmine. A long terrace fronted onto a vast lawn clipped to within an inch of its life by the dozen gardeners our host employed and who, I’d heard, replaced every flower every week so they were only ever seen at the height of their perfection. Looking at his garden I understood that this billionaire knew what he liked and what he wanted, and knew how to get it. Money speaks, no doubt about it. But when it spoke like this, then I was the beneficiary of his perfect dreams.
“Mirabella,” the Boss called. He was alone and looked around for Verity, saw her propped on a high stool at the long bar, smiling as she was given a glass of pink champagne. I doubted she realized her skirt had hitched up to the top of her thighs. I nudged Chad, indicating what was up.
He nodded good evening to our host then departed quickly in Verity’s direction.
The Boss followed Chad’s progress, taking in Verity and the skirt and the champagne. “No need to worry,” he said confidently. “She is so young. My staff will keep an eye on her.”
“Not that young that she can behave badly,” I answered. I was a little upset with Verity. No woman, young or not, should drink too much.
My host took the seat next to me. We were suddenly alone, except, that is, for the shadowy shapes of two men in the background. Bodyguards, of course.