Love Is Pink!

Love Is Pink!

Hill, Roxann



1


The view from my suite was truly spectacular. Snow-covered mountains as far as the eye could see, ice-gray peaks, and hundreds of skiers racing down the slopes in the sunshine. Soon I would slip into my brand-new ski outfit and join them. The day, the place, the weather—it was as if everything had been made just for me.

I smiled. I’d earned this.

I brushed my freshly dyed hair off my forehead. Ombré—the latest trend. And it looked really good on me.

I gazed at my hands. The nail art had cost me a small fortune, but I just couldn’t resist once I saw the perfect sparkle of these teeny little Swarovski crystals. I grabbed my smartphone and took a few pictures to post on Instagram: #lookoftheday.

I giggled. I knew that my friends—or, rather, my numerous followers—would burst with envy at seeing how good I had it.

On the small coffee table in front of me stood a photo in a sterling silver frame. It was of a man—or, better put, a genuine god. Tall, well-structured, with a special look in his eyes.

Distingué. No. Très distingué.

Unfortunately, that exhausted my knowledge of French. But it didn’t matter. When one has a life partner like Valentin von Gertenbach, one need not worry about learning foreign phrases. The hotel staff had been tipped well enough to speak to me in my language—German.

Ah, Valentin.

I’d met him three years ago. Like a conqueror from a bygone era, he’d stepped into my office, his head held high. He was self-aware and unapproachable, yet never arrogant. And right then and there, he’d claimed me for his own.

At the time, I was only filling in at a real estate company, but Valentin insisted that I show him properties. No one else would do. The place he ended up buying cost seven digits. And that deal landed me a steady job as a real estate agent.

But that’s not the only position I landed.

Valentin and I felt an attraction from the beginning. We were kindred spirits. Soul mates, as he always said. At first we met at my apartment, where our passion was all that mattered. But soon we realized that those surroundings just weren’t suitable. So Valentin found me another apartment—more precisely, a fourteen-hundred-square-foot penthouse with a private elevator. It was comfortable, luxurious, and very discreet.

Whenever he could slip away from work, he’d call my office. And I’d leave everything to rush home to my rapturous lover.

OK, with time we’d gotten a bit more sensible. But our feelings for each other were beyond any doubt. We constantly pledged our eternal love. It could survive an earthquake of 10.0 on the Richter scale.

There was just one small problem.

Valentin did not belong to me alone. He was married. On paper only, of course, and he merely stayed out of pity for his wife. Poor thing, she was a bit older—early forties—with no financial resources. She was completely dependent on him. Valentin was far too great of a man to simply ditch this pitiful creature along with their three children—even if she did have a belly covered in pregnancy stretch marks.

No, Valentin wasn’t that kind of person. He didn’t shirk his responsibilities.

For almost three years now, he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of breaking his wife’s heart. To tell her the truth and leave his family in order to live with me.

But five days ago his youngest daughter had turned sixteen. He’d promised me then that he’d finally separate from his wife. The children were older now. He’d fulfilled his duties and could focus on himself—and especially on me.

This little vacation in the French Alps over the Christmas holidays would mark the beginning of our new life together. We would leave everything behind and enjoy what was due to us.

It was high time. For too long I’d had to make concessions, and I wasn’t getting any younger. Not that Valentin and I wanted children. Here, too, we were on the same wavelength. Let’s be honest: Who needs screaming brats? I certainly didn’t. And those unscrupulous little creatures would surely ruin my figure.

I sighed and leaned back in my armchair. I could hardly wait to put my arms around Valentin.

That’s when my phone started playing Tchaikovsky’s suite from The Nutcracker. I’d downloaded the ringtone a few days ago. It was perfect for the season, and Valentin liked it when all the details lined up. He was fastidious in this regard. I figured I couldn’t go wrong with Tchaikovsky.

“Hello,” I said as I took the call, coloring my voice with a hint of boredom and a note of confidence. This, too, I’d learned from Valentin.

“Michelle!” I would have recognized Valentin’s voice among thousands.