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.
“What do you think?” I leaned closer so he could hear me over the music—dancing was well under way, heels already coming off, jackets soon too, I’d bet.
“Think about what?” The Boss signaled a waiter from the darkness to top-up my glass, and I let him. I knew good champagne when I tasted it. And I liked it. One and a half glasses. I was keeping count, as Verity was not and I knew a girl must. I was also watching Chad, who was now sitting next to Verity.
I caught her dismayed look, then her cheeky grin as she attempted to pull down the white skirt. She slid off her stool, patted Chad on the arm, said something to him, then wandered off in the direction of the house. She stopped momentarily to slip off her silvery sandals, then sauntered on her way, swinging them by their straps. I’d almost bet she was humming along as she went. I recalled the desperate, crying young woman on the train, her story about the cheater; the stolen money, such as it was; the runaway girl not knowing where she was going or how to get there or what she was going to do when she did. My little Verity was definitely coming into her own.
Chad returned, frowning as he took another look after her. “She told me she was okay,” he said. “And I told her that, as a doctor, I thought she should not have any more champagne. And she told me that champagne never did any girl any harm.”
“She should have been grateful for your medical attention,” I said with a smile. He was so handsome, so man-of-the-world and famous doctor all rolled into one, for this night anyway before he took on his other persona, back in some jungle village fixing little kids’ faces so they might have regular lives.
The Boss, who was still sitting on my other side, said, “Well, how are you enjoying my little party, Doctor? Different from your usual surroundings I’ll bet.”
I looked at them, pleased. For the first time in my life I was with the two most attractive men in the room. I preened myself metaphorically and took another discreet sip of the pink champagne. Perfectly iced, perfectly chosen. Nothing escaped the attention of the man of a different world from mine and Chad’s.
I noticed the two guards who had been watching discreetly had disappeared. They must believe their boss was safe with us.
“Mirabella.” The Boss smiled, the kind of intimate smile meant just for me. The man knew how to charm and, what the heck, he was attractive, with that tall, dark, intense look of his. Besides, it was a good opportunity to make Chad Prescott jealous, perhaps make him take a second glance and maybe think I was okay in my floaty aqua gown that showed off my curves, and the pearls that showed off my breasts. And my hair in a red cloud that was expertly made-up-by-Verity. I didn’t look so bad, even if I did say so myself.
“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” the Boss said. And this time it was my hand he took as he escorted me to the parquet dance floor that had been specially installed over the lawn. He slid his arm around my back and I slid against his starched shirt front, breasts crushed, hair flying. It was, I told myself, very nice.
25
Sometime later, Chad and I were hovering over the buffet tables, pretty in linen cloths with crystal bowls and silver platters with tiny softshell crabs, sweet shrimp fresh from the bay, grilled red snapper, and hot potato pancakes.