Chapter Fifteen
Julian
I don’t know if she’s more beautiful when she’s asleep or when she’s awake.
Asleep, she’s at peace and, every once in a while, she’ll get this cute smile on her face when she finds herself in a particularly good dream. She’s the picture of heaven.
It wouldn’t be a bad thing to wake up next to that smile for the rest of my life.
But when she’s awake?
She might even be better. Somehow.
Inside and out, she’s a knockout.
Melody keeps me in check. She’ll call bullshit and she won’t hesitate to tell me the truth. Which is probably one of the rarest things in the world once you get to being as wealthy as I am. People you can trust are worth their weight in gold.
The fact that she’s the most gorgeous woman in whatever room she walks into doesn’t hurt, either.
As I watch her sleep, I start to think that maybe, somehow, I’ll have to find a way to make it work. Maybe I’ll relocate Stone Capital to little Rockaway Bay. Or maybe I’ll buy her a new veterinary clinic down in Los Angeles and let her work to her heart’s content.
But figuring out any of that can wait.
My stomach is grumbling at me like an old man who just found out he missed the Early Bird Special.
Room Service.
Not knowing what she wants, and not wanting to wake her, I order for us two of everything that looks good, along with a couple bottles of the best champagne they’ve got on the menu.
The food arrives and I have the room service attendant leave it all in the entryway of the hotel room and I carry it in myself so I don’t wake up Melody.
The food is all fine; not the best I’ve eaten, but it’ll do, and for regular people it’s probably a treat. At least the champagne’s delicious, and there’s few things on earth better than relaxing with a naked woman in your bed and a flute of champagne in your hand.
“Mmhmm,” she makes this languid, luscious stretch as she wakes up.
“Breakfast is here,” I say, handing her an effervescent glass of champagne and smiling as her eyes widen a bit when she sees just how much of a spread there is.
I might’ve gone overboard.
There’s five platters of food spread out on the table.
“Wow,” is all she says.
“Most if it’s decent enough,” I say. “Though they did cook the bacon just right and the salmon souffle’s pretty good.”
She holds one of the souffle ramekins up to her nose and gives it a long sniff and her eyes light up. “Not bad?” she says, then, taking a bite, she glares at me in disbelief. “You call this not bad?”
“I’ve had better is all I’m saying.”
“Well I haven’t. Not that I’m a souffle connoisseur or anything. But, damn,” she says, shoveling it into her mouth like it could be taken away at any minute.
“Hungry?”
She nods, crumbs all over her lips.
“Let’s take this outside,” I say. “The bay looks especially good this morning.”
We put on robes and take some of the food and champagne out onto one of the suite’s balconies. There’s an unobstructed view of the whole bay; fishing trawlers, kelp forests, sea life, it’s all laid out before us on the glittering azure canvas of Monterey Bay. It’s serene, and the only sounds are the occasional horn of a boat blaring it’s presence and the squawking seabirds.
I feel like a king and I’ve got my queen by my side. Things are good between Melody and me, and I can practically taste success on that sea breeze. I just know, deep inside, that this is going to work.
Unable to help myself, I start humming an old Sinatra song that my grandparents used to play all the time. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this good.
After a few bars, Melody looks up at me from her plate of food. “Sinatra?”
I nod. “Yep. It Happened in Monterey.”
I get back to humming, pausing every now and then to drink champagne.
“You know he means Monterey in Mexico, right?”
I shrug. “From what I remember of the times I’ve met Frank, he’d be alright with the switch. There’s just something about spending a morning like this, with a woman like you, that’s better than words.”
“Wait. You’ve met him?”
“He was friends with my grandparents. He’d come around sometimes, usually stay for dinner and a cocktail or seven. He and my grandfather met way, way back when in Vegas, and he was actually at my grandparent’s wedding.”
“So, is there just some super-secret club for the rich and famous? Do you all send each other Christmas cards? Is there a secret handshake?”
“Not really. We just tend to frequent the same places, and if you run into someone enough, eventually you build a relationship and usually end up either becoming friends or hating their guts.”
“Are there any enemies of Julian Stone I need to know about?” she says, jokingly.
“Not really,” I shrug. “Aside from everyone in my family who isn’t one of my brothers. I don’t actually have that many enemies, believe it or not.”
“You almost sound disappointed.”
“It can be interesting. My great grandfather really had it in for the Archduke of Austria — which is where my family immigrated from way back when. He hated the Archduke so much that he changed the family name from Stein to Stone and may have made a few donations to some of the duke’s enemies.”
She whistles. Below us, a tugboat lets out a long call from its horn.
“So your great grandfather started World War One?”
I laugh. “No. That would’ve been bad for business. He just wanted to ruffle the duke’s hair a little… and maybe kick him in the balls. Figuratively.”
“Rich people,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Are people. They’re just as petty and ridiculous as anyone else, they can just act on it easier,” I say. “But what about you? Any enemies I need to know about? Any dark family secrets lurking in little Rockaway Bay?”
She scoffs, but it seems a little forced. “I’ve only lived in Rockaway Bay for a little over a year, and before that, I lived in some little town outside Fort Collins, Colorado. I don’t have any enemies — I’m not important enough to make any enemies.”
“That’s not true; you’re important to me.”
I can’t help but blurt that out — I hate when she downplays how much she’s worth because, the way she does it, I know she’s not just being modest. She actually believes she’s not worth much.
Someone must’ve done a number on her.
“Damn that was cheesy,” she says, her eyes laughing at me. “With pickup lines like that, it’s a wonder you even have any kind of reputation at all. No woman would ever fall for that.”
Still, I can tell she loves it.
“I use my tongue for better things than pickup lines,” I say, winking at her and making her blush. “Besides, when you have more money than most people can wrap their heads around, you don’t need lines. It just sort of happens. With whoever I want. Whenever I want.”
“Another reason I’ll be glad to get back home when this is all over. I can go back to Rockaway Bay, be anonymous, and leave the bizarre world of the rich and famous far behind.”
“You sure love being anonymous, but a beautiful woman like you shouldn’t hide herself,” I say, grinning while Melody makes an audible gagging noise. “What’s so great about it?”
“I can be who I want. I can live without people judging me, I can go after my dreams and, if I fail, there’s no one to throw it back in my face.”
There’s such bitterness in her voice that it even makes the champagne taste bad for a second. It gets my hackles up and I’m making fists without realizing it. Just the thought of someone doing something to her has me ready to bust heads.
“Who hurt you?” I say, gently.
Her face goes dark. She pauses as she searches for words but then there’s a ringing from the front door.
“Hold that thought,” I say as I get up and head to answer the door.
Standing there is some young hotel clerk. His uniform’s a bit baggy on him and he looks kind of intimidated. He’s carrying a small wooden box in his shaky hands.
“Um, uh — Mr. Stone?” he says in a kinda-squeaky voice.
Ah, puberty. Poor kid.
I try and look less angry at being interrupted. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
He holds the box out, his arms almost robotically stiff. “So, um, this came for you and the front desk asked me to run it up right away. Said it’s from someone named Gordon Cunningham.”
I smile. This has got to be good news.
“I’ll take that,” I say. Then, “wait here.”
I leave the kid in the doorway for a second while I take the box back into the room and grab my wallet and fish out a couple bills. I’ve only got fifties and hundreds, but I doubt the kid’ll mind.
“This is for you,” I tell him as I hand a wad of them over.
The shocked look on his face is hilarious. “Um… thanks.”
He’s still standing there, right in the doorway, so I can’t shut it. His gaze is going right over my shoulder and I’m positive he’s staring at Melody, who’s wrapped in her robe and watching us from near the bed.
“Yeah, kid, she’s hot and she’s with me. But, anyways, I am kind of busy with my fiance. So if you could…” I say, motioning for him to back the hell up.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Um… good work, man,” he says, nodding at Melody and then giving me a thumbs up.
I know what he means. “Yeah, she’s better than I deserve.”
“Bye, future Mrs. Stone,” he calls out, before awkwardly walking away.
Turning back around, I practically race to the bed and open the box. If there was any doubt about whether Gordon was on my side, that’s gone now. Inside, there’s two very fine bottles of champagne — probably from his private reserve — and a small, handwritten note.
Julian,
Let me say again how much of a pleasure it was to host you and your fiance. Her especially. We both know she’s much too good for you, and I mean that in the best sense — so hold on to her. I trust this small token of my appreciation for your generosity to my charity finds you well.
Best wishes,
Gordon
“What’s it say?” she asks, looking at me with curious and bright brown eyes.
I forget all about anything else but my mission. With a letter like this, I’m even more determined and hopeful that my plan will work.
“It says we need to get our asses to Los Angeles.”