CHAPTER SIX: MONACO
Sara
Monaco’s the big one. There are few places on earth as well suited to the super-rich and fashionable. It’s the kind of place you expect to see royalty around every corner… or James bond. Channeling Daniel Craig, I select a range of suits and clothing equal parts mystery and intrigue, a striking white number for the after-party at the Casino Monte Carlo complete with glossy bow-tie. I look at the outfit assembled on my bed, my head giddy with excitement at the thought of seeing Andy fill it out—top and bottom.
Sara!
I can’t deny there’s a certain heat building between my legs at the promise of more time with Andy. Who would have thought that three months ago?
Given the importance of this meet, I’ll be glued to his side twenty-four seven—hopefully.
I’m trying to remain professional, but the more time I spend with the guy the closer I come to breaking my cardinal rule of no casual sex. But is that what it would be? For all the bravado and come-ons, it really does seem like Andy views me differently to the other girls.
Maybe that’s what they all think before they’re thrown out with the morning paper.
I select a summer dress in floral pastels for qualifying, far from the business wear I’ve been living out of for the last few months. Let him get a good look at those legs of yours for once. Mom always said they were my best asset—that and my smile, not that I’ve given Andy much of a chance to see it.
The phone rings next to my bed. It’s the concierge. “Your car has arrived, Miss Young.”
I thank him and place the phone down, excited for the first time to get to the track. The racing’s growing on me too, the roar of the crowd and energy, the sheer insanity of speed. I always knew Formula One cars were fast, but I wasn’t prepared for just how fast. It’s like they are literally pulling the air apart as they stream by the grandstands.
“I’m coming, Andy Fortes,” I smile to the outfits on the bed. “Hope you can handle me.”
*
I’m still smiling as I come into the back of the pits, but I stop when I hear Andy’s voice. It’s funny how attuned I am to it, even though I spend equal amounts of time with Carl.
One thing is clear: Andy ain’t happy.
I pull in behind a truck and watch.
There is a group of mechanics in a semi-circle in the middle of the garage. Andy’s got one hand on his head, the other pointing to the car.
“I don’t want fucking excuses!” he bellows. “I want it fucking fixed.”
One of the mechanics comes forward, gesturing to the back of the car. “We’ve been through it, Andy, top to bottom. It checks out.”
“Then why the fuck is Carl so much faster in the top end? Tell me that, huh?”
The mechanics remain quiet, look at one another. They’re not about to admit blame, but I don’t think Andy’s making it any easier for them.
“Can’t you fucking Germans do anything right?”
This, of course, goes down about as well as the Hindenburg.
The lead mechanic, Klaus, puts his hand up. “Come on, Andy. What do you think? We want you to lose? Have a little respect.”
This seems to calm Andy down somewhat, but I can see the strain on his face, the toll these supposed mechanical issues are taking on him. “I need the car running perfectly today. Can we at least manage that?”
There’s a weak consensus among the mechanics. I notice Steven’s not present. He’s been rather absent lately. Probably avoiding Andy.
“Okay,” says Andy simply, zipping up the front of his race suit. “Let’s get this done.”
He disappears out the front of the garage. I step away from the truck, fifty-fifty whether to approach him or not.
I decide against it, heading to the team box to watch qualifying instead.
*
The little pep talk Andy gave the mechanics doesn’t go far. Even to an amateur like me it’s clear his car isn’t at its best, almost coming undone on a corner down the back. He places fourth on the grid, Carl second and one of the Ferrari drivers takes pole.
The race itself sees little improvement. In a way I’m glad I’m not down at the pits when Andy pulls in. He’ll be fuming—at himself, at the car, at anyone within a hundred yards.
A light rain settles over the track late into the race. Many teams decide to switch to wet-weather tires early, but Goodall is late. Still, Carl pushes back, snaking up the field fast. He places second with eighteen points overall, Andy forced back to fifth with ten.
Shit.
I keep my distance until the after-party, sending the evening’s clothes with hotel staff to his room. The last thing I need is Formula One’s foremost alpha male taking his frustrations out on me. It does seem like more is going on, though. I said I’d stay out of the politics, but I’m tempted to do a little digging, see what I can uncover. I always loved detective shows and mysteries. As a kid, I read Mom’s Nancy Drew novels until they were dog-eared and well loved.
Time to pull out the magnifying glass.
But the Andy I find at the Monte Carlo isn’t angry. He’s simply sad, melancholy as he answers questions about the race. I stay close, wait until the reporters have evaporated before approaching him.
He notices the dark lace gown I’m wearing with black feathers and a neckline that plunges so deep it’s surely criminal. It’s definitely my most risqué choice yet, but it’s important I make an impact here—that we make an impact, and Andy certainly does.
“You look beautiful,” he says, no added line or pervy remark.
I reach up and straighten his bow-tie. “So do you. I’m sorry about the race.”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t do any good to dwell on it. I only look ahead.”
“You don’t seem happy about it.”
He shifts his foot on the carpet. “I’m not allowed to be unhappy?”
“Well, of course, but…” I lose my line of thinking. “I suppose what I mean is I don’t like seeing you unhappy.”
There’s the hint of a smile. It lifts my heart. “Does this mean you’re finally falling for my charms?”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Perhaps, but I’m a prize not easily won.”
“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.”
I come a little closer, let his subtle fragrance sweep over me—sandalwood, with something exotic buried underneath. “Even if you have to play dirty?”
His smile grows. “Now we’re talking.”
“Are you at least going to buy me a drink?”
He opens up his stance. “Lead the way.”
I can’t pinpoint why I’m so nervous as he follows me. Perhaps it’s the location, the mystique and glamor of Monte Carlo, but I’m sure it goes deeper, right to the core of my desire—something primal and instinctive.
I’m hot, my hands and forehead clammy with sweat and the space between my thighs drenched for an all-together different reason. I haven’t come in months and now it’s as though a single finger could set me off.
We’re in a short hall between the gaming rooms and bar. Andy turns. I slam into him. He catches me in his arms, and our chests collide, breaths gathering hot and musky between us.
It’s happening. Let it.
There’s a telephone booth to our right. Andy pulls us in, the door swinging closed. A second more, my back against the wall, and his lips are on mine.
I thought I’d be able to resist him, but in that moment, thousands of miles away from my regular life, I melt at his touch. I draw a shaky hand up to his face, run it over his cheek as the kiss deepens and his tongue presses into my mouth.
His scent is strong in the small space, my own arousal caught in a fast simmer, sending a flurry of sensation through my body. He presses me harder against the wall, his cock iron against my leg, his lips soft, far softer than I imagined as they conform to my own. I can’t breathe, suffocating in the kiss and the rampant desire that’s consuming us.
His hand runs down my side and rests in the dip above my hip, his grip strong and demanding.
He breaks away enough to look at me, his mystic eyes aflame in the low light, the hint of possibility ringed deep within. I pant into the void, waiting. He wants to say something, but the need to kiss him again is greater. I rush forward with my heart hammering, lifting onto my toes and wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling his lips back to mine and pressing my tongue deeper and deeper until my arousal reaches its boiling point.
I won’t even need a finger.
Voices pass outside, laughter. We stop, breaths held, our foreheads pressed together.
“I’m never going to let you go,” he says. I have no doubt he means it. He says it with the same determination he speaks to the press with, that unquestionable will to win at all costs.
“I’ve never done this before,” I whisper back, a tendril of hair hanging on my cheek.
He brushes it away. “Kissed the world’s sexiest man?”
I hold my hand against his chest. His heart beats powerfully against it, Thor’s hammer. “No, I’ve never been with someone… like you.” It’s hardly the most elegant way to put it.
“Like me?” he smiles. “A superstar?”
“An asshole.”
I’m worried he’ll take it the wrong way, but he responds by reaching behind me and taking hold of my ass, lifting me off my feet momentarily and nipping at my lower lip. “Question is, Miss Young, can you handle the heat?”
I run my hand lower, feel his cock burgeoning in his pants. I rub my palm against it. “Can you?”
The door to the booth swings open, a pencil-thin Asian man looking rather perplexed to find us inside instead of a phone.
He starts to apologize, backing away, but I pull Andy out around him, blushing. Before we reach the end of the hallway I let go of Andy’s hand. He stops, but he knows such a public display wouldn’t be wise out here in the open, at least until we know what this is. I’m certainly curious to find out.
He draws me to the side, a chandelier hanging over our heads. “I hate to say it, but my place or yours?”
“I don’t care,” I tell him. “Just find a car.”
He places his hand onto the small of my back, leading me towards the foyer. “Come on, before someone sees my trousers looking like the Great Pyramid of Giza.”
I’m giddy with happiness as we head to the entrance of the casino. I repeat it over and over in my head, my pussy pulsing in echo.
I’m going home with Andy Fortes.
I’m going home with Andy Fortes.
I’m going home with Andy Fortes.
My phone starts to go off in my handbag. I fish for it unconsciously, smiling as I pull it out and swipe up the lock screen. I squint. It’s a link to a news article from a friend back in New York.
My face tightens as I stare at the screen.
I can’t believe it.
“What is it?” says Andy, concerned.
I hold a hand up. “Wait,” continuing to scroll.
He can’t take it anymore. “Sara?”
I hand the phone over. “Take a look. You’re trending.”
I watch his face slacken as he sees the photo at the top of the article. It’s a nice close-up of Stacey and him kissing at the bar. The article’s all about the “wild fling” that followed. There’s a picture of marks around her wrists, a paragraph where she talks about being tied up, about Andy’s sick perversions.
He holds the phone up and I hate the way he’s suddenly looking at me, like I’m a bomb waiting to go off. “It’s bullshit, all of it.”
I point to the screen. “Looks pretty damn clear cut to me.”
He shakes his head. “She forced herself on me in the bar. The kiss lasted less than a second. I bumped into a guy on the way out. He must have taken the photo. It was a fucking set-up.”
I look at him but can’t shift my expression.
He takes me by the shoulders, slipping the phone into my handbag. “Sara, you’ve got to believe me. She’s done this before. It’s only for the attention.”
Two teenage girls walk past me giggling. So it’s out then. By morning he’ll be swarmed by paparazzi.
I step back, looking at the floor. “Andy, either way it doesn’t look good. Caliber isn’t going to be happy.” I pull my handbag in front of myself. “I’ve got to make calls, get on top of this.”
“Don’t go,” he pleads, but I’m already turning away, eyes glassy. I should never have allowed myself to be drawn into this mess in the first place, to leave my heart so open and exposed. I should know better.
“Sorry, Andy, I—” I walk away quickly, knowing he won’t chase me, that it will achieve nothing.
I’m sad, angry, but it’s more than that. I’m disappointed, irritated at myself for thinking he could be something other than a giant cock like every other guy I’ve dated.
Like Mom always said, “They’re going to spin you stories, baby. Glorious, wonderful tales straight from a fairytale. They’ll tell you everything you want to hear, but at the end of the day men are only going to care about one thing, and it won’t be your pretty eyes.”
I’m tempted to head back to the bar, find myself something highly alcoholic, but I can’t take being in public right now.
I hear Mom again. That’s what mini-bars are for, hon.