Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ALORA
“With the lamp, that will be two hundred and eighty euros please.” I ring up the purchases on the cash register. The bell over the door chimes and I look up to see two men in black suits walking in; they are big and burly and stand to the side as if waiting for something.
Nerves dance in my stomach as I finish up the sale. This is just a work transaction, calm, calm, calm, I am totally fucking calm.
I walk over to the two men and play dumb. “May I help you?”
“Miss Sorenson?” one man asks.
“Yes.”
“We’re here on behalf of Mr. Prescott to collect you. My name is Philippe, and this is Merrick.”
“Oh.” I act surprised like I forgot this was even happening.
“I won’t be a moment, I’ll meet you out the front.
” I glance back toward Jonty and Helene behind the desk to make sure they aren’t listening in.
I’ve decided I’m not telling anyone about this, not even Helene.
That way there’s no chance of it getting out or misconstrued.
“Would you mind driving around the corner and waiting for me please?”
The men glance up at my staff as they connect the dots. “Of course.” They leave and I go back to the counter and make myself appear busy as I tidy. I put the pens in the holder and change the cash register receipt roll.
“I have that meeting this afternoon, remember?” I tell them.
“Yes.” They tidy alongside of me. “You better go or you’re going to be late.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Sure thing.”
I go out the back and run to the bathroom, I quickly take out my compact and fix my makeup, brush my teeth, reapply my red lipstick and try to calm my nerves.
“Bye,” I say casually as I walk out the front doors. I make my way around the corner and see the blacked-out Bentley parked to the side.
Of course he has a Bentley.
One of the men is standing by the building, and when he sees me coming he walks forward and opens the back door for me. “Good afternoon, Miss Sorenson.” He smiles.
“Good afternoon.” I slide into the back seat.
Wow….
The leather interior is a cherry maroon color and the doors are all fancy wood paneling.
Jeez, it doesn’t feel like a car, it feels like a step back in time to royalty.
He does have a title….
“What kind of car is this?” I ask as my eyes roam around the luxury.
“A Bentley Mulliner Bacalar,” one of them replies casually.
“It’s nice.” I squirm in my seat as I rub my fingers over the wood trim on the door.
“It is.” They keep their eyes to the front and I get the feeling that making light conversation is not high on their priority list.
I subtly take out my phone and type into Google:
Price of Bentley Mulliner Bacalar
An answer pops up.
Starting at three million euros.
What the…?
I stuff my phone back into my purse, that’s quite enough googling for today.
I check my bag for the tenth time today, calendar, pen, pencil, eraser…what else would I possibly need?
Lingerie….
Ha, not funny. I take out the pen and click it open and scribble a little on one of the pages, better check it. A perfect blue line shows up, yep, it works. I put it back into my bag and put it back down onto the seat beside me.
The car drives like a dream, so smooth, and when we pull up at the lights people look at it. I don’t think they can see me though because of the blacked-out windows.
“You have some iced water in the tray, Miss Sorenson,” the man in the front says.
I look down and see a glass of water with ice and lemon in it sitting in the middle.
“Oh….” I frown as I pick it up. “Thanks.” I feel obliged to take a sip and with a shaky hand I put it back down. Water and lemon in a glass in a car, ha, what next?
Thirty minutes later we pull into Monaco and then the car heads down to the marina in Monte Carlo.
I crane my neck as I look around, I’m confused.
“Ahh.” I think out loud. “I thought we were going to Mr. Prescott’s office?”
“Mr. Prescott is working from his yacht today.”
“His yacht?” My eyes widen as the car pulls into the dock. I look out the window at a huge black superyacht, five stories tall.
Shit, shit, shit.
This is supposed to be a work meeting, yachting around Monte Carlo with a man in a relationship is not a good look.
I begin to sweat bullets, Pascal is going to freak, that’s if I survive his princess having me assassinated by one of her bouncers.
Fucking hell.
Oh god, I knew this was a bad idea.
The car door opens and I gingerly climb out, I look up at the yacht and suddenly feel very insignificant. I pull down my black blazer over my pantsuit, which was perfect for an office, but yet ridiculous for a yacht. At least I’m wearing red lipstick, I guess.
I follow the two men up the dock and we walk over the gangplank. “This way,” the man says. I follow him onto the yacht and as I look around my knees nearly buckle out from under me.
What the hell?
Timber parquetry floors and big, plush rugs, the most beautiful couches I have ever seen. A huge bar stocked with more alcohol than an actual bar. Through the glass doors there’s a huge deck and swimming pool.
A fucking swimming pool….
This looks like a mansion of epic proportions, not a fucking boat. A grand staircase is in the center leading up to the next level.
“Would you like to take the stairs or the elevator?” the man asks me.
There’s an elevator?
“Um….” I’m like a deer in the headlights. “Stairs,” I squeak.
“This way.” I follow him up the flight of stairs and we get to the next level.
I stop still on the spot in shock.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, a giant dining table with huge vases of fresh flowers on it, giant chandeliers hanging overhead. I count the leather chairs, fifteen each side and one each end. A thirty-two-place dining table…. Are you kidding me right now?
I have no words, none.
We go up to the next level and this floor is different, it’s divided with a wall. One end has a beautiful casual living area and we walk through to the other end and there’s a huge conference room with a big board table with numerous chairs around it, again with the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Mr. Prescott is in his office.”
A big black door comes into view and he knocks.
“Come in.”
He opens the door and sitting behind a big black grand desk is Edward, he looks up from his computer and smiles. “Good afternoon, Miss Sorenson.”
“Hi.” I fake a smile; this isn’t awkward at all.
“Thank you,” he tells the driver. “We may leave port now.”
“Yes, sir.” The man leaves us alone and closes the office door behind us.
“Leave port?” I frown.
“Yes,” he says casually as he stands and goes to the bar. “What would you like to drink?”
I swallow the lump in my throat, seeing I’m leaving port with a taken man and I have a boyfriend, ho juice sounds good. “I’ll have a Diet Coke please.”
“Take a seat.” He smiles. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I awkwardly sit down at his desk as I look around, there is nothing remotely comfortable about being here. “I thought we were meeting in your office?”
“We are in my office.” He passes me my Diet Coke and sits back down behind his desk; he has a glass of amber liquid with ice in a crystal tumbler.
“This is your office?”
“Uh-huh.” He takes a sip as his eyes hold mine. “One of them, I have many.”
“Just how rich are you?” I frown as I look around.
“I do okay.” A trace of a smile crosses his face as he leans back in his chair.
“Your version of okay and my okay are not the same okay.”
“Okay.” He does smile this time; his eyes linger on my face. “You look lovely.”
My fingers tighten around my handbag on my lap. “Thanks.”
He’s wearing a navy suit and a cream shirt; his dark hair has a bit of a curl to it and that damn square jaw is here to taunt me. But it’s the big blue eyes that steal my breath. There’s no denying he’s a beautiful-looking man.
“So….” He traces circles with his finger on the desk. “Where shall we start?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“Hmm.” He rolls his lips as he watches me and I would pay good money right now to be able to read his mind. “Tell me about your situation.”
“My situation?” I frown.
“Yes. If I’m going to help you grow your business, I need to know everything.”
I swallow the lump in my throat as my eyes hold his. If you must know everything I think I’m in the middle of a midlife crisis.
“Three years ago my uncle died. Actually, it was the weekend I was with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. He….” I pause as I try to collect my thoughts. “He married a French woman and they settled here. Unfortunately, a few years after they were married she died, and he never remarried. Antiques and Nice were his life.”
He listens intently and sips his drink; he sloshes it around in his mouth as if savoring the taste before swallowing it.
“Anyway, when he died he left an entire warehouse of antiques to me in his will and when I came here to try and sort them out, I ended up staying and opening an antique store.”
“I see.” He smiles as he watches me. “From what I see you have an eye for detail and are doing well. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I feel proud of myself, from the corner of my eye I see something move in the window, I look out to see that we are pulling out of the marina. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“Just out to sea for a little bit.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” His eyes hold mine. “It’s nice not to be disturbed.”
“Right.”
This is a bad, bad idea….
“What are your plans moving forward?” he asks, totally undeterred by us going out to sea.
“I would like to build my antique store and perhaps open a second location.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Paris.”
“Okay.” He smiles as he listens. “And what about personally?”
“What?”
“Your personal plans moving forward?”
“I hardly think we need to discuss my personal life.”
“If I’m going to mentor you, it’s a full-package deal.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t mentor you if your personal goals don’t align with your business goals. I need a full picture of everything to become clear on where we are going.”
“Oh.”