9. Miquela
Miquela
N obody was more beautiful at the wedding than June.
Not even the bride could compare to the gorgeous allure of the nation’s most charming woman.
Everywhere they went, and with everyone they met, June reclaimed the title by sweet-talking and flirting.
I can barely keep my hands off her. Miquela did, out of propriety, but it wasn’t easy.
June had kept her hand on her leg for the entire ceremony, and now Miquela felt liable to rip off that dress and have her before the happy newlyweds could go off to spend their first night together.
“You’re killing me inside and out,” she muttered into June’s ear as they joined the throng of people milling toward their transportation of choice.
The surge of people created a bottleneck from the garden to the front yard.
Security personnel directed the traffic.
By all accounts, it was a well-run American wedding.
Things are different in Europe . The lack of helicopters coming in and out of the yard was one tip-off.
“I hope we can be alone. I have… things to do to you.”
“I’m sure you do.” June wrapped an arm around her, fingers tapping against Miquela’s midsection. “Looking forward to it.”
That’s what a woman wanted to hear. Miquela could wait. Even if they were in the slowest-moving line of the century, she could wait to show June off some more. There was always time. Today, anyway.
I saw… her . She meant Sette, of course.
Sitting with Zara on the other side of the walkway and two rows up.
Only once did Miquela catch her and June exchanging looks.
I will not get jealous. I am a terrific example of manners and poise .
Sette kept her words and her hands to herself.
She even admirably focused on the wedding, which was something Miquela could not really do.
Weddings . She had been to a hundred of them over the past decade.
Two people meet. They decide to get married.
Here we are. That had been Miquela’s world for most summers and the occasional Christmas season.
She looked at June with more critical eyes.
Could Miquela see herself being the one she married one day?
That’s how she used to look at Rosa. A woman meant for marriage.
Whether or not she marries the right one…
who knows . June, however, was not the type of woman people looked at and said, “Yup, she’s getting married one day!
” Not unless she was the gold-digging type.
Naturally, this was not a dig at the woman Miquela loved.
Quite the opposite. She was pleased with June’s independent nature and need to be in control of her own destiny.
Too often, Miquela dated women who wanted everything handed to them, whether it was money or service.
June worked hard for her money – Miquela would know, as she had handed her thousands upon thousands of dollars by now.
“How did you like the wedding?” They were almost to the front of the bottleneck, but it was still slow-moving.
“The bride’s dress was stunning. It looked Italian.
” Miquela tolerated weddings if three things were involved: an unconventional ceremony (check), lots of alcohol (that was coming up), and a dress that stopped the show and was flattering on the woman wearing it.
Etta’s bride, Miss Jamie, had worn a princess bridal gown handstitched with golden appliques.
While Miquela didn’t recognize the designer, she did recognize it as being decidedly Italian .
It helped that she also knew Etta Coleman had a huge fondness for the country.
“It was nice.” June remained pleasant. “Weddings aren’t really my thing. Receptions, on the other hand… those can be a lot of fun.” Her hand grazed Miquela’s ass.
“You’re a naughty one.”
“Says the woman implying she wants to do things to me at this wedding.”
“I said later.”
They exchanged coy looks. June curled her arm around Miquela’s and kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you asked me to the wedding. Then again, you don’t know anyone here, do you?”
“Only you and a few others. You are the only one, however, I know so intimately.”
She giggled. “Oh, look, it’s our turn.”
They forewent taking one of the shuttles to instead hop in the Aston Martin and drive farther up into the hills for the reception.
Miquela had never been up this way before, but she knew that this whole neighborhood – if sprawling acres and near-city country living could be called that – was the rural living for the elite who worked every day in town but wanted some sizable property to call their own.
Those who were more miserly and wanted more privacy tended to live closer to the Manoir than anywhere else.
The hills, however, had the architecture, landscaping, and price tag to bring millionaires out to squabble over purchases.
Like in Europe, there were community amenities for those who lived here.
One such amenity was a public complex sporting gyms, gardens, and reception halls.
The main hall, where the reception awaited the guests, was a quaint manor on the way into the complex.
Beyond it, past groves of evergreen trees carefully trimmed to still give an illusion of privacy, were the gyms and botanical gardens.
The little manor was well equipped with everything a woman of means needed to throw her wedding bash: a large ballroom for eating, toasting, and dancing, enough facilities for those who drank too much, and a lounge stocked with a never-ending bar staffed by half a dozen competent mixologists.
One of many coat-checks up front took Miquela’s travel coat and offered to take June’s sweater, but she declined.
“I’ll get cold as soon as we sit down in the air-conditioned room,” she explained. “Speaking of, let’s take our time and have some drinks first. I’m not in a hurry to listen to toasts, even if Monique will be rambling.”
The madam was here too, although Miquela didn’t see much of her since she spent the whole time sitting down.
Monique went out of her way to say her pleasantries and introduce Miquela to her wife, Helen Warner, but beyond that, Miquela was happy to say that the only person she cared about was June, whom she ordered a margarita the first chance they had.
“You should tell me who these people are,” Miquela said, leaning against the far end of the bar.
June stirred her martini before picking out the olive and brushing it against her lover’s mouth.
She bit it, even though she didn’t care for olives.
Yes, this Mediterranean woman doesn’t care for olives.
All she cared about was enticing June. “I need to know who you make money from.” She grinned to make sure she took it as a joke.
One week ago, June had called her, yelling about being shut out of work for a night .
I think it was Ms. Coleman’s bachelorette party, in fact .
June now called every other night, usually from her bathroom, asking Miquela about her day and how her work was coming along.
Sometimes, she asked more questions about her family and what it was like to live in Europe.
Then Miquela received one of the most unhinged phone calls of her life.
“ Maybe if you weren’t so beautiful, I would be able to make some fucking money!
” Miquela didn’t know what that was about, but she made sure to tip June extra the next time she saw her – and brought her a box of chocolates, because even though she said she no longer menstruated because of her IUD, June still had the hormonal fluctuations that came with it. I get it. Way too well.
June pointed out everyone she knew in the room.
There must have been at least fifty milling about the lounge, not including those who came up to the bar and departed again.
Half the people were locals. Another quarter were other Americans.
Foreigners were the minority, but even Miquela recognized two princes accompanied by their bodyguards and assistants.
A Saudi prince, and a fellow European daughter from another tiny nation that was bigger than Monaco… but not as famous.
“Coleman gets around.”
June shrugged. “She’s in charge of one of the nation’s biggest companies. You only met her, but lots of others beat you to it.”
“Truly, I feel honored having been invited.”
June grinned. “I should be so honored that you invited me to be your date, yes?”
Miquela took June’s hand and gently kissed her knuckles, eyes never leaving hers. “ Te amo, mi amour .”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“It’s Spanish…”
“One of the dirtiest languages in the world! You could say ‘Wash my socks by hand’ in that sexy accent of yours, and I would die.”
Miquela tried that out, careful to roll every R in a long, searing purr. Yes, June was definitely melting.
After they finished their drinks, they left to take their assigned places in the ballroom. Good. Miquela was starting to get hungry.
“Oh… good afternoon.”
June stopped, torn between returning the greeting and ignoring the woman pushing her way into the lounge.
“Could you give me a few seconds, Miquela?” She put a hand on her shoulder, reassuring her while she looked into the glassy eyes of the other woman.
Sette Christie stood in her stuffy maroon dress, hair slightly unkempt – because she was a dirty artist, so there – and gaze turning from Miquela to June.
The way she looked at June… it was the way Miquela looked at her.
Fuck her. She knew it was jealousy bubbling up.
She couldn’t help it. How could she keep from putting a protective arm around her beloved to make sure she didn’t run away with Sette? Like she was an animal in heat…