“Whiner? Must be easy to say when you’re putting out one piece a week.” Zara had a different name she displayed her works under, and she was quite popular. Galleries all over the world called her for this and that. Buyers stopped by her studio to peruse her newest wares. Zara didn’t have to make a living off her work, but she made a lot of change, anyway. Then again, she sold them for less than Sette did.Things must even outsomehow. Sette wasn’t letting go of her pieces unless she was well and sure the buyer would appreciate them.
“Come off it, girl. Sheesh. Maybe you should get laid while we’re there. Having a pro do you over? If that doesn’t shake you up, I don’t know what will.”
“Let me guess… you’ll pay for that too.”
“God knows you won’t.”
“I already said that I would go. Don’t make me regret it before we even get in your car.”
“In my car?”
“Of course.” Sette resumed drinking her beer. “Mine only has ten-thousand miles on it. You think I’m going to jeopardize that?”
Zara continued to shake her head in disbelief. “You are ridiculous. If you don’t get laid while we’re there, I’m not sure we can be friends anymore.”
“Piss off, Felton.” It was so satisfying calling her by her last name. Simple pleasures in life. Like art. And sex. Not that Sette would ever call them simple out loud. The bigger deal Zara thought it was, the better. Sette had a reputation to maintain.
That reputation apparently now included the patronization of courtesans. There was something romantic about that.
Chapter 3
Miquela
Night sure fell early in this part of the world. That’s what Miquela Bolivar thought every time she came to America and attempted to drive anytime past six. If she came in the winter? The good Lord help guide her, because American road signs were so damn tiny and made it difficult for a gal to get around.
Andget aroundshe liked to do. When Miquela wasn’t overseeing the expansion of her family’s casinos back in Europe, she was on the test tracks taking every newest model under the sun out for a spin.
Here in America, she had one favorite car that she always drove: an Aston Martin Vanquish Volante, the sleekest, sexiest car a country north of France had ever put out. Miquela didn’t concern herself with American cars. In Europe? She was beholden to Italian and German models. America was an excuse to strut her Vanquish up and down every street she could.
Tonight, she had only one destination. High in the lofty mountains of the countryside was a legendary place she had heard of all the way in France – or more specifically, her home country of Monaco. There, billionaires and their heirs whispered over cigars and drinks about the only place one should go to in America if they wanted some high-quality… attention.
Miquela always snorted to hear it. Now that she officially split her time between Monaco and America? Moving to the region’s busiest commercial district meant she had the time to check out a little abode called Le Manoir.
She didn’t know much about it, besides that it was extortionately expensive (not a problem when one was heir to an established European fortune) and the women trained in every kink and wonder. True professionals, offering any experience a guest could dream up.
Miquela had many experiences she wanted to have with beautiful women. However, there was one thing that often came in the way of achieving that sort of dream, and it rested in her overnight bag right now.
“Come on,” she grumbled, switching gears as she ventured up the mountain. Her GPS said she was five minutes away. “We’ll see if there’s anyone who can take you on tonight.”
She felt no shame in admitting she had frequented many such establishments all over the world. She had hired her fair share of escorts and other so-called professional working women. Perhaps more than most women she knew. For Miquela, it was a practicality. They weren’t messy, for one thing. Professionals knew to be discreet. They also had more experience in handling someone like her, and at the end of the day, that’s all she cared about.
“Turn right fifty meters ahead.” The GPS had a silky, feminine voice, custom-created for Miquela. Sounded like her oldgirlfriend, Rosa. Thinking about her always panged Miquela’s heart. Not what she wanted on a night like this.
The long private roads leading to Le Manoir were probably impressive in the daylight, but at night, all she could see were strings of Christmas lights and the occasional lamp burning a dull, soft yellow in the night. Security waved her down this driveway and that until she came upon a sizable manor glowing on top of a hill.
Exquisite French architecture at its finest. Miquela was used to hearing places be called Manoirs and then discovering that they were… well, not what she pictured. Her family owned four French Châteaus as it was. This one, while still quite American in its sensibilities, could pass. Now, to see what French wines she could get…
First things first. An attendant smartly dressed in a heavy suit pointed out a parking spot beneath a dormant cherry tree. There were other cars lined up, including some of Miquela’s favorite Ferraris, Porsches, and Jaguars. She took a moment to admire them in the chilly night before seeing herself to the entrance.
“Your name, ma’am?” asked a doorman, who looked like he could turn into a formidable bouncer at any moment. “For the announcements.”
“Miquela Bolivar, of Monaco.” She handed the doorman one of her business cards. The attendant glanced it over with careful eyes. “I have an appointment with the madam, although I’m a few minutes early.”
“Very good.” The doorman stepped into the foyer. Within a second, a loud, booming voice declared Miquela’s arrival. A maid popped out of a side room and hustled to the door, where the doorman whispered that Madam Monique had a special guest. “Do come in, ma’am. The lady will be right down.”
Miquela assumed she would be ushered into another room to sit and wait. Maybe receive a complimentary glass of something.That’s how it usually worked in these places. If it were a particularly seedy place, a young woman might show up with the intent of getting ready to get off. Those places were always about the high turnover.
None of that occurred. Before Miquela could inquire where her coat was going, a woman came down the stairs and extended her hand to her.
