They landed in Nice late in the afternoon. June didn’t need to be told to wait for immigration to board the plane. This was probably old hat for her, in a way. Not her first international pony show with a billionaire, anyway.I really have my work cut out for me.She was, however, gasping at the sight of a helicopter awaiting them as soon as they deplaned.
“What? You thought we were going to drive?” Miquela put her hand on the small of June’s back and guided her. “You ever been in a helicopter before?”
Her grin was the first since that morning. “No!”
“Finally! A first for her!”
They were helped aboard and situated. This was the usual life for Miquela, who took a helicopter from Nice to Monaco and vice versa whenever the weather permitted, but fuck it. Seeing June’s face light up from the renewed sense of adventure made her happy as well.
“Oh, my God,” she leaned in to whisper, even though Miquela could barely hear her over the roar of the blades whipping overhead. “The pilot is hot.”
Her hand searched for June’s thigh beneath that baggy shift. “Not as hot as you, I assure.”
“Yes, yes, you are so gay.” Still grinning, June sat back in her seat and held on to the handlebar above her head as thehelicopter lifted into the air. After their stomachs settled, she cried, “How do you say,‘let’s have a threesome’in French?”
Miquela was glad their pilot didn’t speak English.
It was a clear, beautiful evening as they flew from one port to the other. Miquela didn’t have the heart to tell heramourthat the trip was a mere seven minutes long – June was so jubilant, plastered to the window and staring at the cerulean Mediterranean waters below. France slowly drifted away, replaced by sloping hillsides and large, white cruisers that belonged to some of the richest in Europe. Miquela tried to recognize some of them, but they were too far away to make out the details.
“Is that it?” June cried, pointing to an expensive settlement next to a marina. “Looks smaller…”
“No. That’s not it.” She jerked her thumb to another window. “That’s Monaco.”
June almost raised the pilot’s ire by straining against her seatbelt and leaning over Miquela’s lap.Finally. I have her in my lap.Miquela put a firm hand on June to hold her in place. The pilot said nothing, not even in French.
“Oh, my God! It’s gorgeous!”
Miquela had taken her fair city – and country – for granted since growing up there. Now she looked at it through June’s fresh eyes, taking in contemporary resorts and centuries-old apartment buildings. Tomorrow, she would give the real tour. For now, Miquela was content to point and say, “There is the Cathedral… yes, where Grace Kelly is buried. There’s the palace. The Princes of Monaco have lived there for 700 years. There’s a museum… and yes, there’s my apartment. You can’t see it, but I know which one it is.” She laughed. “Great view of my boat right there!”
June pretended to see it all, although from her vantage, it was probably endless white and beige with the occasional glass wall.
“Everything is so packed together!”
“Yes. It’s forty thousand people crammed into the second smallest country in the world. That doesn’t count all the tourists, either.”
There was one spot open at the heliport when they landed three minutes later. By then, June looked like she had an orgasm.
“Bienvenue à Monaco,” Miquela muttered to her.
June was in a daze while Miquela led her through the heliport and to her car waiting outside. Too tired to drive tonight, she had called up one of the family chauffeurs and asked to have him meet them there with the black Maserati Quattroporte. June was still all giggles as she tried to see out the tinted windows on the short trip to Miquela’s apartment.Reminder: take a different car out tomorrow. No point in enjoying playing tourist if they couldn’t see anything!
“We’re here already?” That was the second time that day June said it. The driver had pulled up in front of Miquela’s apartment building and was about to get out to grab their luggage. “Aren’t we going to park somewhere else? What if someone sees us?”
“Ma cherie,” Miquela couldn’t pick, could she? “There are almost no paparazzi in Monaco. Everyone may know me here, but nobody can photograph me. Back in America, nobody knows me. It’s perfect.”
She brazenly took June’s hand as they exited the car.I never hold a woman’s hand like this.If she were walking the streets of Monaco with a date – let alone hopping into her apartment – she kept a respectful distance. There may be no photographers, but family gossip abounded.
Whatever. Feeling June’s hand was worth a comment at her father’s birthday party.
Miquela lived in the sort of luxury that was expected of her, let alone in a place like Monaco, but her apartment building didn’thave elevator attendants – just the standard sliding keycard lock. The French receptionist standing behind the front counter looked up with a large smile. “Bon retour parmi nous, Madame Bolivar,” he said. “Do you need anything?”
“Nothing tonight, thanks.” Miquela slid her keycard and waited for the elevator to come down. June, meanwhile, turned in little circles as she took in the restored detailing combined with high-tech security. She smiled directly into a camera disguised as a hanging plant.Good eye. I shouldn’t be surprised.There were similarly disguised cameras all over the Manoir. “Come,mi amour. We can order dinner once we’re upstairs.”
“Ven conmigo!” she cried with an exaggerated accent as she leaped into the elevator ahead of Miquela, who punched in the code for her level. The doors closed to reveal a floor-length mirror reflecting her tailored suit and June’s travel-wrinkled shift. She hadn’t removed the sunglasses yet. Probably too blinded by the diamond-encrusted elevator buttons.
“Your Spanish is pretty good,” Miquela said, stomach lurching as they launched upward. “Not sure where that accent comes from.”
“Eh, we learn Mexican Spanish across the pond.” June shrugged. “We preferustedestonosotros. I’m sure you’re fluent in both major dialects.”
