Liar Liar

‘I didn’t like how we left things before,’ she answers, raising the glass in her hand to lips.

‘I thought you were out of the country.’ Like the child who believes any attention is good, the key to success with her is indifference. Besides, I only know where she’s supposed to be because I’d asked Rhett to keep an eye on her.

Because I trust her as far as I could pitch her across the room.

‘Just for a few days.’ She places one leg over the other, the opposite hand draping across her body, loosely clasping her hip. Some position, I suppose, she picked up from her modelling days.

‘Well, you can go home now. Nothing has changed.’ I don’t bother asking how she got in here, mainly because I couldn’t trust her answer, as I place my glass down on the dresser and consider how buttoning my shirt would seem like a weakness. But keeping it open might encourage her.

‘But Remy, why does it have to end? You know I’m good for you. I don’t place any demands on your time, but I’m always there by your side when you need me.’

‘When I need the illusion of a partner, you mean? A life mate?’ She nods gracefully, drawing closer, her walk something more at home on the catwalk. ‘I don’t need illusions any longer.’ Were my illusions her delusions? I think probably not. We were never suited. This is more about a loss of standing, a loss of finances.

‘Your little friend doesn’t even speak French. I heard she used to work in a strip club.’ She pouts as though pitying me my poor choices, her hand slides to the nape of my neck, her glass holding the other. ‘She won’t even fit into couture, Remy. How will that look at one of your mother’s fundraisers?’

‘You know, I always knew you were a bitch,’ I murmur, trailing my fingers up her slender arm, ‘but I didn’t realise you were quite so unpleasant.’ As I pull her wrist away, it drops to her side. ‘Rose knows the meaning of an honest day’s work. Something you wouldn’t understand. Put your clothes back on.’

‘Look at me—how can you possibly prefer her?’

‘If you really need to ask, it’s pointless asking me to explain. Put on your clothes. And. Get. Out.’ This time, I leave her in no doubt; it isn’t a request. But just in case, I leave the room first.

‘Where are you going?’ she calls after me.

‘Somewhere you aren’t.’

I’ll stay at the hotel, I suppose, as I have done many nights over the past two years. No, I decide. I’ll go down to the marina and stay on Le Loupe. My yacht.

33

Rose

How does a girl dress for a night with a billionaire she wants to hate but can’t? A night where there’s to be dinner, for which she’s negotiated overtime, along with a few hours off the following day. A sensible choice would be to don her uniform again. But she never was very sensible. At least, not when it comes to him.

‘This is not some voiceover for a rom-com,’ I mutter, examining the scant offerings of my wardrobe.

Included in the price of my flight out from the States was one twenty-five kilo piece of luggage, which contained workwear, a capsule wardrobe of weekend casuals. pyjamas. Underwear. Five pair of shoes. A fancy kimono that took forever to drop its creases. Going out dresses totalling three; one LBD, one floral cutesy number, one black lace with a nude underlay, super sexy, it also draws the eye to the girls.

I not sure I’m even convinced as I reach for the floral, feeding myself such excuses as the restaurant might be a little posh, and the LBD might be a little formal. Now the lace, though it provides full coverage from neck to knees, is the dress equivalent of an ostrich feather fan dance. Now you see the boobs, not you don’t. I guess that makes my choice a little easier for this working dinner.

Well, I’m certainly working it, I decide as I examine myself in the mirror. The fabric of the dress works wonders for my shape, sort of sucking in and tucking up the usual things I don’t like about myself. I tell myself my updo has the fashionable tousled look, one that says take me to bed, or even, I just got out of it. Either of those will do. Both are better than plain old big.

My phone rings a little after seven-thirty; a car is waiting for me downstairs. A Bentley, more specifically.

‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Ryan.’ The driver inclines his head, all deference and dapper suit as he opens the rear door. Well, I guess he just confirmed this isn’t anyone else’s ride. Lord knows there are probably as many Bentleys on the roads in Monaco as there are Ubers in most other countries. Relatively speaking, I mean. ‘My name is Hénri. I am to take you to Monsieur Durrand.’