No alcohol. No gambling. No unchaperoned women.
He loved his fast-paced life—there was absolutely no doubt about that—it was just that now and again he felt the need to unplug himself from it and recharge his batteries.
The hot, dry air was such a contrast to the chill of autumn that had come early back in Italy where he had spent a couple of days with his grandfather. No matter the season, Vittorio was a difficult person to be around, bitter and even at times violent. But Remy liked the sense of power it gave him to drop in without notice—which he knew annoyed the hell out of his grandfather—stay a couple of days and then breeze off without saying goodbye.
But while Remy loved Italy it was hard to decide where he felt most at home. His French-Italian heritage, on top of his English boarding-school education, had more or less made him a citizen of the world. Up until now he hadn’t really had a base to call home. He’d lived in and out of suitcases and hotel suites. He liked that he didn’t know where he was going to be from one week to the next. He would pick up a scent like a foxhound and go after a good deal. And nail it.
He liked to move around the globe, picking up business here and there, wheeling and dealing, winning the unwinnable.
He grinned.
Like winning that winner-takes-all hand with Henri Marchand in Vegas. It had been a masterstroke of genius on his part. He didn’t like to be too smug about it but, truth be told, he did actually feel a little bit proud of himself.
He’d hit Henri Marchand where it hurt: he had taken that double-crossing cheat’s Scottish castle off him.
Victory was more than sweet—it was ambrosial.
Remy had come out to Dharbiri so he could reflect on his prize. Tarrantloch was one of the most beautiful and prestigious estates in Scotland. It was isolated and private. It would make a fabulous base for him—a place he could call home. It would be the perfect haven to hunt, shoot, fish and hang out with his friends during his infamous week-long parties. He could have gone straight there to take ownership but he didn’t want to appear too eager to take possession.
No, it was better to let Henri Marchand—and his spoilt little brattish daughter Angelique—think this was just like any other deal done and dusted.
There would be plenty of time to rub her retroussé little nose in it.
He couldn’t wait.
* * *
Getting a flight to Dharbiri was hard enough. Getting access to where Remy Caffarelli was staying was like trying to get through an airport security check-in with a fistful of grenades or an AK47 in her hand luggage.
Angelique ground her teeth for the tenth time. Did she look like a security threat?
‘I need to speak to Monsieur Caffarelli. It’s a matter of great urgency. A family...er, crisis.’
Her family crisis.
The attendant on the reception desk was cool and disbelieving. Angelique could only suppose he was used to fielding off droves of female wannabes who would give an arm or a leg—or both—to have a few minutes with the staggeringly rich, heart-stoppingly gorgeous Remy Caffarelli.
As if she would ever sink so low.
‘Monsieur Caffarelli is not available right now.’ The attendant gave her a look that immediately categorised her as just another hopeful, starry-eyed wannabe. ‘He is dining with the Crown Prince and his wife, and according to royal protocol he cannot be interrupted unless it is a matter of utmost political urgency.’
Angelique mentally rolled her eyes. It looked like she would have to try another tactic; find some other way of getting under the radar. But she was good at that sort of thing.
Outsmarting. Outmanoeuvring. Outwitting.
She smiled to herself.
That was her speciality.
It didn’t take long to bribe a junior housemaid who recognised Angelique from a magazine shoot she’d done a couple of months ago. All it took was an autograph to get access to Remy’s suite.
The young housemaid had mentioned how important it was Angelique wasn’t seen in Remy’s room other than by Remy himself. Apparently there were strict protocols on women and men socialising without appropriate supervision. As much as it annoyed her to have to hide until she knew for sure it was Remy entering the suite, Angelique decided to play things safe.
She scanned the room for a suitable hiding place.
Behind the curtains? No; she would be seen from outside.
The bathroom? No; a housemaid might come in to clean up the appalling mess Remy had left there.