Page 22 of The Cruiser
ChapterNine
The helicopter ridefrom the Nice airport takes fifteen minutes, long enough to be awed by the villas dotting the Cote D’Azur coastline, the craggy mountains, and the cobalt carpet of the Mediterranean stretching southward. But this. We bank left in a cloudless sky, and there she is—The Hope Diamond of countries. If Los Angeles is unforgiving high definition, Monaco is awash in seductive 35 mm glory. A glittering crescent of opportunity and ridiculous wealth.
As the pilot lowers onto the oceanside helipad, I get a birds-eye view of The Monte Carlo Bay Hotel. A sprawling property hugging the shoreline, it’s a tranquil world of light pinks and tawny creams, with bright green pops of lush landscaping. After the pilot secures the rotors and helps me outside, I inhale deeply, the warm air fragrant with the sea. I didn’t sleep, never can on planes, and even though it’s bedtime back in LA, there’s something about arriving in a foreign country that sweeps away all thoughts of rest.
I’m fully reenergized.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Hillman.” An older bellman in a spotless uniform pushes his luggage cart forward and hands me an envelope with an easy smile. “Your room keys for your suite. Please see Mirielle at the front desk for a message.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I mean, merci.”
After two failed attempts at Rosetta Stone Spanish, Derek suggested I try meat if I really wanted to butcher something. But my meager attempt at this man’s local tongue nets me a bigger smile. I’ll have to make more of an effort.
“Straight along the walkway, mademoiselle,” he instructs, his finger indicating the route. “Your bags will be up shortly.”
I wander alongside a massive pool, the ocean only a few yards away and a similar shade of ultramarine. The raised walkways and swaying palm trees on the pool deck remind me of The Venetian in Vegas, Derek's favorite getaway. He was never keen on the real Europe, and I never cared for fake gondoliers and gauche crowds. This is more my speed. Tasteful luxury with a dash of international flair, judging from the two hijab-wearing women sipping coffees under a sun umbrella and a group of Slavic-looking babes lounging poolside with matching Birkin bags and jeweled bracelets.
In the posh, inner sanctum of the hotel, a smartly put-together brunette introduces herself as Mireille, the hotel manager, and a friend of Morgan’s. She insists I take her cell phone number and to call anytime, for anything. I thank her as I scan her digital business card, but after twelve hours of travel, the only thing on my mind is chilling in a hotel room.
Or should I say, my oasis of European glamour.
Seriously.
I don’t care who you are, a fabulous hotel room is a fabulous hotel room. I drop my purse and head straight for the balcony overlooking the endless Mediterranean. The view deserves a classic Rose Titanic pose, and with arms stretched wide, I breathe in my new surroundings. Wow. Not even in Monaco proper for twenty minutes, and my mind is already made up. A-list, all the way.
I take a snap and send it to the girls with the caption, Eat your hearts out! Morgan texts me seconds later. He feels bad that he wasn’t at the hotel to greet me when I arrived. He’s putting out a last-minute fire but is on time to pick me up at 11:30. I text back:
VH: No rush. Just settling in. Love the hotel!
MdRC: Don’t eat all the chocolate before lunch.
Chocolate?
What?
I step back into the room, not sure how I missed the enormous gift basket swathed in iridescent cellophane. Nestled inside is a bottle of Dom Perignon, cheese and crackers, and a box of truffles with a notecard tucked under a red ribbon. I crack open the box, and with a truffle in my mouth, read the note embossed with the Royal Morgan Yachts logo.
To our success, Morgan.
His handwriting reminds me of an EKG reading: confident lines swooping up and down like severe heart palpitations. I trace the ink with my finger, the fine linen of the stationery as luxurious as the dark cocoa melting in the heat of my mouth. An ocean breeze flutters the curtains, bringing with it a taste of salt and sun.
I smile a private smile.
Morgan sure knows how to make an impression.
A girl could get used to this.
* * *
At 11:25 I find Morgan in the lobby, rapid fire texting and oblivious to my approach.
“Good morning.”
Startled, he lifts his head. His eyes scrape over me in a very obvious head to toe. I changed into a white and navy linen shift and tied my hair back into a chignon. With pearl earrings and a bright red handbag and heels, it’s a classic look and one I wear well. The overstuffed chair seems to trap him momentarily before he stands.
“Bonjour, welcome to Monaco. Everything went well with the flights?” His kisses land chaste and quick, unlike the hot and wine-soaked ones I’ve played over and over in my mind. But they still send a shiver up my spine.
“The trip was perfect, thank you. I felt like a movie star jetting to a premiere.”
