Read It All Began in Monte Carlo for Free Online

her one desire was to escape that reality, where violence was an everyday event, along with brutality and murder. Honed by those mean streets, Maha could smell evil like a second sense. She knew corruption firsthand. And she sensed it now, in the red-haired Kitty Ratte whose serpent’s eyes met hers across the room.
    Turning away Maha sipped her champagne, and checked out the beautiful woman sitting up at the bar, the one Kitty now had those hard eyes on. The intensity of the redhead’s gaze was like an electrical current across the room, and looking at Sunny, Maha saw her innocence, and her vulnerability. She also sensed that she was troubled. A victim, if ever she saw one.
    Maha’s emerald-and-ruby-studded gold bangles jangled as she picked up her glass. She felt Kitty’s eyes on her again, knew the woman was examining her expensive gold necklace, studded with cabochon emeralds. She refused to meet Kitty’s eyes. She wanted nothing to do with her.
    Maha was known for her particular type of jewelry made in Rajasthan by artisans who had perfected their craft over centuries, the necklaces of thick gold swirled around the emeralds for which the area was famous, as well as rubies, sapphires and lesser gemstones like topazes and tourmalines. They were a wonder of workmanship and artistry. She sold them to specialty boutiques and stores in Europe, and soon was to branch out in America. Maha was on the upward move, and would let nothing stand in her way.
    She had come a long way from the poverty-stricken terrified seven-year-old, alone on Mumbai’s sordid and most dangerous streets. But she never forgot her background, and the lessons she had learned.

    Curious, Sunny tried not to stare at Maha. Now she wished she had ordered champagne. No point in ordering a bottle just for one, though.
    Sudden anguish at being alone, of missing Mac, ripped through her. Desperate, she caught the barman’s eye, asked for a bottle of champagne anyway. No caviar though. That used to be her and Mac’s New Year’s Eve treat: caviar and smoked salmon flown in from Harrods in London and lobster from Maine; more often than not eaten in bed with both dogs curled up on the blanket eagerly watching out for scraps. They never waited up for that ball to drop in Times Square though. They were too hot for each other to care about the rest of the world.
    Oh God, her heart was breaking all over again. She should not be thinking of Mac. Her head suddenly felt empty as an air balloon, and she was the panicked balloonist. What was Mac doing right now? He must have found her note, perhaps he’d be searching for her, maybe he’d bought her a Christmas gift, something extravagant enough to bring her back into his arms . . . into those strong, welcoming arms that made her feel so safe, so loved when they enfolded her . . .
    She kept back the tears with a huge effort. Tears were like rain, she thought. And it always seemed to rain in Malibu, at Christmas.
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    Rain fell on Mac’s head, large drops, coming down in sharp gusty spatters. Pirate looked pathetically up at him. Pirate did not like to get wet and Mac picked him up; he was not a big dog but he hefted in at more than one might expect. Still he was so happy, cuddled under the jacket, Mac didn’t mind.
    Though it was evening in Monte Carlo, it was still Christmas Day morning in Malibu and he was walking the beach in the rain, thinking about Sunny, wondering where she was, who she was with; if she was wearing the beautiful red dress and the sexy boots. He was going crazy without her. He’d called everyone, tried everywhere.Nobody knew anything, or if they did, they were not telling. And anyhow, shouldn’t he, the famous Private Detective, be able to find the woman who’d run away from him?
    Rain.
If Sunny were here they would have thrown another log on the fire, had a festive drink, the delicious smell of turkey would be coming from the