Read It All Began in Monte Carlo for Free Online Page A

oven. Now, though, that turkey was still in the market, and there was no great smell of cooking, no blazing fire to lounge in front of, no festive drinks. Life, as Mac Reilly knew it, was over.
    With Pirate cradled in his arms he walked back to his cottage, a thirties wooden shack tacked oddly onto the very end of the row of smart Malibu beach houses. He climbed the wooden steps to the deck, stood for a long moment staring out to sea.
    Finally, he turned and went inside. He fed Pirate, poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and took a seat on the dog-hairy blanket on the old sofa that was the most comfortable piece of furniture he’d ever owned, and that, despite Sunny’s complaints, he refused to get rid of.
    Pirate went to sit next to him. The dog gave an anxious whine and automatically Mac reached out and rubbed a hand through his rough fur. He stared straight ahead at the empty fireplace. At his suddenly empty life.

chapter 9
Monte Carlo, the hotel bar.
Still Christmas Day evening.
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    A man in a white dinner jacket was playing cocktail piano, nothing “festive” thank God, Sunny thought, just good old Cole Porter and Jerome Kern, with a bit of Brazilian bossa nova. The music drifted softly into the silence. In the red dress and furry boots Sunny had never felt less like The Girl from Ipanema. Maybe she should have gotten on a plane to Rio instead of Paris. Wasn’t it hot there at this time of year? Here in the South of France, a cold wind was fluttering the palm trees along the seafront, lifting women’s skirts, ruffling their hair.
    The barman poured her champagne so perfectly there was barely a froth to rim the flute, only those precious bubbles that usually so delighted her. Gloomily, she regretted ordering it. She wondered if a broken heart could turn a woman into an alcoholic.
    A waiter arrived with a platter of
amuse-bouche,
small bites to take the edge off hunger and ease down the champagne. Was she hungry? Would she care if she ever ate again?
    She noticed that the redhead in the corner, skirt sliding up over her plump thighs, her cheeks clashing pink with her metallic red hair, seemed to be hefting the drink back too.
And
she was alone. She had called the waiter, flicking her skirt carelessly over bare knees and ordered a bottle of wine and also a Red Bull. Sunny wonderedwhat her story was. Because, as Mac always said, everybody had a story.
    She switched her gaze to the beautiful Indian woman. The three of them were still the only customers in the bar on this Christmas Day night.
    The Indian woman’s heavy gold necklace was set with large cabochon emeralds, plus she wore a dozen or more jangling gold and bejeweled bracelets. Sunny would bet they were real. She watched her spoon the gray-black beads of expensive caviar onto tiny blinis, saw her eyes close with pleasure as she tasted.
    The piano player switched to “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” singing of love lost and of tears disguised behind the excuse of cigarette smoke.
    Quite suddenly the air seemed to tremble as another young woman stormed into the bar. She was wearing a wedding dress, a short satin sheath, a shimmer of crystals. No veil, a bouquet of lily of the valley, a droop of jasmine pinned behind one ear with a diamond star. Anger vibrated from her. Tears slid down her pretty, uncaring face. Sunny could smell the lilies and the jasmine from where she sat.
    The three women and the waiters watched, alarmed.
    The bride hitched herself onto a barstool, slammed the lilies on the counter. “Martini. On the rocks,” she snarled. Then added, humbly,
“S’il vous plaît, monsieur.”
Tears fell off the cliff of her cheekbones. She sat, staring straight ahead while the barman shook the martini.
    Uncomfortable, Sunny glanced away. She caught the eye of the Indian woman, who raised a shoulder and sighed.
    The bride downed her martini in two gulps, grabbed her posy, slid from the barstool, smoothed