The Trouble With Coco Monroe (7 page)

She’d had a taste of anonymity, freedom, and wanted a hell of a lot more of it.

Recently she’d noticed mention of her name in a couple of celebrity blogs, on twitter and Facebook groups.

The wild merry-go-round of her life was about to start-up again.

Now Coco sat at the kitchen table of her new house, eating a late breakfast of an egg white omelette and mulling over the situation.

She loved her home.

Hidden from long lenses of the paparazzi, no one outside her immediate circle knew it existed. It wasn’t a city apartment or one of the many homes owned by her father around the world.

Nope.

This was all hers.

A country retreat bought and paid for by one Coco Monroe.

And that’s how she liked it.

Yep, being the daughter of a self-made squillionaire seriously sucked.

But what sucked even more was having three older brothers who made it their mission in life to make hers a challenge. She gave as good as she got. Telling them that since they were getting old and decrepit - they were in their early thirties - it was more than time they settled down, found a good woman and added to the Monroe line. And if she really wanted to mix it up she said it in front of their father.

Hehehe.

Two of her brothers simply stated that since she was the one with the uterus, she should do her family duty. Bruce and Wallace Monroe fought for their country courtesy of Her Majesty’s armed forces in Afghanistan and other hot spots.

Coco sat back with her coffee, black no sugar, easing herself into the day by watching Jezebel and Honey play on the immaculate lawn. Vast folding glass doors to the garden were wide open and a balmy breeze of late summer carried the scent of full blown roses into the room. She grinned as the pug nipped the St Bernard’s paws then leapt out of harms way. Jezebel was a little tease.

Wearing low slung yoga pants of light cotton, she propped her bare feet onto a chair, opened her laptop, switched it on.

Her emails lit up and she took a leisurely scan of her messages.

She straightened in her seat, frowning at the sender alert on the screen and the subject in shouty letters.

From Raphael Cavendish, DO NOT IGNORE THIS MESSAGE.

Poop.

She’d been ignoring him for three days.

What the hell did he want?

A picture of the Rafe the last time she’d seen him entered her mind.

She’d infuriated and frustrated him.

But most of all, she’d hurt him.

Coco told herself it was only human to feel regret, but he’d left her with no choice.

And it was all her own fault if her long lonely nights had been filled with memories of The Kiss, of that amazing face, of inky hair, of an outstanding butt on a superior body, of a stunning looking man with an air of danger.

He had fabulous eyes. Eyes a woman, if she was stupid enough, could drown in. And Coco Monroe was not stupid.

Her index finger hovered over the mouse.

Open or ignore, decisions, decisions.

She glanced at the time.

Hmm, he’d sent it at 6.00am.

That was typical of him, up and at ‘em.

And in many ways she liked that about Mr Fix-It.

Or as Louise called him, ‘Mr Fix-Coco.’

Louise reckoned Rafe Cavendish was a monk since he kept to himself in a way that made a recluse look like a party animal. But he received his fair share of press attention too. Most of the celebrity scribblers described him as a loner, polite but aloof. Now Coco laughed out loud recalling a gossip article highlighting the top ten bachelors in the country, penned by Ms Tabitha Crew.

Coco bet what had been written about him had put a hitch in Rafe’s long stride through life.

God, she’d give good money to be a fly on the wall when he read it.

As far as she could tell he wasn’t seriously dating.

No, Rafe remained determinedly single.

And Coco could respect that since she was determinedly single herself.

Wearing low-slung jeans and a vest the exact colour of her eyes, Louise swung through the garden doors, dumped brown paper sacks filled with what she termed
real food
on the table.

The dogs’ spooky radar told them there might be a treat in the shopping bags.

Sure enough, Louise held a couple of milk bones in her hand and raised her brows.

Immediately Honey and Jezebel dropped their butts to the floor.

The St Bernard’s whole body trembled as Louise gave Jezebel her treat before handing Honey hers.

‘Good girls.’

With a frown Louise cocked her head to listen to the music thumping from the iPod deck. ‘Is that Justin Bieber?’ she demanded in a tone dripping with disgust.

Coco hunched her shoulders. ‘Might be.’

‘You’d think his fifteen minutes of fame would be up by now.’

‘Girls love him.’

‘Yep, if they’re twelve with broccoli for brains.’

‘Be nice, Louise. Who was the one who loved the Backstreet Boys?’

Her friend glared. ‘Why throw it up in my face? What’ve I ever done to you?’

‘You played a certain song on a loop for weeks. And severely tested my love for you.’

‘I was twelve and had the brain of a turnip. Turnip brain is better than broccoli brain.’

She opened a cupboard, grabbed a mug and the pot. And turned to Coco.

‘Want more coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

Glowering at her screen Coco drummed her fingernails on the table.

Louise frowned. ‘What’s up, grumpy face?’ Not waiting for response, she peered at the laptop over Coco’s shoulder, spotted the email. ‘That explains it. Gonna open it?’

‘I’m sort of thinking about it. Mulling over the pros and cons. Do I want the day to deteriorate further or do I remain in blissful ignorance?’

Louise gave a snort of laughter. ‘If you don’t respond, he’ll text.’

And right on cue Coco’s cell dinged.

They checked caller i.d.

Coco gave her wide eyes. ‘You’re a witch.’

‘Nothing magical about it. It’s called logic and an understanding of how his mind works.’

Coco picked up her cell, opened the message, showed it to Louise.

CALL ME.

‘Short, sharp and to the point,’ Louise said.

‘It tells me nothing. Does it mean he’s still furious or does it mean it’s urgent?’

Louise gave her a friendly pat on the on the shoulder.

‘Why don’t you put us both out of our misery.’

Coco jabbed call and waited.

‘Why are you not opening your emails?’ Rafe asked by way of a greeting.

The deep voice did wonderful things to parts of her that other voices didn’t reach.

So she sat back and prepared to enjoy herself.

‘Good morning, Rafe dahling. How are you this fine, sunny day?’

Silence.

Annoyance fluttered in her belly along with the vivid memory of The Kiss.

Arousal flooded her system.

Oh God.

‘You’re seriously pissing me off,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve been messaging you for three days.’

‘Really? I’ve been very busy.’ She eyed the bags Louise was unpacking. ‘Just back from the grocery store. Stocking up the vast larder in my new house.’

And she almost cracked at her friend’s slack jaw and big eyes.

Anyone who knew her knew she didn’t know one end of a supermarket from the other. It wasn’t that she had anything against them. Why put herself through the stress of self-service checkouts when a person could shop online and have it delivered?

Silence.

Coco decided to nudge the conversation along. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked in a friendly voice.

‘The opening of The Blue Lagoon Two is on Tuesday night. On Tuesday night Ethan is flying to the States. You’re on duty.’

Now she placed her feet on the floor, straightened in her chair.

‘This Tuesday?’ She couldn’t keep the alarm from her voice.

Her eyes flew to Louise who’d stopped dead and was staring at her with wide eyes.

Crap.

The deep voice at the other end of the line went all soft and silky.

‘Got something more important to do? Nails, hair, facial perhaps?’

Son-of-a...

‘What time?’

‘Seven-thirty. Don’t be late,’ he barked.

And hung up.

Coco simply stared at the phone.

‘Tuesday?’ Louise’s green eyes went dark with worry. ‘So Rafe’s still acting as the go-between you and your father? This is getting out of hand. I don’t think it’s a good idea to let Samson go.’

‘We’ve been over all this. I can’t trust them with anyone else.’

‘Yes, but it’ll leave you exposed, unprotected.’

Coco shook her head. ‘It will leave me free for the first time in years.’

Chapter Seven

Two weeks into his new role of running Ludlow Hall, the flagship of Ferranti Hotels & Spas, and Jacob Del Garda realised with something like surprise that for the first time in months he was enjoying himself.

He was a man who liked to keep busy, who liked his world well organised and running smoothly. And he was sleeping better here, which might have something to do with the English country air. Each morning at the crack of dawn he inhaled plenty of country air during his five-mile runs through the forest trails that surrounded the Hall. Then he beat the shit out of the punch bag in Nico’s amazing gym at The Dower House. The gym was set well back from the main property in a huge glass and oak building along with an indoor swimming pool and office, surrounded by stunning gardens. It was one of the best-equipped fitness spaces he’d ever seen. Rather than Jacob use the gym at Ludlow Hall, Nico had explained he preferred his general manager to keep business and his personal life separate. In the Bahamas Jacob usually worked, rested and played in the same environment so he was happy to jump onboard with the Italian’s idea.

A big plus was the way Nico and Bronte Ferranti had absorbed him into their lives and the lives of their close friends. Without fuss or fanfare he’d learned the door of The Dower House was always open. Their house might be stunning, but first and foremost it was a family home. A happy home filled with love and laughter. The
niños
were a delight too.

This morning the senior staff meeting had gone well. They were a bunch of men and women who were on the ball. So no hassle from them, yet. Guest feedback was excellent in the ninety-seven per cent very satisfied percentile, which for a place this size was outstanding. Nico had picked up a couple of Jacob’s suggestions for improving systems in the restaurants so he felt that he was adding value. And he’d made notes of excellent ideas to put into practice in his hotel, The Prince Felipe Ortiz in the Bahamas. Although knowing Alexander Ludlow those ideas were already being implemented.

When his father, Don Norberto Juan Ortiz Conde Del Garda, and Nico Ferranti had come up with the plan for a job swap between him and Alexander for three months, he had to admit the idea hadn’t held much appeal. However, the reality was he’d needed a break. The island of Bimini held too many bad memories. Memories that made it hard for a person to move on.

Jacob was not a man who trusted easily or who gave freely of himself. Not because he’d had an unhappy childhood with no love or affection, far from it. He came from great wealth and a loving supportive family, thank God. It was more the fact that he was built that way. His brother Lucas always said that Jacob felt things too much; happiness, pain, sadness, anger, and he took too much to heart. Perhaps he was right because when he’d found true love he’d also found a level of personal happiness, a contentment soul deep, he’d never thought he could experience, which at the end had turned into the living hell he existed in each and every day.

To think he used to roll his eyes at lilting Spanish songs about heartbreak and love lost. He’d learned the hard way it was a vastly different experience when it happened to you. A broken heart sucked the soul from a man. It made sleep impossible. Food didn’t taste the same. Flowers didn’t smell the same. But worst of all was the anger, the feeling of bitter betrayal that burned like battery acid in his gut.

And that brought Gabriella right to the forefront of his mind. It didn’t help that he tortured himself by having her picture on the screen saver on his laptop. When she’d spotted it his sister-in-law Rebecca had simply put her arm around him and kissed his cheek. She’d said nothing, but her tiny sigh of disappointment hadn’t gone unnoticed. Becca had gone through the worst kind of personal loss, the tragic death of her first husband and baby. All she’d said was that he’d have good days and bad days and eventually the good days would outweigh the bad.

Unlike Becca’s late husband, the love of Jacob’s life was still very much alive.

The brisk knock on the door jolted him out of his preoccupation.

And he ordered himself to get a grip.

His personal assistant Elena popped her dark head around the door.

‘Janine Faulkner of Sweet Sensation is here for the weekly meeting. Do you want me to take it?’

He liked Janine. She was professional and excellent at her job. Plus he’d met her socially a few times at the Ferranti’s. And he very much admired the way she was courageously rebuilding her life after tragedy and her devotion to her child.

Jacob shook his head.

‘I will see her.
Gracias
, Elena.’

Rising, he walked around his desk as Janine entered his office.

He couldn’t help but smile at her slightly harassed expression.

She was tall, wand slim and today wore a sleeveless sheath of shot silk in ice blue. It was high at the neck and showcased her spectacular eyes and short pixie cut of blonde hair.

Rather than shaking her hand, he took it to his mouth and pressed his lips to the back of the fragrant silky skin.

The way she grinned at the old fashioned gallantry of the move made him raise a brow.

Not even a tingle of attraction from either of them.

Unlike most men Jacob didn’t take it as a hit to his ego that a beautiful woman felt nothing for him, but as a gift.