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BILLIONAIRE BEST MAN

LAYLA HILL
 Copyright © 2022.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic methods, without the
prior written permission of the publisher.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are

used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the
author’s imagination.
 CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
 Prologue
Wedding Day
I wake up to the sound of a screeching noise. It sounds like someone
is dragging a chair across the floor. I open my eyes slowly, and the
activities of the night before flood back into my mind. Damn! I feel
so tingly in all the right places, but the subject of my desire is not in
bed with me.
I sit up slowly to see Mark dragging the bedpost. “What are you
doing?” I ask.
Startled, Mark turns to face me. “Oh, you’re awake. I’m sorry all that
noise woke you.”
Yes, you were being real quiet. I ignore the hollow feeling in my
chest when I notice Mark avoiding my gaze. “You haven’t answered
my question,” I say.
“It’s the ring. I can’t find the ring.”
I feel panic brewing. Could we have been careless enough to lose
Maddie and Alex’s ring with the wedding ceremony just a few hours
away?
“The wedding ring?” I ask and jump out of bed to join Mark in his
search.
“Actually, no. The one I bought to propose to Jane. Before she broke
up with me.”
I feel like I have just been slapped across the face. How could I have
been so stupid? Of course, he was still in love with his ex. “Oh,” I say
instead.
Mark looks at me with an expression I think is pity, and my nose
flares. “Maybe you should get dressed,” he says.
I nod. “Yes. I should probably go see to the arrangements and make
sure Maddie is alright.”
“Yes. I will be right behind you as well,” he replies.
He still isn’t looking at me! Was the sex that terrible?
I hurry to the bathroom, shower, put on my clothes, and step back
into the room. Mark is holding a small box in his hand, which is
undoubtedly holding the ring he was looking for earlier. “You found
it,” I say.
Mark raises his head to look at me. “Yes, it was right there in my
pocket. Can you imagine that?” he chuckles.
I grin. “Mark, I just want to say that whatever happened here tonight
can just be between the two of us. I wouldn’t want to ruin your
chances with Jane, and I totally understand. It was just sex.”
Mark stares at me for what seems to be a long time. “Yes, it was just
sex,” he finally replies.
I nod and then give him a brief, tight smile before hurrying out the
door, so he wouldn’t see me cry.
What was wrong with me? Of course, it wasn’t just sex! I was in
love with Mark Fort.
 CHAPTER ONE

Kelly
My life feels like a test I didn't study for.
But then again, I was never really good at studying for tests because I
believed in just winging it—Life, eyeliner, everything.
Unlike Maddie, I hate rules, schedules, and to-do lists, which is why
I've literally been living in a mess. With Maddie out of the apartment,
I can barely pick up after myself.
Work has been sickly demanding, and with everything going on, it
has been nearly impossible to get anything done these days.
Certainly, these are trying times. Having to juggle my job at Clyde &
Barnes whilst planning my best friend's wedding requires me to be
some kind of superwoman who has everything all under control. Not.
I hurriedly rounded up my work on the desk and called an Uber.
Thankfully, Rafael is a lifesaver and agreed to cover for me during
my absence. Apparently, he's a sucker for a good love story and
would do anything to help make sure the 'Addie' ship finally sails.
The nearest Uber driver is about twelve minutes away, and I simply
can't afford to be stuck. I rush to the subway station instead and hop
on the first bus to Liberty Hotel—the venue where the wedding
should take place.
On getting to the station, my card was declined twice. Just my luck.
Finally, I was able to purchase a ticket after a few more tries, and the
lousy attendant felt it was fitting to tell me that subway drivers were
on strike, mentioning something the government granted workers
incentive.
I eventually succumbed to booking an Uber, and in less than ten
minutes, the driver arrived.
Just as we arrive at the hotel, a sudden downpour begins. This
certainly is not my day. I pay off the driver and proceed toward the
entrance under the rain. Hopefully, this would be a good enough
excuse to prevent Maddie from having a fit about me almost missing
the meeting again.
♦
Liberty hotel is the highest-rated hotel in New York. With its
exquisite furnishings, top-class food network, and posh
surroundings, it has quickly become the home to most billionaires.
In fact, you can rightly say that liberty hotel was designed for the
elite. It's no wonder Alex picked here for the wedding.
I adjust my outfit, straighten my poise, and put on the brightest
smile I can find. I then started walking to the meeting area.
“Kelly!” Maddie shrieks in excitement.
“You’re late and wet," she adds but still squeezes me in her embrace
all the same.
“I'm so sorry I'm late," I plead, and she gives me another tight
squeeze.
“The meeting was booked for twelve o'clock. We've come here on two
occasions, and you could not make it," says the man seated at our
table whom I failed to notice.
“I'm sorry, you are?" I inquire of the brisk figure staring at me with a
hint of disappointment in his eyes. I could not and definitely did not
blame him. I was dripping water, and my hair stuck on my face, so I
had to fix it painstakingly with my hands. I oozed of hair conditioner,
and my shoes made weird noises when I walked.
“Oh, forgive me for my manners. Mark, this is Kelly, my best friend.
Kelly, this is Mark, Alex’s brother.”
That explains why he bears semblance to Alex. They basically almost
look the same.
“You didn't tell me about a brother,” I say, intentionally putting
stress on every word.
Maddie laughs it out, though it isn't funny. We all head for the
minibar at one end of the hotel.
“What will you guys have?” Maddie asks politely.
“Coffee,” I answer.
“Coffee?” Mark laughs. "What do you think this is? A breakfast
restaurant? It's a bar, for goodness sake. If you're not getting a
martini, then don't bother,” he adds. "Clearly, you're not accustomed
to places like this."
With every passing second, I'm beginning to dislike this guy all the
more. For Maddie's sake, I force a smile through clenched teeth and
pretend like I wasn't just insulted.
“I have good news, though,” Maddie says, breaking the awkward
silence between us.
“The both of you are going to be working together!” Maddie
announces in excitement.
“What!” Mark and I chorus.
“You don't sound too happy,” Maddie points out as she raises a brow.
“No, I'm overjoyed to help with your wedding,” I responded quickly,
feigning a smile. “But don't you think it would be better if we work
separately to deliver maximum productivity?"
“Exactly." Mark cuts in. "We're not compatible."
I couldn't agree more.
“Yes, you are," Maddie argues. "I can feel the chemistry between you
two already. You know this is just how Alex and I started out. Give it
a try. This could work out for good."
Mark scoffs. “Sorry to hurt your feelings, but I don't think I can work
with someone who can't keep time. Punctuality says a lot about a
person's character and hers"—He looks at me— "Is definitely
questionable," he adds.
Although I disagree with him, I definitely support his cause.
Maddie rolls her eyes at both of us and continues talking.
“Anyway, both of you are going to be handling the sensitive aspect of
the planning. I'm putting my wedding in your hand, guys,'' she says.
Working with Mr. Uptight over here will be a gruesome challenge,
but it’s nothing I can't put up with for the sake of my best friend's
happiness.
We proceed to go into the details of the wedding. As I mentioned
earlier, Liberty Hotel has the best catering service in all of NYC.
Alessandro Giovanni, another powerful name in NYC, happens to be
a regular here. He is a master chef and baker who travels around the
world, serving his clients only the best. Alex quickly got him booked
for the wedding. Talk about power.
“Amore mio, come stai?"
Giovanni walks to our table with arms open wide and a large smile
on his face. He's a sharp-looking man, probably in his mid-thirties.
His accent is thick and clean, and so is his dress sense. I wonder if he
has a girlfriend…
"Maddie! It's been terribly long, my dear. How’s your fiancé? Don’t
just stand there. Come in for an embrace," he orders, and Maddie
hugs him. "
"How's your cat?" Maddie asks and pouts. "I miss her so."
"Geneva is doing well. Although, very feisty these days. I think I
might consider giving her to you."
Maddie giggles. "I'd love that, but Alex isn't a cat person. He's more
of a non-pet lover, but we'll work on that when we get married."
They both laugh, and Mark interrupts by clearing his throat. Why
does he have to be such a spoil sport?
"Oh, forgive my manners, Giovanni," Maddie apologizes. "This is
Mark, Alex's brother, and Kelly, my best friend."
"Signor Mark, long time no see." Giovanni gives Mark a brief hug,
then turns to face me. "And you, such a beautiful damsel. I am
pleased to make your acquaintance."
He takes my hand and places a light kiss on my knuckles. A blush
finds it's way to my cheeks, and Maddie giggles again.
"It's nice to meet you as—"
Before I can finish my sentence, Mark interrupts by clapping his
hands.
"Now that we're all well acquainted, I suggest we proceed to the
matter of the day," he says rather obnoxiously. "Time is money, you
know."
I can't help but roll my eyes at his statement. Thankfully, Giovanni
isn't as upset as I am.
“Come, my dear, we have a lot to do and too little time," Giovanni
says. He leads us out of the mini bar.
The place we enter is out of this world. The white room is decorated
with exotic flowers in each corner, making it resemble paradise. The
golden chandelier popped from the ceiling, giving the room an
ethereal feel. A painting of the last supper by Leonardo da Vinci hung
on the wall beside a mural of the famous Italian artist; Plautilla Nelli,
who created a groundbreaking addition to the Last Supper genre. To
crown it all up, the ceiling was the Creation of Adam; a fresco
painting by Italian artist Michel Angelo, which forms part of the
Sistine Chapel's ceiling and is now a part of Giovanni’s office.
“Forgive me, for I get terribly homesick. So I decided to give my
office a homely touch," Giovanni says. “Although it cost Mr. Liberty a
lot, it's the kind of price you have to pay when you want to sustain
Alessandro Giovanni," he says, announcing his name like he was a
king.
“No… I think you just stole someone’s art, though, because Kelly
dabbles here and there in art," Maddie says confidently. “By dabble, I
mean she's really good at what she does.”
“Really?” Giovanni asks me, quite impressed.
“No… I'm not that good,” I say, feigning humility for my art.
“Well then, I think I should see some of your work someday…”
Giovanni says, flashing his golden brown teeth, probably browned
from many years of consuming so much sugar.
He clears his throat. “Let's get to business then.”
Giovanni snaps his fingers, and a procession of attendants files out
with little plates.
“Why Italian?” I whisper to Maddie, who is so fixated on the march
of attendants.
“When Alex and I went to Greece again for our getaway, I discovered
he has a cute obsession with Italian cakes. He's been craving ever
since we returned. I want to surprise him," she whispers back, not
taking her eyes off the march.
I catch a glimpse of Mark with a bored look on his face.
“Here we have Tiramisu. Perhaps the 'happiest' Italian dessert of the
bunch. Tiramisu in Italian literally means, 'pick me up.' It tastes
divine."
We take a piece of the cake, and instantly I fall in love.
“Real nice,” I say while stuffing more cake in my mouth. Mark sends
me a disgusted look, but I don't care. Not even he can get in the way
of my love for good food.
Giovanni laughs and continues with the presentation of the cakes.
“Next we have Cassata Alla Siciliana. This Sicilian cake is one of the
world's first cheesecakes."
He hands us a plate. Mark declines.
“I'll have to pass on this one, Giovanni. I’m allergic to milk and its
by-products," Mark says, declining the plate. "Why not give it to
Kelly since she has such an appetite? Wouldn't want to starve the
lady, you know?"
I roll my eyes at his demeaning statement while he smirks. It takes
all my willpower not to snap at him, but I remember Maddie's
happiness. Ever since she and Alex got together, she's been genuinely
happy. I wouldn't want to ruin that. So, I choose to be the bigger
person here and ignore Mr. Upright's snarky comments.
"Carry on, Giovanni. Please," I beg. "I'd love to see what else you
have that can satisfy my appetite. As Mark rightly said, you shouldn't
keep a lady hungry."
Giovanni looks confused but rather chooses to proceed with the
presentation.
“Lastly, we have Babà or Babbà. This cake is very typical in Naples
and is quite healthy for—" Giovanni says but gets interrupted by
Mark.
“Speaking of health," Mark chips in. "I heard a person's weight
speaks much on their level of discipline,” he adds in an attempt to
force harsh words out of me. I don’t mind his lousy comment;
instead, I resume stuffing cake into my mouth.
"You're only a few steps away from becoming obese if you keep
stuffing your face with cake," he advises again.
“I didn’t reply to you the first time,” I say between clenched teeth.
“What makes you think I’ll reply now?”
Mark chuckles. A very deep masculine mouthing.
“You just replied to me," he points out. "Can't resist, can you?"
“Oh please," I groan, drawing the unwanted attention of Maddie and
Giovanni.
“Please, what?” Giovanni asks.
“Please, can I get some more of this heavenly cake?" I ask, referring
to the cake in my hand.
“We Italians like to feed our guests till they're full. Consider it done."
He requests more of the cake to be served on my plate.
I smile with satisfaction as a server approaches us with trays full of
several cakes. As she leans in to hand me one, she misses her step,
and all that cake lands on Mark's suit. I fight so hard to contain my
laughter while Mark expresses his disdain for the server. Giovanni
and Maddie rush into the scene with horrified looks plastered on
their faces.
"This suit was freaking expensive!"
"These cakes were more expensive!" Giovanni cries out while he tries
to salvage what's left of the cakes.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Giovanni," Maddie apologizes.
Meanwhile, I stand in the corner and watch Mark struggle to clean
off the cake from his suit. Not even the dry cleaners can get this stain
out.
"This is all your fault!" Mark yells and points his finger at me.
I laugh in disbelief. "My fault? How is it my fault that the universe
decided to repay you for all the mean things you've been saying."
Maddie steps in between both of us and tries to calm the situation
down. Mark doesn't appear to want to be 'calmed' as he looks more
furious than he did seconds ago.
"If only you would have controlled your appetite, this wouldn't have
happened!"
"Excuse me?" I yell. "You are so stuck up!"
“And you are painfully aggravating!" Mark yells back.
"Can you both just stop!" Maddie yells and cuts us both off. "Please.
You're more mature than this."
A silence lingers between all four of us for a brief moment, which
gives us just enough time to think about our mistakes. But, of course,
my guilt doesn't last very long.
I spot leftover cake on the tray, and it looks very appealing. I waste
no time in stuffing another large piece into my mouth. At this point, I
don't know which is more satisfying— the cake or the scowl on
Mark's face.
"You've done so well, Giovanni." Maddie sighs. "I'm sorry for the
havoc my friends caused."
"It is no problem, Maddie. We shall see you at the wedding." He
glares at Mark and I. "Hopefully, your friends will be on better
behavior and not act like children."
"You can count on that," Maddie says as she forces Mark and I out of
the room.
We stop in the lobby, and Maddie stares at us with hands folded and
lips drawn in a thin line.
"What the hell was that?"
"Well," Mark explains to Maddie. "If your friend could just be less
aggravating, then maybe—"
I scoff, interrupting him. "Me? Why don't you try being less uptight
then we can—"
Maddie holds a hand in the air, signaling for both of us to stop. We
obey instantly, and she shakes her head in disappointment.
"This wedding is all about uniting families, and I would hate for
things to go badly just because you two can't get along."
A pang of guilt hits my chest. It seems like I forgot I was trying to
protect Maddie's happiness before I went and ruined it.
"Please, can you at least try to get along with each other?"
Mark and I exchange looks and nod simultaneously. Maddie's frown
turns into a smile as she gives me a tight hug.
"I'll see you both soon."
She gives us one last smile before entering into the cab waiting for
her. Mark doesn't say a word to me as he enters into his ride, leaving
me at the hotel entrance alone.
Getting along with Mr. Uptight will be a real sacrifice, for Maddie's
sake.
 CHAPTER TWO

Kelly
After a while of thinking, I decide that for Mark and me to stir up
some 'work chemistry,' one of us has to swallow their pride and reach
out to the other. Of course, I don't expect Mark to be the one to do
that.
From numerous experiences, I learned that the easiest way to fix a
bad first impression is to create a good second one. Only thing is, I
have no idea how to do that.
If Mark were female, it would have been a lot less tasking for me. I
would have just bombarded him with coupons for tampons that I've
been saving for years now.
From the way he related with Giovanni, he seems like a guy who
would appreciate art.
With this little snippet, I decide to go all the way and do what has
never been done—whipping up a remake of Leonard da Vinci’s
painting.
It was a drawing of a man, or at least half a man. A particular piece
I've been trying to perfect for years now and just last week, the
outcome was giving the renaissance artist vibe. For once, I feel proud
of myself for accomplishing something I actually love.
I wrap the canvas with a cute wrapping sheet I ordered a month ago
from Amazon. This definitely is enough to make a person's heart leap
for joy. Even for the person who has everything, a piece of artwork
makes an amazing gift. It shows forethought, effort, and a flair for
gift-giving.
I contemplate delivering it via dispatch rider or by myself. The latter
won, and I decided to hand it to him personally; there's always
something special about human interaction. I call Maddie to get his
address.
“Hey Mads, what's up?" I ask, trying not to sound weird or raise any
suspicions.
“Not much. Just putting the finishing touches to the Italian cake. I've
been baking for Alex since 4 am. I can safely say I did a good job by
not burning down the house," she responds amidst laughs.
"That's so sweet, literally," I say. "You're literally like a wife now."
"It's weird adjusting, but I love it," she says. "So, what's up?"
I hesitate before replying. I definitely wouldn't want to give Maddie
the impression that I'm into Mark or something by asking for his
address. That would be terrible considering the fact that she's trying
to pair us up already.
“I just called—I, um, called to check if everything is going as
planned."
“You are such a horrible liar," she giggles.
I sigh. This is the number one disadvantage of having a best friend
who can see through you.
“Seriously, Kelly. Why did you call? What's going on? Everything
okay?" Maddie asks, concern evident in her voice.
“Well…I’m here with an art piece I want to deliver to someone, and I
don’t have an address.”
“Kelly!" Maddie gasps. "I've been begging you for a painting since
forever. I need to know this 'someone' who wants to snatch my best
friend."
“It's nothing special, Mads. I’m just trying to stir up a little work
chemistry, that’s all,” I reply.
I could feel Maddie grinning from the other end.
“Stop it."
“Stop what?” she asks innocently.
“Smiling. I know you’re smiling."
“I just texted you the address. Have fun."
"How did you—” she ends the call.
I sigh. So much for averting a possible matchmaking disaster. I grab
the painting and reassure myself that my intentions are totally pure
as I head to the address.
♦
I enter the address into the Uber app, and in no time, my ride
arrives.
“Is that a painting?” the driver asks as I hop into the vehicle with the
large gift.
“I mean, behind the wrapping sheet,” the driver says.
“Yeah, it is. It's a remake of one of Leonardo da Vinci's celebrated
works,” I say, taking the opportunity to advertise my piece.
“A beautiful choice." He nods. "Leonardo da Vinci is the father of
Italian art."
Throughout the drive to Mark's office, the driver makes various
comments on the renaissance arts. The man seems to be well-versed
in Greek mythology and art history.
"Women like you will break ground in the art industry. You just need
a little push in the right direction. I believe in your work. You don’t
have to be original to be the best. You just have to be you.”
How can he be so sure of that when he hasn't even seen my art yet?
Art is the only way I can express who I truly am and how I truly feel.
I guess that's why I've never shown it to anyone. It's a big step I'm
taking for Mr. Uptight here. I hope this works out for Maddie's sake.
♦
I wave frantically as the Uber driver drives off and give him a kind
tip. Thankfully, Maddie booked an appointment ahead at Mark's
office for me, and I arrived just on time. I'd like to see him talk smack
about my punctuality now.
The company building is white and huge, and it takes me a lot of
caution not to miss my step with the large painting in hand. I enter
through the sliding doors and walk straight to the middle-aged
woman whom I think is the secretary.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks the moment I ask for a
meeting with Mark.
“Yes, I do.”
“Your name, please,” she asks again with her eyes fixated on her
computer. On her table sits a jar of candy, and like a child, I lingered
to steal some, but her eyes were keen.
“Kelly, Kelly Winchester,” I announce.
“Sir, Miss Kelly would like to see you,” she says through an intercom.
“Let her in.”
“Mr. Fort will see you now."
I proceed into Mark's office, and exactly like I predicted, he's a fan of
art. Paintings of contemporaries covered his wall. The view is
absolutely breathtaking.
“Look who we have here; Kelly Winchester, and she's on time," he
mocks.
I let out a sarcastic laugh. So much for a fresh start.
He's dressed in a crisp beige suit that makes his gray eyes pop. His
hair is smoothly gelled back, and the scent that fills the office is
heavenly. I try not to be distracted by his good looks and focus on the
real reason why I'm here.
“I didn't come here to face ridicule, especially not from you. Instead,
I have come to extend an olive branch."
A smile plays on his lips.
“You assume we're enemies?” he asks, raising a brow.
“No, I assume you don't fancy me. I really wouldn't have cared, or
maybe we were in a totally different scenario. But we need to work
together to pull off an extraordinary wedding for Maddie and Alex
because they deserve this. So as the bigger person, I came to offer a
peace offering to clear past differences and solve future conflicts,” I
rounded off my speech, feeling very pleased with myself.
His expression remains blank as I proceed with the conversation.
“I noticed you liked the paintings in Giovanni’s office, so I got you
something," I say and bring out the wrapped canvas.
“Here." I hand it to him, feeling really optimistic.
He takes it and drops it beside his desk.
“Thank you," he says plainly.
“Aren't you a little bit curious to see what's in it?” I ask.
“Alright then. If you insist.”
He gently rips the wrapping sheet, unveiling my artwork. I watch
him closely to get his reaction, but his facial expressions remain the
same. He didn't seem displeased, nor did he look approving.
“It's… appreciated,” he finally says.
“Friends then?" I ask with a hopeful tone.
“I prefer the term acquaintances,” he corrects.
“Whatever,” I scoff. “I'll be leaving then.”
I veer around to leave, then suddenly halt in my tracks.
“Unpopular opinion, but I think it would be nice if you hung it here,"
I suggest and point at a free space on the wall.
“Sure,” he mutters without looking up.
With that said, I leave. Halfway down the stairs, I suddenly
remember forgetting my purse in the waiting room, so I run back up
with the intent of getting in and out in a jiffy.
On my way up, I catch a glimpse of Mark's assistant hauling
something that looks a lot like my canvas down the stairs.
“Hey!” I call out. “Where do you think you're going with that?” I ask
the confused lady.
“Mr. Fort said I should dispose of this in the recycle bin,” she replies
casually.
“What!” I exclaim.
I snatch the painting from her hands, nearly tripping her down the
stairs. I storm into Mark’s office with the canvas in a fit of rage.
“What the hell,” I yell. "You're throwing my gift away?"
“Yes," he answers easily. "I couldn't possibly put 'that' in my office.”
“Well, 'that' is my hard work! I have never shared my work with
anyone. I decided to share it with you as a peace offering, and this is
how you treat it with so much laxity.”
“I just can't put that cheapskate work in my office. It's street art." He
snorts. “I mean, is that acrylic paint you used?"
“I bet you don't even know what that is," I retort.
“And by the way, I didn't want to discard it totally. I was going to
recycle it and put it back in the environment,” he points out like it
would make a change telling me that my work would be better
recycled than appreciated.
“Are you kidding me?” I laugh sarcastically. “And I thought… Yeah,
no. I thought wrong," I say, about to leave.
“You did. I mean, did you really think we could be 'friends'? We're
different. Even your outfit says so," he spits out.
I subconsciously glance at my jeans and sweater before looking back
at him.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"It has no class. I prefer women in corporate outfits and heels. Not
those who show up in nearly worn out jeans and a sweater two sizes
too big."
My eyes widen at his comment, and I'm officially blown away by how
much of an asshole he is.
Maddie's happiness is definitely not worth being insulted by an
egoistic maniac with an over-accentuated sense of worth. I grab my
painting and what's left of my self-confidence, then slam the door
behind me.
 CHAPTER THREE

Kelly
The more I think about Mark's disrespect, the more furious I get. You
could speak ill of me, and I would never hold it against you. But
when you speak ill of my work, that I can't forgive.
Over the years, I have grown a mother-child relationship with my art.
My art isn't just a product of my hand; it's a product of my heart. My
emotions expressed through fine swirls and loops.
Mark crossed the line when he attempted to trash my art. Or should I
say, 'recycle it.'
I did us both a favor by blocking his number. Although I decided that
was too petty of me, so I unblocked it.
Fortunately, life hit me once again, and I was able to get over the
whole Mark experience until today.
I received an unexpected call from Maddie informing me that I was
supposed to go to Mark’s place for a wine tasting.
“He's waiting for you. Please be there on time,” she adds and ends
the call.
Lately, Maddie and I haven't really been talking as much as we used
to. With everything going on, I really can't blame her. Becoming a
bride and remaining a best friend is not easy.
I take an Uber to Mark’s house which is located in one of the
wealthiest estates in NYC. Palmer is where literally all the celebrities
reside, from the likes of Gia Hunch, the world-renowned musician,
to Eva Rogers, who has a three-winning streak of a tie of the year.
The security in Palmer is so tight that you can't get in with your own
vehicle unless you're a resident; there's a well-planned transport
system in this estate.
Owning a house at Palmer's was Maddie and I’s dream before she
found out she was pregnant.
Getting to Palmer, several expected security measures are carried out
before I am able to be let in. Then, I hop into another taxi to Mark’s
house.
“Aunt Kelly!” Cara shouts as soon as she lays eyes on me. She runs in
for a big embrace.
“Easy, sweetie,” I whimper, trying to catch my breath and free myself
from her deadly hug.
Cara is the sweetest little thing. Sometimes I wonder how she is able
to cope without her mother at such a young age. But then I
remember that Alex and Mark have done an amazing job raising
their niece so far. I'm quite sure their sister would be pleased with
them.
“I thought you'd never make it,” she adds.
“Even the little child is fond of your bad habits,” Mark says as he
joins us in the spacious living room.
“She meant that as a joke,” I retort. “But what are you doing here?” I
ask Cara whilst fondling her chin.
“Uncle Alex is busy, so Uncle Mark's adult sitting me,” she replies.
“Babysitting, you mean?”
We both laugh.
“I'm not a baby anymore,” she argues.
“Definitely you aren't,” I reply sarcastically, supporting her cause.
“I have grown an inch taller. Uncle Mark confirmed that," says Cara.
“Really,” I reply, looking at the deceitful creature who stood by the
threshold of the door. “Then I guess you have.”
“Enough of all this…the vintner is waiting,” Mark finally declares and
leaves the doorpost.
Cara drags me along with her as we both follow Mark.
The wine samples were beautifully arranged on the dinner table. A
vintner stands by the table with a golden tray in his hand.
“A good bottle of wine can easily transport you back to your favorite
place. A warm summer’s evening in Italy?” Mark whispers as the
vintner hands us a glass of wine.
“That classic Chianti will carry you back to Mediterranean coastlines
and fresh, flavorsome dishes. Or how about a deep, dark Syrah with
an aroma of cozy British evenings, wrapped up warm and digging
into a rich and tender dish with family?” Mark adds.
“Why are you telling me all this,” I say as I take my first sip.
Mark continues, ignoring my comment.
“It’s safe to say that no other drink has the potential to captivate an
audience as wine does. Which means that no matter the number on
the price tag, your favorite bottle of wine is a priceless investment.
Much better than some street art.”
"Do you have something a bit stronger, sir?” Mark asks the vintner.
"Ah, yes. A bit stronger, we can do that, sir," replies the vintner as he
mixes various elixirs and hands Mark a glass of the concoction.
“And where does one start searching for the best wines?” I ask.
“Good question,” Mark nods at the vintner. "Enlighten us,
Sebastian."
“With a good vintner, you’ll get good wines you’ll want to share with
your friends, right through to the best bottle of wine you’ll keep
tucked away at the back of the cupboard for only the most special of
special occasions. You’ll also discover the best wine to invest in and
the most delicious vintage to drink this year," Sebastian answers.
“You talk like you've had such wine," Mark smiles.
“I have. I have had both good—” he says, staring at the glass in his
hands. “—And bad ones too,” he continues, staring maliciously at me
while I down an entire glass of what I'm guessing is terrible wine.
Mark smiles in response. “Perfect. Hope you've learned something
new, Miss Winchester, so you don't make constant mistakes."
“You don't know me, so you don't get to judge me,” I retort.
“You certainly didn't know me when you decided I like street art,” he
shoots back.
“Stop calling my work that!” I shriek, causing Sebastian to become
alert.
“Is there a problem, sir?" Sebastian asks, quite concerned.
“No, nothing to cause concern anyway. Just women and their usual
banter," Mark answers and looks squarely at me. “Your so-called gift
is still a low artwork for a cheapskate."
“You're a cheapskate. In fact, you are a bullheaded asshole with
absolutely no respect for his fellow man or, in this case, woman!" I
yell.
Mark seemed to be looking at something behind me. I trace the
direction in which he gazes, and little Cara is standing in
astonishment at the door.
“Umm… Cara, what are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” she lies. “I just wanted to get a glass of water.”
“Go ahead then,” Mark says to Cara, and she skips off in the opposite
direction.
“Gosh, Mark. Why didn't you tell me she was there," I scream.
“It would have made the obvious more obvious,” he whispers. “By the
way, you're going to make such a terrible parent, using curse words
in front of your children. Such nice parenting skills,” he smirks.
“Don’t push me!” I warn. "Besides, your uptight attitude will dent
Cara's bright character. Maddie and Alex should've taken her along
on their trip than leave her for a week in your care."
I storm to the parlor to retrieve my purse, then turn my back to head
out.
“You’re leaving?" Cara sniffs.
“Yes darling, I have work. I wish I could stay longer," I say without
looking at her. Cara has the talent of making you submit to her will
just by staring through you.
“Let her leave. She needs to get to work on time," Mark tells Cara.
I don't bother saying another word and head to the door. I flag down
a taxi that drives me to the entrance of Palmer, where I get another
cab that drives me to my apartment.
♦
“How was the wine tasting?” Maddie inquires through the phone.
“It was great," I lie.
“There you go again, lying… Why do you even bother?" Maddie asks,
and I can feel her rolling her eyes.
“Well… I had an altercation with Mark,” I admit. “But we resolved it,
and it's all over,” I lie again.
“You were able to resolve an argument with Mark?” Maddie laughs.
“Yes, I was.”
“That's a good start, then. Not even Alex can resolve an argument
with Mark sometimes," she confesses.
“Mark is a nice guy. He's just going through a lot,” Maddie says.
“With the pressure from his father's company and his recent breakup
with his ex, he's probably having a hard time but is too proud to
admit it," Maddie laughs.
This definitely isn't funny. None of it is. I wish I could tell Maddie all
the details about my argument with Mark, but I know it would ruin
her happiness. And I just don't have it in me to do that.
“I gotta go now. Take care, Mads. Love ya."
I end the call, and just as I'm about to sleep, a call comes in from
Mark. I don't answer, but when his call persists, I give in.
“Hi."
“Why are you calling me?”
Mark doesn't answer for a few seconds, and I grow impatient.
"Clearly, you have no reason."
I'm about to end the call when his voice finally filters through the
speakers.
"Hold on. I just wanted to apologize for being a…um…"
“A big meanie," a tiny voice says in the background, which I'm sure
belongs to none other than Cara. Thank God she's on my team.
“Uh, yes, back to what I was trying to say. I just wanted to apologize
for downgrading your art," he mutters. "It was… good."
“Do you mean that?" I ask, and I'm sure he's being forced against his
will to say this.
"I do."
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
"Can we at least try and get along? For Maddie and Alex's sake," I
say. "They don't need the two closest people in their lives fighting
like kids on their big day."
“Sure. We can do that," he agrees. "But only if you show up on time
for our meetings."
"Consider it done," I state. "But you must stop being so uptight and
grumpy all the time. It kinda makes it hard to be around you."
"I'll try."
"So, friends?" I ask. "At least for the duration of the wedding."
"Friends."
 CHAPTER FOUR

Kelly
It's been roughly a week since I called the truce, and Mark has been
less uptight so far. Although, he's still as proud as ever and refuses to
do anything that involves us being in the same place. He prefers
instead for us to share the wedding errands. Much to his dismay,
Maddie asked us to meet at Madam Florence’s flower shop later
today.
I head out an hour early just to ensure I don't offend my 'work
partner' with my 'indiscipline,' as he calls it. I place a ride on Uber
with the address given to me by Mark.
“You’re on time!” Mark calls out whilst signaling for me to head in
his direction.
“Thanks for noticing,” I mutter under my breath.
I look around and fail to see any flower shop. All I notice is Mark’s
expensive car and his driver.
“Where is Madame Florence?” I ask, a bit muddied.
“Well...” Mark starts as he opens the entrance of his vehicle. “Get in,”
he tells me, but his utterances come out more like an order than a
request. Without arguing, I proceed to enter the vehicle.
“This doesn't look like Madam Florence's flower shop,” I whisper to
Mark, who is so fixated on his phone.
“Didn't Maddie tell you?” Mark asks without detaching his eyes from
the screen of his device.
The driver starts the vehicle.
“Tell me what!” I let out with a slight increment in my tone.
Mark smirks. He looks up from his phone and turns to me.
“Plans changed, Kelly. We're going to The Greenhouse.”
"The Greenhouse? I ask, bewildered. "We're supposed to get flowers,
Mark. Not vegetables."
Mark scoffs and half smiles. "I know what we're supposed to get," he
says. "The Greenhouse is the best flower shop in NY. Everyone who's
anyone knows that."
I didn't know that, but of course, I didn't tell him that.
"Well, Maddie instructed that we go to Madam Florence's flower
shop. So tell your driver here to turn this car around," I order kindly.
"Well, Maddie changed her mind," Mark replies, mimicking my tone.
Maddie and I always talked about getting flowers from Madam
Florence's Flower shop for our weddings. There's no way she
could've changed her mind.
I narrow my eyes at him. "You're lying."
"I may be a lot of things, Kelly, but I'm not a liar," Mark defends.
"Maddie called last night to inform me of the change in plans.
Apparently, Alex knows the owner of Greenhouse and could get us
the most exotic flowers within a good price range."
I feel layers of unsettling emotions as Mark explains to me. I didn't
expect Maddie to kick our wedding dreams to the curb without even
telling me. I mean, it's probably an unwritten best-friend rule
somewhere.
I catch a glimpse of Mark smirking, and I try my best to hide my
disappointment.
“So, my guess is that your supposed 'best friend' didn't fill you in?”
he asks with a hint of mockery in his tone.
“She did!” I blurt out. "I just forgot about it with all the wedding
preparations. Now that I think about it, she probably mentioned it
over the phone yesterday. Silly me."
Mark raises a brow and smiles suspiciously. This time, I don't give
him the opportunity to ridicule me again.
“If you say so," Mark says. "Park at the corner, Bennett," he instructs
the driver, who obliges immediately.
♦
The Greenhouse building is magnificent, to say the least. A massive
bouquet of flowers sits at the entrance to welcome visitors, with
petals decorating the path. Brilliant golden lights hang overhead,
illuminating the neutral interior. Several exotic flowers are artfully
arranged in different sections of the shop—small, large, colorful,
plain—Each has its own distinct smell and design. Very few but
affluent people are present in the store, observing and selecting
flowers.
I stare in wonder as Mark returns from speaking to the receptionist
with an old man by his side. The man's smile matches the twinkle in
his eyes. He's stout but sturdy and looks quite strong for his age. He
smells musky, so I assume he spends a lot of time around flowers.
"Kelly, this is Mr. Greene, the owner of Greenhouse."
A snort escapes my lips, and I immediately place a hand over my
mouth. Mark looks displeased, but the old man's smile is
unwavering.
"Don't worry, dear. I get that a lot"— he stretches out a hand to shake
mine—"Welcome to The Greenhouse. Might I interest you in some of
our finest flowers?"
I nod. The man leads Mark and me to an aisle filled with more
flowers, and I dare say they're even more captivating than the ones I
just saw.
"Here we have anthuriums, birds of paradise, calla lilies, tulips, and
of course, lily of the valley," Mr. Greene tells us as he points to each
flower.
"Lily of the valley and calla lilies seem like the most exotic of all.
We'll go with them," Mark says, and my eyes widen in response.
"Not so fast," I interject. "I'm allergic to lilies."
"Who cares if you're allergic? You're not the bride," he points out
bluntly.
"Well, I'm the bride's best friend, and I doubt she would want me
sneezing all through the wedding," I state. "The anthuriums are so
much better."
Mark shakes his head. "The colors are contradictory and just
unnecessary. It's a wedding, not a circus fair."
"Why do you have to be so unyielding about everything?"
"Why do you have to be so impulsive?"
By this time, Mark and I are staring daggers at each other, ready to
tear each other to pieces when Mr. Greene intervenes.
"If it helps, I can show you more flowers," he gently offers. "It would
be no trouble at all."
"That won't be necessary," Mark says, and I roll my eyes. "I'll order
for the lilies to be sent to the venue directly."
The nerve on this guy.
In utter disbelief, I turn around and leave angrily. Mark follows
behind me, refusing to say a word. Ignoring him isn't much of a
challenge for me as we ride to the next destination, which hopefully
is our last.
♦
We arrive at our destination; the most prestigious restaurant in the
whole of New York—Delight. Owned by one of Alex's friends, Delight
is always the talk of the City. With an elegant ambiance and exquisite
and tasteful food, the place is always packed with people of high
caliber. As we step in, Maddie and Alex call to inform us that they
will be joining us for lunch. Thankfully, I won't have to spend any
more time alone with Mr. Uptight.
A male attendant walks over to us and shakes our hands cordially.
"Mr. Fort?" he asks, and Mark nods. "Welcome, sir. Mrs. Fort,
welcome as well."
I nearly choke on air.
"She's not—"
"I'm not—"
Mark and I look at each other and then back at the confused male
attendant.
"What we're trying to say is that we're not the ones getting married,"
I explain. "The happy couple will be here soon, I hope."
Mark clears his throat awkwardly and avoids my gaze. I don't fail to
notice the slight smirk on his face as he relishes my moment of slight
embarrassment.
"My mistake. In that case, I should show you your table," the
attendant says politely. "Follow me."
The attendant leads us to a private dining area far from where the
regular tables are located. We take our seats opposite each other and
remain in silence.
Luckily, Maddie and Alex walk into the scene, saving me from the
agony of starting a conversation with Mark, who I'm still pissed at.
"Sorry, we're a bit late. We had a little something to attend to first,"
Alex apologizes, and I don't fail to note the blush that creeps up on
Maddie's cheeks as they sit down.
"How did things go at the Greenhouse?" Maddie asks, and suddenly,
the feeling of disappointment resurfaces. As much as I want to bring
up the incident, I don't bother because I don't want to ruin the
moment and be a spoil sport like Mark.
"It went great," I answer a bit too cheerfully. "We were able to make
a choice," I lie.
Mark snorts and looks at me. "We definitely have work chemistry,"
he adds, and I fight back the urge to roll my eyes.
"Can we please get to the food tasting now? I'm famished," I ask
impatiently.
Alex nods and beckons on a waiter who tells us we'll be served
according to the 'Billionaire's Buffet', a special menu reserved only
for high-profile people.
The food arrives in no time. Several waiters escort the food trolley
with metal plates and wine in their hands. They set down the first
course, which looked too expensive just to be the appetizer. The table
consists of bacon-wrapped prunes, beef spiedini fancy deviled eggs.
"This looks amazing," I admit.
"Careful, so you don't spill it all over me again. This suit cost nearly a
thousand dollars,” Mark says.
I slam my fork on the table, alarming Maddie and Alex.
"I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom for a minute. Excuse me," I
say politely, trying my best to suppress my boiling anger toward
Mark.
I don't wait for any of them to respond as I turn around and storm to
the bathroom, not caring about how much attention I've drawn to
our table. Part of me wants to be left alone, but a larger part wishes
my best friend would come to my rescue.
Thankfully, she does.
"What happened back there?" Maddie asks in shock as she enters the
bathroom. "I've never seen you that mad in my entire life!"
I pace back and forth in anger. "Mark just knows how to get under
my skin! He's just so proud and stuck up and annoying!"
"But I thought you guys have work chemistry now."
"That was practically a lie. We couldn't agree on flowers just like we
can't agree on anything," I admit and massage my temples. "Why
didn't you tell me about the change in plans regarding the flowers?
Mark told me you and Alex picked Greenhouse instead."
Maddie's countenance drops as she nibbles on her bottom lip.
"I'm sorry, Kelly. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I forgot. The owner
of Greenhouse is Alex's distant uncle, and he wanted us to honor
him," she explains.
I sigh. "You could've told me instead of giving Mark the opportunity
to rub it in my face."
"In my defense, I thought you guys had work chemistry."
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips, and on that cue, Maddie wraps
me in a hug.
"I'm sorry I haven't been a great friend lately. Everything's just
happening so fast, and it's all so new," Maddie confesses as she
releases me from the hug.
"I understand, Mads. I'm here for you, and if it means enduring
Mark up until the wedding, then I'm up for it," I say, unsure of
exactly how I'm going to pull that off.
We both leave the bathroom, and I couldn't be more glad that all the
tension is gone. We return to the table, and the atmosphere is lighter,
making me wonder what Alex and Mark were talking about.
"On behalf of my brother, I apologize," Alex says to me. "He doesn't
mean to be such an ass but I guess it runs in the family." He
chuckles.
"I really think both of you can work together. Put the past behind
you. Let bygones be bygones," Maddie encourages. "We can all work
as a team."
Mark and I exchange uncertain looks, and I'm surprised that he's the
first to speak.
"I guess we can try doing that. I'm not making any promises,
though."
I roll my eyes at his statement.
"Just for the wedding?"
"Just for the wedding," he affirms.
Finally, we decided to work together and eat in peace. I can only
hope this truce lasts longer than the other one did.
 CHAPTER FIVE

Kelly
It's been two days since resolving the issue with Mark, and I dare say
that the man is actually capable of change. Maddie requested that
Mark and I meet up with the bridesmaid dress designer, and I
happily agreed. Deep down, I wanted to decline because I've barely
been present at work. Thankfully, I have Raphael to cover for me, or
else Buck would've had me fired in a heartbeat.
We arrive at Dee Dee's Dresses, a small store in Greenwich village
belonging to my aunt Emma. I haven't seen her in a while, and it
could be a way to catch up on lost time while we settle over the
bridesmaid's dresses.
We get down from the vehicle and proceed to the front door. I
succumb to knocking on the door, which starts as a gentle pound and
then increases to more vigorous pounds and a call.
“Aunt Em! Are you home?” I call out whilst peering into the living
room through the windows.
“Yes, dear, I'll be right there,” replies the old woman from within.
She twists the knob, and the door opens.
“Kelly!” shrieks the old lady. “It's so nice to see you, and who's this
fine man?” She asks as she takes Mark by the hand and critically
inspects his face. “He’s got a good jawline and good hair. At least he
isn't bald like the last guy.”
“Thanks?” Marks says and attempts to find the best response to her
compliments.
“Aunt Em!" I shriek as my cheeks flush red. I think Mark notices
because he so casually happens to cough on cue.
“Oh, where are my manners? Please come in,” she laughs as she
pushes the door open.
The sitting room smells of herbs, new fabric, and cats. She notices
the way Mark's nose twitches, as though he wants to sneeze from all
the stuffiness.
“Forgive me," Aunt Emma apologizes. "I’m growing some curry and
basil at the back. Are you allergic?”
“No, madam," he responds. "Herbs are quite therapeutic and can
relax our sensory nerves,” Mark adds.
Aunt Em replies with a wide grin. She offers us freshly baked
brownies as we settle down in the living room.
“Kelly," she starts. “I am most disappointed in you. You didn’t bother
to stop by your old lady's place,” she frowns.
“No, aunt Em,” I respond in-between bites of the delicious brownies.
“I've been so busy with work and planning for Maddie’s wedding that
I have no time for myself, and you know how far this place is from
my house."
“I know…” She frowns. “But why didn’t you call? People your age are
always on the phone. I would have really appreciated a call. All I
really want to do is to hear your voice and know you’re doing fine.”
“Well auntie… I’m not someone my age… and umm, by the way…”
“Her phone is currently under repairs,” Mark interrupts, noticing
how hard it was for me to give a reasonable excuse.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I didn't do it for you. The conversation was getting terribly long,” he
replies in a whisper.
“Nevertheless, thanks," I whisper back.
“Now that that's settled, let's get right down to business," aunt Em
says, lightening up a bit.
She leads us into her workspace, which is on the top floor of the
building.
“The dresses have been ready for over a week now," aunt Emma says
whilst opening a big wardrobe. She reveals a row of royal blue
dresses, and I look in awe. It's amazing how such an older woman
like her can still have such good needlework.
"These are beautiful, aunt Em," I admit as I caress the soft fabric.
She smiles again. "Well, give yours a try, won't you?"
I try to decline, but she doesn't budge. She hands me one of the
dresses which I think is mine and pushes me into the small changing
room.
I put on the dress in a jiffy, and it fits like a glove. When I step out of
the changing room, my aunt's eyes are full of admiration, and I
almost think I'm dreaming when I see the same look in Mark's eyes.
"You look exquisite, dear," aunt Emma gushes and turns to Mark.
"Don't you think so, son?"
Mark stutters as he tries to find the right words to say. I didn't think
I'd live to see the day when Mark Fort would be lost for words.
"Uh, she does. She looks… beautiful."
I laugh in disbelief at his poor attempt to mock me. I step in front of
the large mirror on the wall, and my reflection also surprises me.
The dress is the perfect length and highlights every curve on my body
that I didn't even know I had…
"I guess you're all set for the wedding then," aunt Emma announces
and clasps her hands together. "Who knows? You might find yourself
a man there and have me making dresses for you next."
I groan at her statement just as Mark snorts. I shoot him a glare and
proceed to change back into my former clothes. Aunt Emma kindly
packages the dresses for us as we are about to leave.
"I'll have them sent in by morning," she says, and we head
downstairs. "It was nice seeing you again, Kelly. Don't hesitate to
come to visit sooner. And bring Mark along with you. Maybe I can
make some fresh curry stew for him with the herbs."
I nod and give her a warm hug. Mark and I are on the move again in
less than a minute.
"So, where are we headed next?" I ask.
“You said you barely have time for yourself these days, so I'm helping
you fix that."
Wait. Is Mark, aka Mr. Uptight, trying to be nice?
"And how do you intend on fixing that?"
"You'll see."
♦
We arrive at an art studio in Manhattan twice the size of Central
Park. The place is painted all-white, with several expensive paintings
hanging on the wall. Peculiar sculptures are arranged in a different
sections, with people standing and admiring them from all around. It
takes me a while to realize that we're in an art exhibition. I nearly
scream when I spot a famous artist only a short distance away.
I turn to Mark, grinning like a child.
“My friend Ambrose invited me for his…whatever this is,” he says,
looking around skeptically. "I'm guessing it's an exhibition, or
whatever you artists call it."
“Wait," I pause. "Ambrose as in world-renowned painter Ambrose
Leeward?” I ask inquisitively.
Mark nods, and my jaw drops.
“Oh my God." I squeal. "I have to meet him. Can you take me to
him?"
"That won't be necessary because he's already heading this way."
Ambrose Leeward walks over to us in long strides. He's just as
handsome as he is in the magazines. He looks like a complete work of
art with golden locks and a tall, masculine figure.
“Fort! Glad you could make it," Ambrose hails as he embraces Mark.
"Didn't think you'd stop by considering your lack of interest in art."
“I had to. For a friend," Mark responds and turns to me. "Ambrose,
this is Kelly. Kelly, this is—"
"I know who you are." I squeal again. "I-I mean, I've studied your
paintings, and can I just say how much of an inspiration you are to
me."
Ambrose smiles and winks at me. I almost die.
"I take it you're an artist?"
"Aspiring," I say. "Not completely professional, though."
"Well then, I'd love to see your paintings when you turn pro. In the
meantime, I have to attend to some buyers. Enjoy the exhibit!"
With that said, Ambrose leaves us to observe the beautiful paintings.
We come around a corner, and this particular painting stands out
among the rest.
"What do you think it means?" Mark asks as he tilts his head. "I don't
think I'll ever understand art. It's too complicated."
The dark painting consists of an old woman with her back turned,
reaching out to one of the stars amongst the constellation, and I
immediately know what it means.
"Art isn't complicated; it's actually quite simple. This speaks of
reaching out to things that are beyond our reach. It could be
achievements, happiness, or even love. Whatever it is, the observer
can relate to it because simplicity and repose are qualities that
measure the true value of any work of art."
He stares at me and then nods slowly. I can tell he wasn't expecting
such an intelligible response.
"So it basically means you're not too old to chase your dreams?"
I laugh. "Well, you could put it that way, but it sounds less
intriguing."
Mark's lips break apart into a smile.
"Thank you for bringing me here. I feel more relaxed than I have in
days," I admit and take in a deep breath. "Maybe someday my
paintings will grace these walls."
"Someday can be any day if you just believe and make the move."
I pause. "I thought you said my paintings weren't good."
Mark shrugs and stuffs his hand into his pockets.
"What matters most is what you think about your work. Not what
anyone else thinks."
I stare at him for a moment and digest the truth in his words. Maybe
Mark wasn't all as bad as I thought him to be. Maybe he could
actually have a heart under his ensemble. I'll never truly know unless
I unravel the mystery that is Mark Fort.
 CHAPTER SIX

Kelly
It's been three days since the art exhibit, and I can't seem to stop
thinking about the brief moment of connection Mark and I shared. It
actually seemed like we were more than getting along, and somehow
I'm craving more time with him. I have to constantly remind myself
just how annoying he is so I don't overthink it. Or worse, so I don't
fall for Mr. Uptight.
Snap out of it, Kelly!
As a good distraction, I focus on the text message I received a few
minutes ago. Some of my friends invited me to an underground
nightclub for creatives. It was mostly for authors, artists, and
probably a few designers. It's nothing like the exhibit at Ambrose's
gallery, but it's also something I have been looking forward to.
Ambrose Leeward and the people of his class are big names in art.
But the nightclub is where you find smaller and uprising talent. It's
an opportunity to get to relate with people like me who juggle their
day jobs alongside their passion. Simply put, it's a gathering of
talented people across New York having fruitful conversations over
the counter of a bar.
I usually go with Maddie to these types of things, but since she's
unavailable due to wedding preparations, I have to look for a new
partner. Mark immediately comes to mind, and I figure that inviting
him would give him an experience of what it's like in my world. I
want to show him that there's more to me than my outfits. Ignoring
the warning voice inside my head, I called and informed him of the
event. He initially declines, but after a little persistence, he finally
agrees.
“I'll pick you up then,” he says through the phone.
“No need for that. It's just right across town. We can take an Uber."
He snorts. “No offense, but Ubers aren't really my style. I've never
even ridden in one before."
"Well, tonight will be your first! Besides, it's an underground
nightclub. We don't wanna draw too much attention."
Mark groans and concedes to my request.
"I'll be there by 8," he says, and the call ends.
Perfect. Now all I have to do is get dressed.
♦
Mark arrives right on time, as expected, with a scowl on his face. He
looks undeniably handsome in his outfit. I presume nightclubs aren't
really his scene because he's dressed in a complete grey suit. I dare
say he was trying to make a good impression. But knowing Mark,
he'll never admit it.
“Smile a little; you're gonna have fun. I can bank on it," chip in.
He scoffs. “My definition of fun is a fine dinner in a five-star
restaurant with a pretty lady,” he says.
“At least you have a pretty lady by your side,” I tease.
“You flatter yourself too much,” he says, and beneath his smirk, I see
an underlying smile.
I booked an Uber, and the driver arrived within a few minutes.
Mark looks uncomfortable in the vehicle as he adjusts his tie for the
umpteenth time. I stifle my laughter throughout the ride because it's
nice to see the man nervous for once.
Just then, our driver adjusts his rearview mirror to gain a good look
at his passengers. He suddenly loses focus as he swerves to one end
of the road and veers back to face us, well, not me but Mark.
“You're Mark Fort, the business tycoon,” the young driver says,
grinning from eye to eye.
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direction, filled her with misgiving again. What could all this atmosphere of
intrigue and mystification portend? Certainly nothing praiseworthy.

"It was so hot and dusty on the stand," Agatha said, to explain her
sudden disappearance, upon which Dorris alone had commented.

That evening, when they had gone to their rooms for the night,
Ermengarde knocked at Agatha's door and handed her the little box
containing the chain. "I think this must be yours, Miss Somers," she said.
"Your friend the Spaniard threw it, and it caught round my neck by
mistake."

"My friend?" she asked, confused. "Oh, you mean the Spaniard who
stopped by the stand to ask the way to the sea?"

"Yes, the Spaniard, not the Cyrano de Bergerac."

The flush died from the woman of mystery's cheek, and the stone mask
settled upon it. She returned the chain, saying coldly it could not be
intended for her, and that she knew nothing about it.

"The Cyrano," Ermengarde observed casually, as she turned from the

door, "turned out to be the young Englishman of Monte Carlo, the same
who was overheard offering money to the foreign Countess."

"Did he?" she replied, without interest. "Good night, dear Mrs. Allonby.
You look tired."
 Chapter IX

The Casino

Monte Carlo, justly reputed one of the loveliest spots on earth, is most
magically beautiful perhaps when seen from the sea, or from the long, low,
wooded headland of Cap Martin.

Thence, on her first visit one golden afternoon, Ermengarde enjoyed a

most poetic vision of it, never forgotten and never surpassed. She had left
her party, and was basking on a shore thick set with rich-fruited, wind-
stunted myrtle and rosemary bushes, the odours of which mingled with pine
scents and sweet, sharp sea-breath, while she listened to the soft boom of
waves plunging in white, azure-shadowed foam on the rocks at the point,
where the sea is more intensely blue than anywhere else and the foam
whiter, yet always with that faint azure tinge in shadow.

From this point landwards an enchanting prospect spreads in long-

drawn splendour from the gracefully sweeping outline of Bordighera,
running far out to sea on the right, to that faint and fairy headland, whence
rise the Provençal mountains, so bold in outline, in substance so dim and
shadowy, beyond the abrupt crags of the Tête du Chien, which hold Monte
Carlo as in a cup. Between these points the great Alpine amphitheatre
sweeps grandly back in lofty, soaring outline, enclosing a rich and sunny
Paradise of gorge and ridge and mountain spur, running in headland after
headland, with tower-crested town, village, garden, and wood, into the clear
dark sea. There, beyond the Italian frontier, sits Ventimiglia throned with
many towers high above the waves, and there a white pyramidal mass of
houses, based on the harbour arches on a sea-fronting steep and topped by a
slender church-tower that dominates all for many a mile, is Mentone,
regally beautiful. Here little Roccabruna shoulders itself into the sparkling
blue, and in mountain recesses far behind it is many a hill village up to the
very peaks. On that afternoon the battered Roman tower of Turbia showed
clear on its craggy bluffs against the sky above Monte Carlo, but the ravine
beneath and Monte Carlo itself were veiled in purply shadow, mystic, dim.
 The song of the breakers was lulling; the air, spiced with myrtle and
sea-scent, sweet and stimulating; the fullness of colour a joy nothing could
blight. Old happy rambles between cliff and sea, as a child, a bride, a young
mother, came to mind, all the beauty of many lovely sea places gathered up
in, and falling short of, this, which still wanted the cream and salt of all, the
loves and companionships of old, young days—a thought that drew tears,
not wholly sad.

Presently a silvery-grey cloud gathered over the Tête du Chien, and

suddenly the whole shadowed hill-cup holding Monte Carlo, with Monaco
sitting on the steep rock beneath it in the sea, flashed out, clear-cut and
distinct in every detail. The broad hollow of the gorge, up to the very crags
almost, seemed full of white buildings set in rich dark verdure, and
crowding down to the water's edge. Fleets of tiny fishing-vessels cruised
about round Monaco, and yachts, both white-sailed and steam-funnelled,
flitted over the paling sea and rode at anchor in the harbour, the whole
composing a picture of loveliness beyond imagining.

The thin man was in despair. He was an impressionist; and having had
his painting things and himself conveyed hither and set down among the
rosemary and lentisk, on purpose to record impressions, was so stunned and
bewildered by the multitudes that rushed crowding in every variety of
loveliness upon him, that he could only sit on his camp-stool with his easel
before him, and hold his head in his hands and groan.

"Seize Monte Carlo!" Ermengarde shouted to him from her distant

boulder when it flashed out, one glorious pearl, under the silvery cloud, and
he seized and painted it with a trembling hand before it vanished and the
great hill-cup was again a mass of purple shadow. The impression was faint,
but the thin man was eternally grateful to Ermengarde for that, and for her
further command to snap up Mentone, majestically enthroned above a
glowing sapphire sea, and framed by wind-twisted pines, which threw
ruddy stems and blue-black crowns from the low shore across it. And
though another injunction to impress the long hill-spur running down to
Bordighera, when it changed from indigo to warm deep violet with
heliotrope shadings, plunged Mr. Welbourne back to despair, his gratitude
broke out in a generous impulse.
 "Let us go to Monte Carlo to-morrow," he cried. "Give me the pleasure
of your company, Mrs. Allonby, since you don't care to go alone. It is not as
terrible as you suppose."

"Well, why not? Only don't speak of it, or Miss Boundrish will manage
to nip in again."

The thin man was really very handy on occasion; he made a respectable
and entirely biddable escort, and, knowing so many people of Mrs.
Allonby's acquaintance and being cousin to most of them, seemed more like
an elderly relative than a chance acquaintance. He knew many things, and
well knew how to talk; his old-fashioned pedantry and fulness of phrase
was forgiven, as being in character with his neutral-tinted, old-bachelor
personality; he impressed Ermengarde as a sort of social sofa-cushion,
restful, harmless, and very useful in travelling.

"The success of any ramble, picnic, excursion, or small party," he added

pensively, "depends entirely on arithmetic. No matter of what elements the
party be composed, the addition or subtraction of one may spoil all," a
pronouncement heartily endorsed by Ermengarde, as expressing her own
feelings on the subject, though she had not guessed at what person's
subtraction he was obscurely hinting as ruinous to his enjoyment. Nor did
she for a moment suspect that, in arranging the Monte Carlo afternoon for
two performers only, she had sadly diminished poor Mr. Welbourne's
pleasure. Since the Carnival, the woman of mystery had not been asked to
accompany Mrs. Allonby anywhere, nor had the two ladies once helped
each other to dress or exchanged small talk from their adjoining rooms,
which communicated by a door. A woman who received jewellery from one
mask and letters from another, and held conversations and clandestine
meetings with at least two suspicious male characters, was not a desirable
acquaintance for a grass widow and a mother of unimpeachable
respectability. Yet Ermengarde's heart misgave her when she met the silent
question of Agatha's melancholy eyes at any approach to companionship on
her part meeting with repulse. She hated herself especially the morning
after the Cap Martin excursion when, with the full intention of spending the
afternoon at Monte Carlo, she declined a mountain walk with Agatha on the
ground that it was less tiring to bask in the sunny garden at home.
 "Then I think I will run down to Mentone," Agatha said, in a confidence
untouched by suspicion. "I have an invalid friend in the place who likes me
to come in to luncheon sometimes."

After all, could there be anything more restful than these quiet lounges
by train from spacious halls of leisure, called Gares in that country? the thin
man and Ermengarde wondered, as they sauntered about the clean and airy
emptiness of Mentone Station, and chanced to take seats in a train that
happened to be strolling in the direction of France, and was entirely
composed of first-class carriages, well-cushioned, and provided with
antimacassars of spotless crochet-work. Other people as casually strolled
over and rested, as if by happy chance, in the clean and comfortable
carriages, and after some time, enjoyably spent with a prospect of sea and
mountain and near view of palm and garden and sunny street, it seemed to
occur to the person lounging upon the engine to propel the string of
carriages gently in the direction of France, and they glided through the now
familiar but never-lessening enchantment of rich scenery between mountain
and sea, always plunging into the tunnelled darkness whenever a fairy
headland ran out into blue and foam-fringed bays.

But what talk they heard on this fairy progress! The tongues were many,
but the subject one alone. For example—

"You'll hardly be at the tables to-night, Ethel?"

"Why not? Easy to unpack and settle in before dinner. And only staying
three weeks, a pity to lose a night."

"True, I shall put in a couple of hours before dinner as well as after."

Again, in Teutonic accents, "So Hedwig leaves next week?"

"Yes, her husband says they are thoroughly tired of Monte Carlo."

"So? I thought Hedwig had lost rather heavily of late. And Hermann's
luck has evidently turned too."
 Or it was, "System this, system that," and, "So many francs to the good
at the end of the week," and the wonderful run of So-and-so's luck, and M.
Tel-et-tel winning five hundred francs in half an hour, and the positive
madness of putting anything on a number that had just turned up, and why à
travers meant so much, and how a cool head and an accurate memory of the
winning numbers of the last six or seven turns were absolutely necessary to
work any system.

"But why," Ermengarde tragically demanded, "come to the loveliest

spot on earth to do this devilry? A disused coal-mine would do equally well
to gamble in."

The thin man conjectured that very likely the devil likes to kill two birds
with one stone. "Because," he sighed, "the moment a beautiful and pleasant
spot is discovered in any corner of the earth, he incites people to build
flaring hotels and villas upon it, and run railways to it; and, if there is sea, to
block it from sight with ghastly buildings, and spoil its strand with sea-
walls and piers and promenades; and, if there are trees, to cut them down or
blast them with smoke and chemicals; and, if there are mountains, to scar
and tunnel them with lines of smut and iron; and, if meadows and grassy
slopes commanding lovely prospects, to destroy their beauty and make
rasping noises and knock balls over them all day. He gets people to rush in
herds to places made for beauty and calm, to chatter and snigger and look at
fashionable clothes-shops emptied on thoughtless females from every
capital in Europe, and gorge themselves upon all the luxuries and vices of
towns. And the lovelier the spot the greater satisfaction the devil seems to
take in getting men to practise ugly and squalid sins in it, and to corrupt and
degrade simple and sane folk for miles round it."

By this time they were crammed like sardines with others in a close
box, that; by some invisible and probably diabolic agency, was drawn up to
a higher level, upon which they were contumeliously ejected by a morose
official who had previously mulcted them of small coin. Then, passing
under avenues of wondrous exotic trees, by beds blazing with cyclamens,
carnations, salvias, and petunias, and passing rivulets dancing and rippling
down rocks covered with maidenhair and broadening in pools half hidden
by water lilies, they emerged upon a terrace fronting a vast blue splendour,
firmly rimmed beneath a nearly white band of sky, and bounded by the
purple of Bordighera on one side, and Monaco, running out on its rock
beneath the headland of Cap d'Ail on the other. And in the foreground,
dainty steam and sailing yachts, some moored, some flitting over the sunny
sea, and crowds of fishing-boats dotted here and there.

"But what is that?" she asked, pointing to a sort of jetty topped with
sickly green, like a worn and dirty billiard table, and dotted with rough deal
boxes, that projected its squalor into the pure blue waves below.

The crack of a shot from under their feet startled her, and the
simultaneous opening of a box, out of which fluttered a wounded pigeon,
pursued to the edge of the billiard-table and killed there by a dog, answered
her question, telling her that this sordid hideousness drawing every eye, in
the very centre of the fairy-like beauty, was the world-famed Tir aux
Pigeons.

There was no escaping from the sight except by turning from the lovely
circle of bays and mountain spurs, to look upon the flaring vulgarity of the
Casino, with its sprawling nudities affronting the pure sky, and flocks of
tail-clipped birds flitting about the cornices and pediments, scurrying out at
every shot that slaughtered one of their kindred in full sight below. Crack!
Crack! Crack! the shots jarred on the nerves. Ermengarde hurried her
halting escort away through the strange Arabian Nights' magnificence of the
gardens that spread everywhere, flowing round hotels and shops and
houses, and glowing in weird luxuriance beneath the grim grey mountain
bluff and its dark wooded gorge.

Here was every variety of palm, with agaves and pepper-trees, caroubs
and myrtles, geraniums in trees many feet high, or trailing over rocks,
ruddy-leaved and grey-stemmed; here great cacti writhed and swelled in
reptilian forms, and certain huge bushes of prickly pears, their broad fleshy
leaves like goblin hands outspread, their grey, distorted stems like the fossil
bones of huge extinct animals, and their dull-red, prickly fruit like oozing
blood, suggested nothing so much as those trees in the Inferno, that bled at
touch and were lost, living souls.
 This strange exotic luxuriance has something infernal in its beauty; the
darkly massed foliage, in hard contrast with the white glare of flaunting
hotels and restaurants and the marble and gilding and flamboyant style of
the Casino, gives the whole a violence, a crude insistence of wealth and
luxury, in harmony with the spirit of the place, and much at variance with
its superb natural setting and associations.

"And what people! Oh, what people!" Ermengarde murmured to the thin
man, who was glad to sit down and pretend to listen to the band and watch
the crowd strolling and sitting outside the Café de Paris. "What tawdriness,
what dowdiness, what Parisian elegance run wild! Look at that woman; she
has six purses at her belt. You can see the gold through the net. She's going
into the Casino—let us go too!"

"So young, so fair, and so very business-like! Yes, beneath that Parisian
hat, in that expensive Parisian raiment, is the cool and calculating brain and
steady nerve of a financier. She has a system and works it, Mrs. Allonby."

How tawdry and tarnished was the vaunted splendour of the Casino, and
how wearisome the formalities exacted before admittance to the gaming-
hall!

"Such meddlesome impertinence. The man actually asked my age,"

Ermengarde complained.

"Ah! they don't ask mine," sighed the artist, whose head already showed
the silver touch of time; "they are quite sure that I am of âge majeur."

Most places have their characteristic odour. That of Mentone is garlic,

with a suspicion of sewage; that of the Salle de Jeu is a fine blend of garlic,
old clothes, musk, and money—especially paper money. The garlic is
mostly contributed by hollow-eyed croupiers, who are in some measure
responsible for the old clothes, an odour otherwise due to grave elderly
persons, chiefly female, in garments of indescribable frumpishness and
respectability, who form the staple of the afternoon congregation, and seem
to contemplate life and its agreeable weaknesses from a standpoint of
ferocious piety.
 Surely they must have dropped into a prayer-meeting by mistake.
Ermengarde looked round for the minister, after some seconds'
contemplation of long green tables covered with coin and diagrams, and
surrounded by treble and quadruple rows of staid and solemn faces, "all
silent and all damned." This congregation was apparently listening with
hushed reverence to spasmodic, low-muttered words of wisdom from a
priestly person flavoured with garlic, who appeared to be consulting some
oracle, or celebrating some religious rite, by turning a brass wheel in a basin
sunk in the table, and surrounded by votive offerings in the shape of rolls
and rolls of five-franc pieces and golden louis in glittering, provocative
piles.

Besides these muttered spells in which, after long listening, she could
only make out occasionally "ne va plus"—"rouge"—"treize"—"vingt-sept,"
the only sound was the perpetual clink of coins, which after every utterance
began to dance from hand to hand and fly hither and thither, as if trying to
evade the incessant pursuit of small wooden rakes and clutching hands
sparkling with diamonds, grimed with long-established dirt, white and
brown, yellow and black, red, skinny, and fat. Sometimes two hands
clutched the same pile of coin, when there were hurried mutterings and
looks of suppressed fury; anon a wooden rake smote an encroaching paw
urgently from its golden prey, and there was silence.

On what principle the piles of gold and sheaves of fluttering notes

before each worshipper by the little books of ritual they consulted so
devoutly, were increased and diminished, was a mystery to the spectator,
who saw nothing but a mystic and subtly woven dance of coins and notes
crossing and recrossing over the morrice of the green table with rhythmic
intermittance, dependent upon the dark utterance of him who turned the
wheel. But little by little she gathered that coin placed in one way increased
or diminished two-fold, in another five-fold, in another thirty-fold, and
found herself handing louis and notes from those behind to the croupier for
change, and gloating over the golden multitudes that came rolling to the
calm worshippers. The thin man, easily tired and overcome by evil air, had
been compassionately despatched to a café to wait for her; he had modestly
owned to a weakness for staking a couple of louis now and again for
pastime; this lowered him perceptibly in his companion's esteem.
 But when he was gone and the glittering heaps had wrought their
mesmerism, he was more leniently judged; and certain five-franc pieces in
Mrs. Allonby's bag seemed to ask aloud to play a part in the morrice dance
on the green; they even worked their way out, after a little, and insisted on
planting themselves in certain squares, returning—she never knew how or
why—with a partner apiece, and bringing a pleasant glow to their owner's
cheek.

"You have never played before?" asked a genial English voice at her
elbow. "Would you mind putting this across that corner for me for luck?"

She willingly placed the louis on the corner of the four spaces indicated,
scarcely glancing at the player, who was sitting in the front row, with
notebook and pencil, piles of coin and notes, all in most business-like array
before him; but when he turned and looked up to bow his thanks, with a
sudden sweet smile on his grave and anxious face, she recognized the
Cyrano de Bergerac of the Carnival. She had been so intent on the morrice,
and he so near below her, only the close-cropped head, bent over the
pencilled calculations, visible, that she had not recognized him until he
turned.

Even as he smiled, the anxious gravity returned to his white, drawn

face, to study which she silently changed her position near a croupier. He
turned quickly back, and once more riveted his eyes to the table, with a
wolfish eagerness that destroyed the young debonnair beauty of his face,
and drew lines of age and fatigue upon it. Then the wheel stopped, the brass
ball clicked into a niche in the basin, and the player's face changed and his
eyes glittered, as the louis came home with a whole troop rolling after them.
On this he looked up with another smile and bow, that somehow made her
sorry for him and wonder if he had a mother.

Just then a sickening smell of musk, and a pretty substantial push from a
gorgeously clad shoulder, made her turn to find herself edged vigorously
aside by the painted woman who had ridden down the ridge with him that
first afternoon at Les Oliviers. Shrinking from the unholy contact,
Ermengarde quickly gave place to her, and, passing behind the croupier to a
gap between the heads of two short people, saw the countess bend down
and accost the young man, who looked up, worried and impatient, but after
some interchange of question and answer, reluctantly yielded his golden
spoil to her greedy clutch, and turned again with knitted brows to his
calculations and annotations, receiving in reward an unacknowledged pat
on the shoulder from the diamond-covered hand, that looked like a
glittering claw.

The five-franc pieces in the bag again became restive; everybody,

including the woman of the bistred eyes, seemed to be winning. A vision of
a gown—a plain white serge coat and skirt, simply but exquisitely cut, and
only costing eighteen guineas—floated before Mrs. Allonby's mental gaze.
Since seeing it in a shop in Mentone, she had sighed to think of the
infrequency of guineas in a world like this, and of the desirability of white
tailor-made raiment of exquisite cut for a woman like her. White was the
most becoming wear, almost the only wear for this climate; and white serge,
when one came to think of it, was the sole material absolutely fit for blazing
sunshine and sharp air. The white serge that arrayed her at the moment
would not be white much longer; it had already begun to leave off being
white. Absurd to come to a place like this without proper clothes. Eighteen
guineas was not very dear for such a cut as that; sheer folly to think of
getting anything in a foreign winter resort at London or Paris prices.
Considering the cost of carriage and customs and the profit of the Mentone
shopkeeper, the thing was dirt cheap. Moreover, it was absolutely necessary.
And here; threading the green mazes of the morrice-dance, were gold and
silver coins in moving multitudes, only waiting to be raked in by the
enterprising. Two of her five-franc pieces soon sat on the corner intersecting
the four spaces so lucky to Cyrano, and with like result. Her heart began to
play quick marches, and her eyes to lighten; she was undoubtedly a lucky
person; she staked here and staked there, and the coins came rolling in till
she felt a little dizzy, and scarcely knew that on one occasion a marauding
claw clutched some of her lawful spoil.

Now she staked more and more wildly, confident in her luck, and
always won. Her cheeks burnt, her pulses leapt; people looked at her with
envy, hatred and malice. A gold louis rolling towards her hopped off the
table, unobserved by her; a liveried attendant came behind unseen, with a
lighted lantern at the end of a stick, and pushed it amongst people's feet and
under the table, while a man with a vacuous face, staring aimlessly about
the hall, set his foot quite casually on the coin, not seeming to observe the
attendant looking for it with the lantern, and then, without appearing to
make any movement, lounged carelessly on with the same vacuous look,
but leaving no corn where his foot had been.

Two hundred francs in notes had jumped into Ermengarde's bag, which
was stuffed to bursting with gold and silver besides. The coat and skirt was
hers many times over. It would be mean to stop now; besides, it was
impossible to turn from the magic of that flowing tide of gold and silver;
the feeling of possession and power, and the enchantment of successfully
daring that wild blind demon of chance, was too strong. People had made
fortunes in a night; why not she? She placed a little pile of gold à travers;
the wheel stopped, and the croupier pushed her pile to the bank. She bit her
lip, frowned, staked again, and lost again. Cowardly to draw back now; who
was going to give in? Another golden stake, and her pile came back
doubled. Of course; fortune always favours the brave.

But at the end of another half-hour the croupier had been changed;
many players had come and gone from the outer ranks of that table, the
inner circle remaining unbroken, except that Cyrano had vanished
unnoticed by Ermengarde, who saw nothing but the whirling wheel, the
dancing ball, and the flying mazes of the great five-franc pieces and louis
d'or over the green table. Nothing now remained in her bag but a few odd
coins raked from every recess, and together making five francs, for which
an obliging neighbour gave her a broad silver piece.

Her luck at that table was clearly gone; she left it, selected another, and,
after a short calculation and some watching of the play, set her teeth, and
placed her five-franc piece with a shaking hand on a carefully chosen
square. The little demon of a ball clicked into place; the ruthless rake
pushed her stake to the bank.

The game was up; Mrs. Allonby found herself three minutes later
standing on the Casino steps in the pure air, feverish and faint from the
reaction and the fetid atmosphere of the gambling-room, vainly trying to
remember where Mr. Welbourne had promised to wait for her, and minus
not only the usual contents of her purse, but also minus the note that was to
have paid a week's bill at Madame Bontemps's little office before starting
that afternoon, and a couple of hundred franc notes, tucked into a pocket of
the bag besides. In view of attractive apparel and bric-à-brac sure to be
found in the sumptuous shops, those hundred franc notes were, indeed,
sadly insufficient; but without them what was to be done?

Clearly the only thing now was to get a cup of tea at the café
immediately opposite, where people were sitting in the sunshine and a band
was playing delightfully. Surely Mr. Welbourne had said Café de Paris, or
was it Giro's? No; he could never have walked so far as to Giro's. It was
important to find him, else there could be no tea. She was too tired to look
for him, too tired to do anything but sit down very wearily; however, she set
out to find him, knowing he could not be far away.

But the spare, slim figure with the slight halt and the grizzled hair was
nowhere to be found, either in the moving crowd or among the groups at the
little tables; she had not even the price of a twopenny chair, much less of a
cup of tea, and where was all that fine moral indignation of the early
afternoon?

The band played triumphantly to a climax, and ended on a grand crash

of all instruments; the sun, hidden under a floating cloud, shone gloriously
out again, and there, in the blaze among the promenaders, showed
conspicuously the graceful figure of M. Isidore, gay as ever, faultlessly
dressed, wearing his hat with the little rakish tilt of gilded French youth,
and talking with easy and familiar vivacity to a youngish woman, arrayed in
the last and most refined Parisian style, and with that unmistakable air of
being in the higher social world that is the exclusive property of no nation.
The handsome couple stopped, exchanged a few final words, and parted, M.
Isidore turning with lifted hat to shoot a last Parthian arrow of wit that sent
the lady off, after a gesture of reproval, with heaving shoulders and eyes
brimming with laughter. It was then that M. Isidore perceived Mrs. Allonby,
and came smiling with raised hat towards her, with "Ah, Madame, you too?
Have you also tried your luck at the tables?" and would have gone by, but
that she cried joyously, "What a happy chance to meet you, M. Isidore! I
have lost my last centime and mislaid Mr. Welbourne, and am positively
dying for a cup of tea."
 Chapter X

The Casino Gardens

The affair of the crocodile had by no means diminished the esteem in

which Mrs. Allonby held M. Isidore; nor, to judge from an incident she
witnessed from her window on the morning after the Carnival, had it
lessened the regard of the Bontemps family—to whom he was vaguely
supposed to be related, having been heard to address Madame as "Ma
tante"—for that gallant and gay little champion of distressed damsels.

As she often did, Ermengarde had slipped that morning into a dressing-
gown, wound the thick plaits of her hair round her throat, and gone to her
open window to watch the sun rise and drink the fresh morning air.

It was an hour of magical beauty; the deep quiet of dawn lay on

mountain, sea, and sleeping town; no one was yet stirring in house or
grounds. The sea was a dark peacock green as deep in tone as the blue of
the bird's neck, paling to the shore, but on the horizon a firm dark line
against a band of glowing orange sky, above which floated crimson
cloudlets over pale green. Great masses of shadow were slowly leaving the
gorges; the olives gradually brightened and took clear form on the western
slopes. Not a sound or a breath stirred the deep peace of the windless dawn;
flower-scents rose from gardens and lemon-trees set with blossom and fruit;
the sea scarcely heaved in its sleep. Ermengarde leant on the balcony, lost in
the beauty and calm, and wondered at the depth of magnificent velvety
green beneath the orange sky. Some labourers came into the gardens and
turned the hose over the thirsty flower-beds with a pleasant showering
sound.

Suddenly a figure on the railed platform on the brink of the steep stood
out against the dark blue shadow of the gorge; then another and another,
and voices—quick, emphatic, French-Italian voices—rang out in the
stillness; the gardeners looked up at the group, and made unintelligible
comments. The tall form of Madame Bontemps, her iron-grey hair glossy in
morning light, appeared, followed by the slight compact figure of M.
Isidore full of eager gesture. M. Bontemps lounged after them; the three
voices grew in urgency and rapid interchange to one common shout; the
gestures increased to frenzy. M. Bontemps seemed about to hurl M. Isidore,
who had suddenly become rigid and stood with folded arms glaring at him,
over the barrier; Madame intervened, with an action that threatened
annihilation to both but injured neither.

Then M. Bontemps rushed into the house, and quickly emerged again,
leading by the hand Mlle. Geneviève, reluctant, downcast, who instantly
turned her back on all three, and looked down the gorge in gloomy silence,
while the others declaimed, singly and in unison, with gestures of entreaty,
to the massive and glossy coils of her back hair. At last she turned sharply
and faced them with a fierce energy, that almost precipitated them
backwards down the ridge and drove them to the balustrade, where the risen
sun touched their faces with ruddy gold. Mlle. Geneviève then wept
bitterly; her father placed his hand despairingly on his heart and groaned;
her mother stormed; M. Isidore covered his face with his hands, with a
movement of such despair as suggested the advisability of putting an end to
his sufferings by springing down the steep.

Instead of this, with an alarming suddenness that drove Mlle. Bontemps

back to the other side, he threw out his arms and sprang forwards, directing
what sounded like a torrent of abuse upon Mlle. Geneviève, who shrank and
quailed beneath it, and then lifted her hands appealingly to Heaven with
renewed weeping. A general engagement—to witness which the gardeners
left the hose to its own discretion, with the unexpected result of very nearly
drenching the whole of the combatants—then took place with such energy
and apparent fury that Ermengarde, terror-stricken and in default of police,
was about to cry "Au secours!" when M. Isidore suddenly hurled himself
weeping upon the ample bosom of Madame Bontemps, who tenderly
embraced and kissed him; after which Monsieur fall upon his neck in such
wise that the two men represented an inverted V, when they kissed on both
cheeks and parted.
 Then Mlle. Geneviève, with downcast eyes and reluctant step, led by
her mother and encouraged by her father, allowed M. Isidore to take both
her hands and respectfully salute her on both cheeks, and sudden calm fell
upon the quartette, now in full sunshine.

After this, as if nothing had happened, they strolled, casually chatting,

about the little platform, M. Bontemps yawning and resuming his
interrupted cigarette, and Madame leaning over the railing; that looked
across the chasm towards the garden, and composedly issuing commands to
the gardeners before returning to the house. Thither she was accompanied
by her daughter, now restored to cheerfulness and executing a graceful pas
seul to that mad Carnival tune of the day before, as she went, while
Ermengarde, unconscious of her deficient toilet, remained petrified at her
balcony, staring blankly at the sunny sea and the hill-crest topped by the
convent, every olive, pine and cypress on which was now clear and distinct
in a flood of brilliant sunshine.

But Mrs. Allonby was not the only witness of this family drama. The
voices of the actors, penetrating through the open window of Miss
Boundrish, had roused the amiable girl from her slumbers, and caused her,
with much irritation and reluctance, conquered by curiosity, to spring from
her downy nest, classically dressed in the first thing that came handy, and
view the platform scene from her window with appropriate mental
comment.

A vivid imagination, capable of forging missing links in a chain of

evidence at a moment's notice, and then presenting them as veritable parts
of the original, enabled her to produce a version entirely her own of what
actually occurred. And not content with constructing a consistent romance
out of the pantomime enacted in the morning, she insisted upon imparting
the whole of it in the afternoon to a few friends in the garden, in a voice that
must have been heard all over the grounds, if not by the whole house.

It was actually heard by Mrs. Allonby, who, under the mistaken

impression that she was writing letters, was basking in the sun among the
flowers, idly looking over the lemon-tops and across gorge and ridge to the
sea, and peacefully thinking of nothing at all. But, roused from this pleasant
occupation by the dulcet accents of her favourite Dorris, she turned and
engaged in a sharp verbal encounter with the romancer, and contrived to
give her such a severe snubbing (though to snub Dorris was no child's
work) as reduced her victorious self to a state of pleasant exhaustion, that
made sunshine and fair scenes and dolce far niente more enjoyable than
ever.

"Surely," murmured the thin man, who had been a silent and apparently
unconscious auditor of the fray, in mortal terror lest either antagonist should
appeal to him, and who would have fled but for the fear of attracting
attention, "our young friend would be quite as happy, and infinitely more
charming, had she been born without a tongue?"

"Oh, she'd have gurgled and giggled more than ever to make up. Such
people ought not to be let loose in civilized hotels."

"Poor girl," said the more merciful Agatha, who had just come up, "are
we not a little hard on her? An interest in her fellow-creatures, perhaps
more zealous than discreet, and a slight congenital deficiency in tact——"

"Deficiency? A born cat!"

"But a good heart, dear Mrs. Allonby?"

"What's the good of a good heart if you don't sheathe your claws?"

The thin man and Miss Somers, meeting each other's eyes, smiled; for,
whatever she may have given, poor Dorris had undoubtedly received a
pretty good but strictly polite clawing before retreating in great disarray
from the fur-strewn field.

"Do you realize that all our characters are at the mercy of those good-
hearted claws, Miss Somers?"

The gentle observation in reply, that characters needing defence were

not of much account, filled Ermengarde with amazement. "What an
actress!" she reflected, rapidly marshalling the compromising events of the
Carnival in her memory, and looking at the lemons till they mesmerized her
and her eyelids began to close, then suddenly opened to their widest extent.
 For out of the dark lemon-leaves to the left there emerged a head—a not
unusual occurrence, one of the garden entrances from a terraced path being
just there—a handsome young head, followed by well-braced shoulders and
the whole figure of the Cyrano de Bergerac of the Carnival. Having risen to
the garden level, he stopped and looked about as if considering the way to
the house, while Ermengarde, conscious through occult sympathy of
nervous tension near, looked at Agatha, who had made a slight quick
movement, her hands clasped tightly together, her face vivid, and then with
a deep sigh had drawn the mask of inexpression, now so familiar, over her
features. It was at this moment that Cyrano caught sight of her; and, taking
a step forward, paused doubtfully, took another step, smiled with nervous
hesitation, very different from his usual gay assurance, looked appealingly
at the sphinx-like face that was averted from him, gazing straight before
her, and raised his hat.

At this, she turned her head slightly, bowed frigidly, almost

imperceptibly, and turned away again.

A flash of anger and mortification crimsoned Cyrano's face; turning

quickly, he walked up to the house, where he was distantly heard entering
into a prolonged misunderstanding with Heinrich, the cheerful porter, the
purport of which appeared to be that some one asked for was not in the
house, but that there was a restaurant attached to the hotel where Monsieur
would find excellent refreshment. This appeared to fill Cyrano with the
utmost fury and indignation. "Did nobody keep the beastly place? Was there
no secretary or manager or anything?" he shouted, coming to the end of his
French.

The porter's vague reference to fiançailles and the desirability of leaving

a message with the patron himself, who might possibly be induced to
appear in the office if perseveringly rung for, suggested that Madame
Bontemps and her daughter being both out, and M. Isidore absent, and M.
Bontemps left in temporary and reluctant charge, anarchy reigned within.

But all this being entirely unintelligible to poor Cyrano, the well-known
national swear-word came rolling vigorously out, and after some futile
stamping on the gravel and further hopeless misunderstanding with the ever
affable Swiss, the visitor went into the house with quick, angry steps, and
was seen no more till soon after sunset. At that hour Mrs. Allonby, idling
cosily between her wood-fire and the window, saw him walking and
amicably talking with the hostile crocodile of the Carnival—who, with the
Bontemps ladies, had come back half an hour before—from the private
wing of the house to the gate, where they parted with ceremony, leaving
Ermengarde in doubt as to whether it meant pistols and coffee or friendship
and apology. The thin man subsequently averred that the young Englishman
had been eating humble pie, and M. Isidore had graciously accepted his
explanation, and duly presented it and the apologist to M. Bontemps, who
had been equally gracious.

In the meantime Ermengarde put two facts together—that the woman of

mystery had received and furtively read a letter from the Cyrano on one
afternoon, and on the next had accorded him a recognition one remove from
a dead cut.

And upon this occasion of meeting M. Isidore in the Casino Gardens

walking with a woman of such distinguished appearance, with whom he
appeared to be on equal and friendly, almost affectionate, terms, she
remembered that the young Englishman's manner to him that afternoon at
Les Oliviers had been quite that of an equal. Who and what, then, was this
pleasant and mysterious youth, occupying a position so palpably
anomalous? In any case, it was a great convenience to have such a delicate,
Ariel-like being at hand as an attendant sprite, especially on this unfortunate
occasion, of being so completely cleaned out at the tables as not even to
have the price of a cup of tea.

"You are always our guardian angel at Les Oliviers," she told him, after
imparting the history of the afternoon's ill-luck. "Evidently you possess a
sixth sense, by virtue of which you invariably turn up whenever we come to
grief. It was only yesterday that you saved Mr. Welbourne from a broken
neck."

"Ah! ce pauvre monsieur! Mais il vaut bien la peine, n'est-ce pas,

Madame?"

The sorrows of the roulette table vanished into the limbo of

forgetfulness; Mrs. Allonby found herself magically installed in a cosy
nook outside the café, with a full view of the craggy head of the gorge, the
Roman tower of Turbia outlined above it on the sunset-flushed sky, and in
the foreground the enchanted Armida gardens, promenaders streaming in
and out of avenues of dark exotic trees, gorgeous parterres, the gleam of
white masonry between palm and olive boughs, and the tide of smart
carriages and snorting motors rolling along the main road under dark-leaved
boughs. The band played the Overture to Tannhäuser, and the Pilgrim's
Chorus, overpowered again and again by the scream of warring violins,
surged out solemn and triumphant again and yet again.

Tea of the perfect quality a brief experience leads the traveller to expect
in the better French restaurants, with dainty but appallingly rich cakes, was
before her, though how procured it was impossible to conjecture, every
table, chair, and waiter having been appropriated or promised two deep a
moment before—unless, as appeared probable, M. Isidore exercised some
mysterious influence over the harried waiters, who fled at his nod and
contrived to produce, and perhaps manufacture on the instant, hitherto non-
existent tea-tables and seats in suddenly improvised corners. Her bag had
been replenished with small coin by the same enchanter, who gracefully
accepted an invitation to share the tea, and spiced it with much useful local
information and many bright and apposite remarks and condolences upon
the unfortunate experiences in the Casino.

"Fancy having tea in public with a hotel-manager at home," she

reflected complacently, forgetting that it is quite as possible to be found out
abroad as at home, and agreeably conscious of a slight flavour of
impropriety, or at least unconventionality, in the adventure. Her spirits rose;
she drew a pathetic picture of her anguish at the loss of the white serge
costume that brought tears of laughter from M. Isidore's eyes. After two
cups of tea and several cream buns in the sweet air, perfumed by a great
bush covered with clusters of tea-roses overhanging this cosy corner, the
Casino mischance acquired a new aspect—it became a positive joy; it was
part of the game. After all, it was seeing life. It behoved the mother of
Charlie to know life—real life. This was very real.

To leave off with a pile of winnings and buy the frock next day would
have been too obvious and commonplace. But to win so splendidly and lose