Once Upon a Stormy Night
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Once Upon a Stormy Night
Copyright © 2012 by Zee Monodee
ISBN: 978-1-61333-303-7
Cover art by Tibbs Designs
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Once Upon a Stormy Night
A 1Night Stand Story
By
Zee Monodee
~
DEDICATION
~
To my sisters-in-(writing!)-crime: Natalie, Rebecca, JoAnne, Jessica, & Lynn. Thanks for pushing me to write this one!
Chapter One
“You need a shag.”
Lars Rutherford stifled a smile. He rolled his eyes and watched his Skype correspondent/boss/friend, Stellan Elriksen, do the same on his laptop screen. Behind Stellan, in the posh office of the Kensington flat, Magnus Trammell traipsed stark naked in a hangover haze. After dropping that one slurred line, he stumbled out of the office, probably in search of more booze to ease his hangover.
“What’s he doing at your place at—” Lars peeked at his watch and figured the time difference, “—one p.m. on a Saturday afternoon? And how come he’s even awake at this time?”
Stellan shrugged. “He hit the button for the wrong floor, as usual. Heard him trying to get in at ten this morning. He was so wasted, I let him crash here rather than take him up to his flat.”
Magnus strolled back into the office, still unclothed and clutching a green Heineken bottle. Taking a long swallow, he perched on the back of the executive chair, peering over Stellan’s shoulder. “You’re both in need of a good shag. How the hell can you go for so long without a woman?”
Lars chuckled, finding Magnus the dose of lightness both he and Stellan needed, the perfect merry complement to their posse. The three musketeers, their mothers called them. The women had grown up together in Sweden, gotten married around the same time, and even had sons within a month of one another. The boys had shared cribs, playpens, bedrooms, dorm rooms, and holidays between England and Sweden, for as long as they could remember.
Their first thirty years had been filled with fun and parties, but Lars’ thoughts focused on the past five years, when they’d come into themselves as grown men. Stellan, a shipping magnate who’d recently taken over his father’s business. Lars his trusted right-hand man and second in command, while Magnus sailed on his family name and fortune to be known as one of the most famous playboys of the European jet-set society.
“Don’t tell me there aren’t any women on that island of yours,” Magnus said.
Lars exchanged a glance with Stellan. Their business meeting had come to a striking close—serious and Magnus mixed like oil and water.
“There are,” Lars replied.
“And?” Magnus prompted. “You’ve been there, what? Eight months now?”
“Seven and a half.” And a long seven and a half months it had been, too. He’d been happy when Stellan asked him to take charge of the new division in Mauritius. Delighted to make his home for a while on the tiny island hailed as the Tiger of the Indian Ocean, even though he missed spending time with his friends. But he hadn’t realized that the culture there would also deprive him of the company of women.
“Not even one hookup?” Magnus continued.
Lars shrugged. For all Mauritius came across as a modern and thriving business center, its society still lay entrenched in the mores and norms of a traditional one. He encountered more society mamas intent on getting their daughters married than ladies who wanted a tryst. Not looking for love, or a permanent relationship, he found it safer to avoid the locals, who would only want to take him on a trip down the aisle.
If the right woman came along, he’d reconsider. But he doubted he would find her here.
Magnus put an arm on Stellan’s shoulder and leaned forward. Stellan shrugged him off and stood. After another swallow of beer, and appearing nonplussed, Magnus slid into the vacated chair and faced Lars with a smile on his face. “I know what you need.”
“A shag. I know.” He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. His freewheeling friend cooked up the most incongruous schemes; he looked forward to some entertainment.
“Right. And I know just how to make it happen.”
“He doesn’t need you to tweet to the party crowd in Mauritius he’s looking for a bed partner,” Stellan said on a sigh.
“Piss off,” Magnus replied with a wave of his free hand. “I’ll get in touch with Madame Evangeline.”
Lars sat up straight. “I beg your pardon? You’re gonna get me an escort? Thanks, but I’m not that desperate.”
Magnus slammed the beer bottle on the table. “Will you just shut up and listen? Madame Eve does not run an escort company. She owns an exclusive online dating service called 1Night Stand. When you sign up, she makes sure you’re hooked with someone perfect for you, for one night. I’m telling ya, the woman does magic. I know people who’ve met up through her, and now they’re getting married.”
“Excuse me, but I’m not looking to get married,” Lars said.
“I’ll get in touch with her for you. You’ll thank me for it!”
“No, mate. Listen—”
The screen went blank. Magnus had cut the call.
Lars sighed as he stood. What would that idiot get him into? His antics had kept him from talking to Stellan about this week’s incoming cargo and the specifics of the trade route. He paced the office, and then stopped by the window to gaze at the cosmopolitan skyline of Port Louis.
His cell phone rang. The screen displayed a long number with the international + and 44 England code. Stellan—they still needed to iron out some details. “About Tuesday’s cargo—”
“You’re all set,” Magnus blared into his ear.
Bloody hell, no
. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve contacted 1Night Stand and placed a request for you. Madame Evangeline might even be able to find a woman for you to meet on the island. Can you believe that?”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Listen, mate,” Magnus said, suddenly serious, voice sober and not slurring. “If it works, it works. One night, no obligations, no ties, no expectations beyond the morning. What have you got to lose?”
“You know it doesn’t work that way.”
“At 1Night Stand, it does. Trust me.”
Lars sighed. “We’ll talk about this later. Can you put Stellan on the line?”
There were sounds of shuffling.
“That idiot is glowing like the cat that got the canary, damn it.”
He could picture Stellan shaking his head. “Listen, about Tuesday’s load. Custom’s being a bitch to clear it.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m on the ball with the authorities,” Stellan said. “What time is it there? Five o’clock?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, pack up and go home. Take a weekend off for once. There’s nothing you can do from there right now, and I’ll look into this.”
“Okay, mate. Look after Magnus, will ya?” They treated the first class pain in the arse as a younger brother, despite their similarity in age.
“Will do.”
Lars cut the call and slid the phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. As he grabbed the garment, he glanced around. The company had done an excellent job with the offices. Only the finest, as usual. Acquiring the entire fifth floor of the Barkly Wharf building, right on Caudan Waterfront, left no doubt of their intent to make a success of their presence in this customs-free zone for re-exportable goods in the African and Indian Ocean region. Still, it was a relief to get outside, away from the stuffy leather and magnificent wood furniture, the impeccable courtesy of the employees, and breathe.
On the ground floor, he pushed his way through the crowds bustling inside the commercial shopping area and with a few steps was out in the roasting tropical sun, the soles of his shoes no longer gliding on the smooth marble, but clip-clopping on cobblestones of the quaint alleyways. On his way to the uncrowded open-air esplanade, he sidestepped the water fountain with the horrible blue-green sculpture. Within a few minutes, he reached the guardrails on the edge of the former landing docks area, the murky, green waters of the harbor lapping gently at the concrete edge.
Lovey-dovey young couples strolled on the promenade along the classy, tall-windowed façade of the Labourdonnais Waterfront business hotel, and children ran with joyous laughter while their parents tried to keep up with them. Lars smiled. He liked this island, liked the courtesy and general good manners of the people.
His tall, Viking build, blond hair, and tailored business attire immediately placed him as a foreigner. Not many men, not even the executives, wore suits here. He stood out even next to the white inhabitants, something about him screaming expatriate from a mile away.
If the women he met in his business and social circles weren’t intent on getting a big diamond out of him, life would have been perfect.
Lars took in a deep, salt-filled breath as he emerged on the marina, near the cinemas with the paintings of retro actors on its walls, and the two-story, colonial stone edifice of the Blue Penny Museum. He headed toward his Athena 38 at the far end of the pier, the thirty-nine-foot-long catamaran the only vessel still docked today. Good weather, a mild breeze and no clouds, made it the perfect time to take an afternoon sail before the cyclone season kicked in with full force in December, a few weeks away.
But even the anticipation of a trip on the clear blue waters of the Mauritian lagoon failed to lift him up, and unbidden, his thoughts went back to Magnus’ words.
Bloody hell
—he did need a shag, and if one came along without the probability his one-night partner would drag him down the aisle, he’d take it.
***
What on earth was I thinking
?
The question rolled forth and ebbed like a giant tsunami wave, gathered force then hurtled itself against Simmi Moyer’s head.
The answer clattered inside her brain with even more strength—she was bent on escaping her mother’s recriminations. The long, sideways glances from the old goats she called “Auntie” at every wedding, funeral, gathering, or party in their family. The whispers of the younger crowd who labeled her a dried-up, frigid, bitch—the Ice Dragon.
At thirty-three, it didn’t matter if she had already reached the post of Vice-President, Legal Affairs, of the biggest conglomerate on the island. That she had scores of people working under her authority. That she closed deals day in, day out with efficiency, always making her company emerge the winner. Or that she earned a salary of over two hundred seventy-five thousand rupees every month when the average annual household income in Mauritius hovered around four hundred thousand rupees.
No—Simmi remained unmarried and childless, and nothing else mattered. Worse, she didn’t even have any prospects for matrimony. Men were wary of her because of her job status, women hated her for achieving so much so young, and society mamas ticked down her biological clock loudly. They looked for the mothers of their future grandchildren, not for their sons’ happiness with a well-suited woman.