BILLIONAIRE Island: Idyllic Mischief Read online

  The two paramedics looked like members of the Russian mafia, all shaved heads and neck tattoos, but they shot her full of something that dissipated every tiny prick of pain onto a floating cloud of bliss and she was finally relieved from the pain of being inside her head.

  Unfortunately, she eventually came back into that head and found her husband seated beside her in the hospital room. Indie was hooked up to an IV unit and wished there was some button she could press to escape the agony roiling around her body.

  “Hey, baby, how are you feeling?” Brad took her wan hand in his. “Indie, I am so, so sorry about the baby, I had no idea, why didn't you tell me?”

  “Seriously?” Indie muttered, her mouth too dried up to speak and the words catching in her throat anyways. He is really going to make this my fault as usual, some excuse to justify his actions.

  Over the next two weeks Indie heard every promise she'd ever heard and then some. Brad moved to a hotel, or with a friend, she didn't care. He called constantly saying the last straw had hit the camel's back and all the usual useless words. He was absolutely going to mend his ways and stop letting the drink take him over. Indie didn't even bother to ask what help he would get, because he had to know he couldn’t do it alone by force of will.

  She'd lost enough weight and more to go back to work, even if she required a little extra make-up to cover her pallid complexion. Being too thin was as bad as being too fat in her business so Indie took the seldom enjoyed opportunity to eat all the cheesecake and chocolate and ice cream she usually rationed, until she came back up to the correct measurements. It was too late for Paris and Italy, they had replaced her for those shows but for London they hadn't found anyone and she was welcome to make that trip. She toughed out the last two weeks in her marriage with Brad's promises falling on distant ears.

  London in the fall was lovely. The shows were held at the exhibition center in Earl's Court, but they stayed in a hotel in the West End, close to the nightlife for entertaining clients they were there to woo. No longer pregnant and still slightly underweight, Indie indulged in all the cocktails she fancied and flirted with every client that came on to her. Her boss, the owner of the line, was well pleased with her dedication to his business and gave her a Burberry handbag from the flagship store on Regent Street.

  The day for Sasha's arrival into London came and went and Indie heard nothing from her. Reluctantly, she called her mother, even though Sasha had said she'd stay at The Sanderson rather than at her mother's mansion apartment in Maida Vale.

  “Hello Indiana, long time no hear,” Sasha's mother said as greeting. Indie wasn't sure whether she meant her or her daughter and recalled the many times her mother had tagged along with them to nightclubs, wearing a transparent black lace jumpsuit, or other age-inappropriate outfit in an attempt to be one of the girls. “No I don't know where Sasha is. She rarely keeps me informed of her movements anymore.”

  Dead end there then, and as the week in London drew to a close, Indie sadly gave up on her friend and considered staying in London trying to model in that city rather than return to New York where it would be tough to finance her own apartment and she'd have to either go back to living with a room mate or engage in an alimony battle with her ex-spouse.

  “You have a message, Ms Malone,” the cute receptionist in black shirt open one button too low and snug-fitting black pants smiled at her. Fuck he was hot and he knew it, there was something so decadent about him he managed to make even the plain black leather belt holding up his slim pants seem raunchy.

  The message was from Sasha who had called the hotel that afternoon.

  Something came up. Can't make it to London. Got you tix to come here Friday. Collect at British Airways office Regent Street. Can you bring my boots, saddle and Dom Perignon.

  Indie laughed at the demand for classic French label champagne- only the best would do for our Sash and the excess baggage cost could go suck. It was really sweet of her to make it up to her for not showing for their girly rendezvous by sending a ticket to go down there but she could hardly trip off to some far-flung island. Sheesh, most people had no idea where Mauritius even was. Although Indie had heard of it as a favorite spot for honeymooners, when Sasha first disappeared, she had to look it up on a map to be sure of its exact location and discovered the tiny dot all alone in the middle of the Indian Ocean, next closest landfall- Madagascar.

  No, she couldn't disappear into the Indian Ocean, or could she? Finished up in London while the rest of the crew continued on into Europe and with no idea where her life was taking her next, what better than two weeks of sand, palm trees and lashings of Dom. The island was as far away from New York as it was possible to get without a spaceship. Maybe it would complete her healing and give her the strength she was going to need to officially separate from Bradley, who was still using any ruse to beg her to come back to him and refusing to agree to divorce.

  Indie had to get to the show halls before the British Airways ticket office on Regent Street opened and was still out entertaining long after it had closed. It wasn't until the last day after the clients had returned home satiated from a week of parties, she found time to run around Knightsbridge, picking up the clothes and leather goods Sasha required for her dressage or equipage or whatever horsey activity was keeping her busy. It wasn't until check out that she zoomed up to the airline store and grabbed the ticket. And only in the taxicab on the way to Heathrow that she actually checked it to make sure the date was good for that day. Sasha could be easily distracted at times.

  “What??? Holy crap.” The cabbie's eyes darted to the rear view mirror, alert for signs of 'aggro' as the Brits called it. He looked as though he could quell any aggravation in a flash- his neck was wider than Indie's waistline. “Sorry, hi,” she stuttered. “My friend, she sent me tickets to come visit and two weeks has stretched to three months. Have you ever been to Mauritius?”

  “Nah, bit swank for me, Mree-Shus, 'tho I reckon the Mississ 'ould like it. Tenerife's our island, same resort every year. All-inclusive, drinks an' all.”

  Indie spent the twenty-hour flight riddled with nerves about immigration at the airport when they touched down. Would they allow entry to a lone woman without sufficient income to support her lifestyle on a high-priced luxury island designed for high-flying luxuriant couples in love? As the lights came down on the cabin and the geezer beside her began to snore loudly, mouth hanging open, she felt waves of sadness rush around her. What was she thinking going to the honeymooner's island? Being surrounded by happy loved-ups starting out on their together foreverness full of confidence would only point the cruel finger of failure straight at her. And when she wriggled onto her side, trying to get comfortable in the airline seat, the remnants of bone bruises from the bath tub served to remind her.

  She breezed through immigration without a single raised eyebrow, through customs despite being weighed down with a ton of gifts and virtually an entire cellar of Dom Perignon and through the deserted airport out into the paparazzi glare of the sun. A solid wall of Indians pressed at the fence holding them back from the arrivals building- no wonder the airport had been empty inside- and began shouting at her, waving signs. Indie scanned the crowd, through the crushed humanity craning at the fence as though for the last spot on a plane leaving a war zone, looking for her friend who had promised to meet the plane. Nowhere. She couldn't have picked out her own mother in that mess of faces. Now what? She hadn't made a back-up plan of what to do if Sash didn't show and didn't have an address for her. She looked at the crowd hoping for a face with a clue, a sign for a decent hotel.

  “Indie, over here, hey girlfriend.” There she was, head and shoulders taller than anyone else as she arrived at the back of the throng, semaphoring her arms above her head.

  They fell into each others arms, laughing and excited to see each other after way too long. No phones or net could make up for actually being face to face with your bestie.

  “Jesus, it's hot,” Indie said, feeling like
an Amish in her fall city clothes beside Sasha who wore a tight black tank top and a tiny short skirt that was barely a swathe of bright printed silk clinging around her tiny hips like a sarong and exposing her dark brown legs as lithe and long as the palm tree trunks all around.

  “What do you expect in the tropics? Why the hell are you wearing boots?” She laughed. “No don't tell me, lets get you in the car out of this damn rabble and get some of those clothes off. Did you bring the champagne?”

  “Would I dare arrive without it?”

  “Good, 'cos I've got my last bottle on ice waiting for us.”

  They piled all the luggage into the back of a surprisingly small hatchback and Sasha set off across the island. Sasha chattered about her horse-riding, obviously it had become the latest passion bordering on obsession, while Indie gazed out the window at the passing vista of endless African plains punctuated solely by the odd black tree covered with flame-red blooms. They were called flamboyant, Sasha told her. Perfect description. Gentle bosomy hills rose now and then to alleviate the flatness and a soft warm breeze filled the car with sweetness.

  “That's the sugar cane,” Sasha told her when she mentioned the candy drenched air. “You're going to love it here, everything is good enough to eat.” Indie couldn't miss the meaningful look she shot her while trying to keep her eyes focused on the narrow road. Every now and then, an ancient Morris Minor coming the other direction, undercarriage grazing the tarmac from the seventeen Indians hanging from its side by the sheer will of three gripping fingertips. The bottleneck in the road reduced to squirt-size, the battered car swerved at the last moment out of its head on collision with them, back into its own lane.

  “Crap, why do they do that?” Indie breathed relief as they hair missed another rusting heap.

  Sasha laughed. “Probably distracted by two women operating a vehicle without any controller protector men.” She was pumped and exhilarated by the outback journey, lurching around soot-belching buses and the zillion bicyclists, making the hairpin beach road even more perilous. It was obvious why she drove an old car, the suspension would be gone before the duty free. Indie watched as the hills gathered into steep jungle-covered pinnacles towards the interior. An Indian in a scarlet sari trimmed with gold sashayed along the road with a four foot high pile of wood on her head, balanced without the use of her arms. Sasha's house was in the ritzy neighborhood of Grand Bay on the northern tip. It had taken only an hour to drive from the southern tip of the island to the opposite end and soon she turned up a single track almost buried in a wild tangle of trees and brush that scratched spitefully at the car.

  “I really ought to get this all cut back. So much to manage, so little time,” she said as she pressed down on a small fob and two tall iron-red painted metal gates swung regally apart on a huge circular garden with a sky blue pool in the middle surrounded by showers of pink, red and white flowers. Set back into the blossom covered foliage, a two story house with a long, covered veranda running the full length and full length French door windows from each of the many rooms.

  “Wow, your home is absolutely stunning,” Indie whispered, truly impressed by the almost decadent beauty, relaxed and at home in the enveloping heat. The dogs, the little girls, the manservant all came hurtling out of the house to jump on them- the dogs on Indie, the girls on Sash and the boy on the bags. Sasha satisfied by her friend's awe, shooed everyone away, the girls back to the ayah and strode across the grass, leaving Indie to follow behind to the plush chairs on the veranda where the ice bucket was waiting.

  “You must be parched after that long haul,” she said, popping the cork without spilling a drop. “I cannot believe you flew solo, I always, always take Valium for my flight.”

  “It's just so, so- beautiful doesn't even cover it,” Indie said, sipping the blistering cold fizz.

  “I know it's cool,” Sasha said nonchalant, “and wait 'til you see the beach- it's just at the end of the track. We get to use the private beach at the Trouville Hotel. Tolar is friends with the owner.”

  “I can see why you never want to leave here.”

  “Oh, I want to, not allowed to is the prob-, shit.” Her ease disappeared at the sound of commotion inside the house.

  “Don't drag the fucking furniture across the floor when you clean,” the roar shook at the shimmering tranquil garden. “How many fucking times have I told you idiots the same fucking thing?” Sasha's husband, Tolar could shout loud enough to bring the house down around our ears and Indie couldn't stop from covering back inside herself with a quake of trepidation. Shit, she'd hoped he wasn't at home, away on business.

  “Hallo Sweetie,” Sasha switched from meeting Indie's eyes with a glare of meaning she didn't comprehend, to smiling adorably at her giant husband. Indie could never get over the aberration of his height and how he dwarfed everything around him, making it seem child-size.

  “Darling, I have told you to get the servants to work quietly. I don't like the noise of furniture being pulled about and I don't like them yapping out back.”

  “It is their home out there, Sweetie, I can hardly tell them to 'shut it' when they're off-duty.”

  “It's my home and they will fucking shut it or find another place to live,” Indie cringed as Tolar's booming voice shattered around the peaceful terrace. Sasha, nonchalant as ever, must have become accustomed to what was in fact his normal speaking voice. Tolar had only one gear when it came to speaking-shouting orders. “Oh, hallo Indie. You're here, are you?” He noticed her and bent all the way down to peck her cheek. His head was the size of an ogre, his mouth a gaping gash wide enough to gorge a shovel. The skinny Indian man with molasses eyes, strong enough to bear all of Indie's suitcases at once, barely reached Tolar's wide waist. Greeting over, he turned back to his wife. “Tell them Willy and Horst are coming for dinner so they know to make enough meat, they never cook enough fucking meat, idiot black religious fanatics.”

  Indie's eyes widened, expecting a tirade from Sasha against the racial slur, seeing as she was half black herself. She acted as though she hadn't heard.

  “That's okay, Indie and I are going out for dinner so you should have enough.”

  “Darling, you aren't going out again,” Tolar announced, a touch of menace in his voice making Indie quiver again. She just could not settle into relax and loosen the tension when he was around.

  “Of course we are, Sweetie,” Sasha smiled breezily up at him. “It's Indie's first night and I want to welcome her. We haven't seen each other for ages and I don't want to inflict Willy and Horst immediately.” Indie was about to say it was okay, she didn't mind, but the couple had locked eyes in silent battle, Sasha smiling sweeter than fields of sugar cane, Tolar roiling around within as though trying to reach a decision.

  “Okay, you go tonight for Indie's arrival but tomorrow you stay home with me.” He turned and strode back into his house.

  “Whatthefuck was that about?” Indie mouthed at Sasha.

  She shrugged and looked back over her shoulder so Indie knew she didn't want to say anything because the walls obviously had ears. “Take a shower and rest up for an hour,” was all she said. “We'll leave at eight.”

  Chapter Four

  Indie was too super-stimulated from the long journey and a glowing new world to sleep, so she went for a swim and after a shower was completely reinvigorated. She slipped into the short black sheath of dress she'd bought at Liberty in London before leaving, an entire day's salary (a very good salary) for barely a yard of fabric. The value was all in the drape. The dress hovered miraculously on her curves, dipping in back with a deep swathe almost to her waist, while somehow cupping her untethered boobs in a sensuous lick of black silk jersey. The tiniest underwear so as not to ruin the effect with ridging around the middle and a screaming high pair of black silk peep-toe heels was all she needed to finish getting dressed.

  “Wow.” Sasha threw open the door and strode into the room. “Great dress, we just need to get you a tan on those ghostly legs
.” True, her skin was pallid as she hadn't been in any mood to hit the beach that summer.

  “Wow yourself, girlfriend.” Sash was wearing a tight white dress that emphasized her statuesque height and set off her coffee cream smooth skin. Her ubiquitous four and a half inch heels made her an Amazonian Goddess and as usual, they managed to balance and complement each other perfectly. There could never be any competition between women so completely opposite in physique. They offered something for everyone. Occasionally some wanted everything, but that had only caused a problem once, and it was a long time ago.

  Sasha strode past her husband and his friends, stationed on the terrace with drinks.

  “Roxana is coming by with her girlfriends later,” Tolar shouted, trying to bait Sasha who ignored him and went straight to the car, parked behind two larger wagons.

  “You're driving?” Indie said. “Are you des tonight?” Des was their abbreviation for designated driver.

  “Don't worry about it, the cops are laid back here.”

  Indie slipped in beside her, the dress just barely long enough to cover her ass, giving her a thrill at the secret exposure of inner thigh. “Who's Roxana?”

  “I told you about her, after you, you know-like you. Same thing happened to her- her husband beat her up.” Sasha seemed more uncomfortable than Indie with the subject of violent husbands so Indie left it alone.

  When the two women walked into the buzzy restaurant, there was a brief lull in the room as everyone took a gape before continuing with their dinner. Sasha stood at the hostess stand like Venus de Milo and in moments, a man appeared from within to greet her, taking her wrist in his hand, grazing the backs of his fingers across the side of her buttock as he kissed her cheek. She smiled happily as she received his adoration and Indie knew immediately what had kept her from the meeting in London.

  “Patrice, this is my friend, Indie, I told you about. Indie, this is Patrice, he owns this joint.”

  “Welcome Indie, you just arrived I believe.” He leaned forward for the customary French greeting.