Heirs Book Two: American Lady (10 page)

She stopped struggling and he could feel her
body melting into the warmth of his, pressing against his hot, hard
groin. They looked at each other hungrily.

Newt returned, empty-handed.

“Good. You caught one. Shall we truss her
up?”

To the bedposts preferably, Declan thought
excitedly.

“I think we should hijack her and make her
clean up her mess,” he said instead.

Jazz glared at him. “Either let me go you
brute, or call the police and have them arrest me,” she taunted
him.

“And give you the benefit of publicity? I
don’t think so.”

“Alright, then I’ll call the police and have
them arrest you for brutality,” she threatened.

Newt laughed. “Sexual harassment seems more
appropriate. I think you should stop grinding your cock into the
lady and let her go. I won’t stand a chance otherwise.”

Jazz was threw a shocked look at Newt. But
Newt’s face, freckled, brown and open, looked so much like an
enthusiastic puppy that Declan knew she wouldn’t get annoyed with
Newt. Girls never did. How could you get annoyed with someone who
looked so impossibly eager to please?

Declan released her and she stumbled against
the side of the truck, rubbing her wrists.

“Say, you look familiar.” Newt gazed at her
disheveled red hair and green eyes. “At the risk of using a
somewhat outdated line, haven’t we met somewhere before?”

“Peppermint Vale Hospital,” Declan
mocked.

“Hey, that’s right! You’re the nurse who
sent us all packing.”

“Physician assistant!” Jazz howled. “I’m a
physician assistant, not a nurse.”

“You know you really shouldn’t damage other
people’s property,” said Newt gently. “This little episode has aged
Declan terribly,” he pointed to the sight of Declan’s paint
whitened hair. “Well at least it makes a good disguise!”

“Oh, my God,” Declan caught sight of himself
truck’s side mirror. “I’ll have to get it cut out.”

Jazz started giggling. “No, you won’t. It’s
water-based. It’ll even wash off the truck if you scrub hard
enough.”

“I’m tempted to turn you over my knee and
tan your hide for this prank,” Declan growled.

“Me next!” Newt chimed in. “I’ve always
enjoyed a bit of bondage myself.”

“Shut up, Newt! You’ll only encourage
her.”

Jazz gasped in outrage, glaring at
Declan.

“I think both of you are perfectly
disgusting. I wish you would take your trendy new ski resort and
ski yourselves out of town and out of our lives!” With that riposte
she flounced away down the street.

For a moment Declan and Newt watched her
stride down the pavement.

“Nice action,” Newt commented. “I wonder how
she’d go on a pair of skis.”

* * *

Declan and Newt were trying to sleep off a
hangover late the next morning. They had found a foursome of lissom
babes in the condo next door and had invited the girls over to
party during the evening. A roaring log fire, although not
necessary, had added an intimate ambience to the evening and
plentiful after ski drinks abounded, although no one had yet hit
the slopes. A good time was had by all. Newt had taken two girls to
bed, totally monogamously, as he explained to Declan, because he
screwed them singly at different times during the evening.

Declan, although he had enjoyed their
company and had been fawned over excessively, did not take anyone
to bed, much to the girls’ disappointment. Newt, however, was happy
because that left the girls much more receptive to him. Declan and
Newt figured they worked well together as a dating duo. Newt said
that Declan attracted the girls – his estimate of Declan’s
effective good looks range was around a two hundred yard radius –
and then Newt moved in with his charm and humor. The rejects from
Declan’s conquests were better than most guys’ top of the range, he
always said.

Within the cocooned silence of the
surrounding snow, Declan and Newt, together with his companion of
the moment, were sleeping soundly, when a carhorn blared piercingly
outside their window. Even so, it took several honks before Declan
dragged himself groggily to his feet and threw open the front door,
preparing a fusillade of foul invective.

“Shut the fuck up!” he roared.

Declan stood glaring into the bright
sunshine of an absolutely brilliant day in a pair of Newt’s sweat
pants which he had grabbed from the living room floor and pulled on
hastily, riding half-way up his calves, and a hot-pink T-shirt
donated to him by one of the girls and which had ripped
strategically in several areas across his chest. His dark hair,
still rippled with white paint, stood on end like a spiky helmet,
and his eyes were slitted from lack of sleep and the glare bouncing
off the truck’s windshield.

“The only designer feature on you this
morning is your stubble,” a cool voice scoffed at him.

Still squinting, Declan raised a hand to
shadow his eyes until he could focus on Jazz Bradley in a pair of
faded jeans, bright yellow sweater and snow jacket, leaning
nonchalantly against Newt’s red pick up. She had been honking the
horn to get their attention.

“Believe it or not I did try knocking,” she
said.

At this moment Newt, in Calvin Klein boxers
and a sweatshirt, joined Declan at the door.

“Need any help throwing the bastards off the
property?” he mumbled. Opening a sleepy eye he peered outside. “Oh,
it’s you. Guess you don’t need any help with this problem, pal.”
Newt slapped Declan on the shoulder, but before he could turn
around and go back inside, his bed companion joined them.

She was an attractive brunette, showing
rather a lot of leg from under the hem of the plaid flannel shirt
she was wearing. It was the shirt Declan had been wearing
yesterday.

“Can’t you ever keep your mind out of the
gutter and your hands off women?” Jazz screeched at Declan.

“Time for bed, sweetie,” Newt took the
brunette’s hand and headed back inside.

Jazz stomped down the driveway to where
she’d parked her car. Declan, regardless of his bare feet, charged
after her, grabbing her by the arm. She struggled but, despite the
handicap of his hangover, he managed to hold her easily pinned
against him.

“I really do think we should stop meeting
like this,” he laughed.

“Oh, let me go, you bastard! I hate the way
you treat women!” Jazz craned her neck to glare at him.

“No one else has complained,” Declan drawled
slowly. In spite of the cold seeping through the soles of his feet,
the rest of him felt pretty hot.

“Only bimbette Barbies!” Jazz snapped. “No
independent, thinking woman would put up with your crass
behavior.”

“Then what are you doing here?” he asked,
thinking that she was acting very much like a jealous woman.

“Why, you conceited male chauvinist pig!”
Jazz glared at him savagely, making another attempt to struggle out
of his grasp which simply jiggled her breasts nicely against his
chest. “I came to clean up your truck because I felt guilty.
Ididn’t expect to be interrupting an orgy,” she almost spat the
words at him.

Her hair had come lose in the struggle and
brushed over his hands which were still holding her arms behind her
back.

“Let’s go discuss this inside because my
feet are turning into popsicles.” He released her so that he
wouldn’t be tempted to run his hands through her hair and kiss her
sweetly pouting mouth.

Aghast she looked down at his feet, which
were indeed turning faintly blue. “Get inside before you do any
lasting damage,” she ordered.

“Spoken like a nurse,” Declan joked,
hobbling to the door.

“I keep telling you I’m a physician
assistant!” Slipping her arm around his waist to help him walk, she
insisted, “This is purely medicinal.”

Inside she quickly organized a bowl of tepid
water for him to thaw his feet in. Then she looked disgustedly
around the living room

“I wasn’t wrong about the orgy, was I?” The
room looked like a good imitation of a rubbish dump with plastic
glasses, plates, cutlery, empty and half-full bottles rolling
around the floor, half-eaten pieces of pizza littering the coffee
table. There was also an odd assortment of clothing scattered
amongst the debris, including a blue bra and several lacy panties.
Across the protective glass of a picture hanging over the sofa
someone had scrawled in pink lipstick ‘I love Declan.’

“I guess we were lucky you tamed your
activities down in the hospital,” Jazz remarked sarcastically.

Looking around through bleary eyes, a
hangover thumping through his head and pain in his feet from
returning circulation, Declan had to admit that the evidence was
damningly conclusive.

“It wasn’t really as bad as you’re
thinking,” he muttered, somewhat abashed. “Look,” he said. “I know
we’ve been at each other’s throats ever since we met, and the trick
I played on you in the hospital was pretty vile, but can’t we bury
the hatchet? At least for today? My head can’t take much more
shouting.” He peered at her through blood-shot bleariness, for a
moment losing himself in the dappled depths of Jazz’s eyes. Would
she accept his apologetic overtures as sincere?

“I’ll make you some breakfast until you’re
ready to stand on your feet again. Then we can both clean up the
truck,” she conceded.

At the smell of frying bacon and eggs,
Declan’s hungover stomach lurched. Jazz would never know the high
price he was paying for their truce.

* * *

It was late afternoon before Newt awoke. The
leggy brunette had disappeared. He emerged from the bedroom and
stumbled into the bathroom where he found Declan seated at a chair
pulled up to the basin, a towel wrapped around his shoulders and
Jazz gently sudsing and massaging his head. Newt stood there
contemplating the scene for several minutes.

“Is this the latest medical cure for
hangovers?” he finally asked.

Jazz chuckled.

“No, this is the last step in operation
clean up. Declan and I have got your pick up sparkling like new.
And I offered to wash the paint out of Declan’s hair.”

“Before you ask, the answer is no,” Declan
spoke, his eyes still closed. “Go and find your own hairdresser,
Newt, you’re not having mine.”

During the day, when Maixent was tied up with
official engagements or unavoidable office work, Charley spent time
with Aurelie, often roaming around St Benezet taking photos. She
was so blissed out on love she was afraid to pinch herself in case
she woke up from her real life fairytale.

“You’re so lucky you’re not a princess,”
Aurelie sighed one morning as they strolled along the Bayfront, a
Swiss guard a discreet distance behind.

Charley, her long hair plaited in a chignon
by her maid, wearing a short summer skirt, flat walking shoes and a
V-necked cotton sweater, was carefully lining up a shot of the
harbor. The sun was just filtering around the edges of a white sail
on a yacht pulling out of the bay as she snapped the image.

“I think I’d rather like to be a princess in
Altobello,” she replied dreamily. Since their night at the Alpine
inn, the royal servants had been turning a fondly blind eye to
Maixent stealing into her room around midnight so they could spend
hours together making love and plans for the future. Fueled with
passion, neither of them needed eight hours of sleep. Before the
morning shift changed he had leapt out of bed to either meet his
mother for a swim or Thiérry for a jog early in the morning to
start the day.

“It’s not like Princess Di who’s hounded by
the British press. Here you’re able to walk through the streets
without being hassled,” Charley pointed out. The Palace Press
Secretary managed to keep Charley’s visit under the radar in
Altobello because the
Altobello Matin
newspaper preferred to
remain on amenable terms with the palace.

“That’s not the point.” Aurelie fiddled with
the gold links on her bracelet. “Even if the press don’t bother us
as much, I still don’t have any freedom. I’m tied to going to
official engagements. And to being escorted by men my parents
approve of,” she grumbled.

Charley looked at the younger girl shrewdly.
Lack of freedom was a complaint she’d voiced herself whenever her
mother vetoed her choice in boyfriends. “Are you in love,
Aurelie?”

The younger woman crimsoned in an ugly flush
from her neck upwards. “Of course not,” she denied vehemently.

Charley put her arm through Aurelie’s as
they continued strolling slowly, bypassing ambling tourists and
fast-paced natives on urgent errands. Tables at the cafes they
passed were beginning to fill with coffee drinkers and early
lunching patrons.

Aurelie obviously had a crush on someone
whom her family did not approve of. “My mother was awfully strict
with me too. I think it’s the Catholic upbringing. And I know she’s
always very protective of Declan’s and my privacy from the press.
Of course there were times when I rebelled. But in my heart I knew
she did it because she loved me and wanted to help me. And in
hindsight I have to say she was usually a much better judge of my
boyfriends than I was.”

“But my parents don’t care about my
happiness,” Aurelie sulked. “Papa loves me in his own way but he’s
so tied up with affairs of state he’d never even notice if a boy
was interested in me. While maman,” she frowned derisively, and
paused as if considering her next words. Then she spoke in a rush
and Charley couldn’t decide whether it was because she couldn’t
hold the words in any longer or if she wanted to get them out
before she changed her mind. “Maman only cares that she’s the most
attractive woman to any man, including any who might possibly be
interested in me.” Aurelie thrust her hands into the pockets of
jeans stretched over a waddling bottom.