Manacled in Monaco Read Online Free

She knew she could survive almost any setback, and had almost saved enough for her own small bistro. Rolan Paxton wasn’t dealing with the naïve adoring teenager who had hung on his every word.
    “I am a fool, a complete fool,” she said, hitting the doorframe so hard her palm stung. “Down girl, back to reality. What were the chances of me ever seeing Rolan again? Far less than him finding out about Tony. What did I do to call down this type of punishment?”
    Those four Saturdays in detention with him had been the highlight of her life.
    Since grade school, she’d been in love with him. Not that he ever noticed her existence. That first detention proved pure torture, and she had been sure he had clumped her into the nerd circle. Then that next Saturday, he’d thrown paper missiles at her and they’d spent six hours playing word games together.
    Five weeks later, she’d waitressed on prom night, the event held at the town’s only country club. He’d arrived in the kitchen at midnight and insisted on driving her home. Flustered, flattered, in the throes of the worst adolescent crush, she accepted his offer of a ride. Then he’d kissed her in the car in the parking lot. She’d never been kissed before. The feel of his tongue sliding into her mouth, the way he’d growled and hauled her into his lap… Sarita shook her head and compressed her lips. Not going there, not making the same mistake twice.
    Stiffening her spine, she took a deep breath, strode onto the deck, and spotted him speaking to one of those thin long-legged supermodels. Fool, fool to fall back into the fantasies of a sixteen-year-old doting girl.
    She stepped onto the deck and into an episode of the rich and famous. Cringing inside, Sarita pasted a wide smile on her face. She served appetizers to Jessica Alba lookalikes, polished versions of Lindsay Lohan and Scarlett Johansson. By the time the tray held two lonely salmon rosettes, her self-confidence had flushed down the toilet. Rolan’s jade gaze stalked her every move and the flat line of his mouth intimidated her as much as his guests did. She made it back to the kitchen in record time and began preparing the six-course luncheon.
    “Where the hell did you get those?”
    She whirled around to face Rolan.
    “Huh?” Apparently, intelligence vanished in his company.
    “Jesus, you had little cupcakes. Where the hell did those come from?” He stared at her breasts.
    She crossed her arms over them. “Go away. Why the hell would you follow me down here to ask that?”
    “Because you flaunt those titties.”
    “Oh,” she gasped, and her eyes narrowed. “How can you even say that? This happened after Tony was born. They…they just grew. I really hate you, Rolan Paxton.”
    “Who told you to wear that number?” He was roaring by now, discombobulating her with every shout. “Cover up, for Christ’s sake. I won’t have the mother of my son dressing like some dime street whore. Don’t come back above deck until you’ve changed into something respectable.”
    And he flounced, actually flounced out of the tiny kitchen.
    Somewhere in her Salma Hayek imagination, she’d bought this little red number, little being the causative verb. Scarlet, just a tad below the ass, almost nipple baring, it was a dress that screamed the wearer’s intention. Temper fired, she marched to her cabin, shed the black sheath, and pulled the red spaghetti-strapped silk over her body. For a second she wavered, but wearing the dress at this point symbolized thumbing her nose at him. Besides, wouldn’t it be wonderful if he drooled. Sarita’s lips curved into a sneer-smile. She smoothed the skirt down, plumped up her breasts, and applied mascara.
    Running late, she assembled the first course, foie gras burnished by an apple-brandy cream sauce. No one would complain about the food, especially him. She plated twelve Limoges dishes with red pepper garnishes and a few perfect basil leaves.
    Austen bulldozed into the