Prosecco & Paparazzi (The Passport Series Book 1) (3 page)

In Chamonix, every event became an all-out effort to find him. We tried to ascertain his whereabouts, to determine which places he might go, and we skied black diamond slopes we had no business skiing on (since he was an excellent skier). Every outfit, tube of lipstick, and dollar was spent in pursuit of Des Bannerman.

To that end, we decided to search the Casino de Chamonix. None of us were truly gamblers, but we had all read
Blackjack for Dummies
that afternoon while sipping Chardonnay at a local hotspot. So, armed with fists full of dollars and accessorized in the latest fashion trends, off to the casino we went looking for Lady Luck… and the previously mentioned Des Bannerman.

Early in the evening, most of my cohorts had lost all the money they were willing to lose and had been swept off their feet by handsome foreigners. Oddly enough, I had amazing luck. And since I had never won so much as a penny before, the fact that I was up seven hundred dollars was close to a miracle.

I told the woman sitting next to me that, if this kept up, we should look for sightings of the Virgin Mary. (No laugh, not even a roll of the eyes; she clearly took her blackjack too seriously.) At some point she lost her last chip, and I was left at the table with a mobster-looking fellow—okay, he had no neck, which, in my books, made him a mobster.

I felt a gust as Hillary suddenly arrived. She carefully turned her refined shoulder to the mobster and said, “Charlotte!” She was practically vibrating on the spot. “We’ve just spotted Des Bannerman!”

Instantly I jumped off my stool, keeping my hands on my chips, of course, and scanned the casino. As there weren’t many places to hide, I sighed and told her, “It was probably that guy we saw on the chairlift yesterday… You know, the one with the Brad Pitt hairstyle from
Burn After Reading
but with brown eyes.”

“Well, at least come have a look. You’ve been searching for days. I can’t believe after all this you would prefer to sit here rather than do a full sweep. I’ll go get the girls.” Hillary was off in what, for her, was a flash.

As I stood there contemplating what to do, the dealer asked if I was going to place a bet. One more couldn’t hurt. After placing my bet, I was sizing up my hand when I felt someone standing next to me. I doubled my bet before looking at the newcomer. The most gorgeous woman in the world stood next to me. I knew who it was: Des Bannerman’s girlfriend. My luck was extending beyond the cards; fate, destiny, cosmic karma were all on my side.

Hillary came sauntering over full of excitement. “I’m sure it’s him. You have to come. Who cares about blackjack! This is Des Bannerman we’re talking about.”

The whole time she was talking, I was doing my best to get her to be quiet. Not even putting my fingers over her lips and shaking my head managed to calm her down. My only hope was that people blamed her distorted speech on alcohol.

Discreetly, I glanced to my side to see if the object of Des Bannerman’s affections had understood any of this. While she continued to look at her hand, an amused smirk played about her trout-pout lips.

Looking back at Hillary, I tried a subtle nod of my head toward my non-mobster gambling companion. It was hopeless, however, because Hillary knew next to nothing about Des Bannerman.

“What? What are you doing? Come on…” She was now yanking my arm out of its socket. Deciding to retain a little dignity, I picked up my chips and let myself be dragged off.

“Hillary, do you have any idea who was sitting next to me? Do you not read
Hello
or
People
or watch
Showbiz
Tonight
? That was Brynn Roberts, Des Bannerman’s girlfriend, and Golden Globe winner last year for best actress in that movie with George Clooney. The one about a war somewhere,” I hissed at her back.

Switching direction abruptly, she said, “I knew she looked familiar! We have to go back!”

“No! I can’t possibly go back now. She’s bound to tell him that I’m stalking him. Then, when he meets me, he’ll be frightened,” I pointed out.

“We need a plan. What should we do?” Hillary finally asked.

“Let’s go scout around and see if we can find him at another table or the girls. Maybe they know something,” I offered in frustration.

We strolled around the casino for a quarter of an hour. We saw someone who we thought was Kevin Bacon, but it turned out to be some German guy, and then we saw someone who very well could have been Margaret Thatcher, except she was smiling. Then, as if all the worlds collided, as if the sun came bursting from behind the grayest cloud ever, as if time had slowed down, there was Des Bannerman! Coming out of the men’s room, adjusting his shirt, with a little tiny bit of white showing from, you know,
down there
. Oh my god! I could see Des Bannerman’s underwear! My heart pounded, and there, in the darkest corner of Casino de Chamonix, I met my destiny.

Hillary giggled from behind her hand. “Oh my god! Can you believe it? He wears tighty-whities. I would have thought that he’d have custom underwear sewn by Armani himself!”

We howled with laughter. Of all the things that I had fantasized about, I never had managed to work tighty-whities into the scenario. Silk boxers, bath towels, low-rise jeans, tuxedos, but never, ever your standard everyday white underwear.

I could hear Hillary asking me what my plan was as I watched Des Bannerman approach, walk past, and continue on his way. Not even a glance. I mean, while I might not have Brynn Roberts breathtaking, fragile beauty, plenty of men had affirmed what I knew about myself, my curves and curls had plenty of appeal.

“Look at me. What do you see?” I beseeched Hillary.

“Well, what do you mean?”

“He didn’t even register my existence. It’s a good thing my ego’s not that fragile.” Then, in a blinding flash, it all fell before me. I announced, “I’ve got it!” I grabbed Hillary’s hand for support, both physical and psychological, and walked to where I thought I would find my destiny.

Sure enough, there he was, standing beside Brynn, his finger trailing patterns on her bare, well-sculpted shoulder and whispering in her ear. It must have been juicy, because Brynn looked up at him with absolute lust in her eyes. She gazed into his so intently that she didn’t notice the white flash coming from his crotch.

“Okay, here’s my plan! I need to tell him that his fly is down!”

“Are you crazy? You’re going to walk up to Des Bannerman, introduce yourself, shake his hand, and say, ‘By the way, your fly is down’?”

“That’s my plan exactly. Who doesn’t wish that someone had told them in that situation?”

“I see your point, but remember he’s English. Be dignified,” she implored.

She quickly assessed me, making sure that my lips were glossed, my dress was plunging, my hair was fluffed, and my teeth were free of food matter. Then she gave me a quick spritz of perfume.

I looked at my friend and couldn’t truly believe that I was on the verge of meeting the man I had dreamt of for over a decade. “Okay, take a deep breath, be calm, be intelligent, and be brief,” were her words of wisdom.

As I turned back to the table, I was thrilled to see they were still there. Des's hand was elsewhere entertained, but I was determined not to lose my chance.

I walked straight up to the table. I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and promptly placed a bet. All the while, my ears were ringing so much that I could barely understand a word the dealer was saying. I blatantly stared at Des, taking in his face’s classic features. His brow bone, jaw, and nose were rugged and refined at the same time—and his carefully crafted body was begging to be caressed. Seeing his perfection up close, my body heat radiated off of me in visible waves, and I started to feel drips running down my back. My hair started to stick to my forehead.

I lost count, but the dealer made pay-outs and collected losses and dealt a few more rounds before Hillary shoved an ice-cold unidentifiable beverage in my hand. I made a horrible squelching noise as I slid off my stool. The dealer smirked and reminded me to take my chips.

“What happened?” she cried.

“What happened? What happened?” I panicked. “How am I supposed to walk up to him and get his attention? Have you seen her? Have you seen him? My god! He’s even more gorgeous up close. How can she stand herself? She gets to sleep with him. I want to pee myself just contemplating it.”

All the while, Hillary was steering us toward the women’s bathroom, where I immediately looked in the mirror. Gone was the confident woman; gone was the lipstick (which now appeared to be all over my teeth, since I had apparently gnawed my lips off at the blackjack table). All that was left was a sweaty mass of human existence.

“Okay, we’re going to wipe you down, freshen you up, and start over. Can you do it? Think you can? I think you can!” She had become part rugby coach, part cheerleader.

Taking deep breaths and silently chanting, “I can do this, I can do this,” I refreshed myself with strategic splashes of cold water, reapplied my makeup, and swept my long, curly hair up into a stack that cascaded down my back.

“Very sexy.”

Off we went, out of the bathroom and into the pinging smoke-hazed world of the casino.

I breathed in and out, and, while walking back to the table, I chanted my mantra. “I can do this, I can do this.” But they were gone.

“Oh no! Where did they go?” I wailed.

Experiencing a whole different physical reaction, I was consumed by instant remorse. I was deeply regretful of my cowardice. Then I went into overdrive. My need to find him was visceral.

We wound our way through gaming tables, clusters of humanity, and slot machines, and finally found our friends. We pried them free of their newfound lovers and pleaded with them to go search the casino and report any sightings of Brynn or Des.

I was thrilled to no end when our newly-made friends offered to help. Feeling confident that there would be no table left unsearched, no corner left unlooked, we ventured forth.

After half an hour passed, all seemed hopeless.

I posted myself near the women’s bathroom because I felt faint. I continued to berate myself for not taking advantage of my earlier opportunity while trying to remain positive. (Very tricky.)

Then Hillary came dashing over. “We’ve got him! You can do this! Tidy your lipstick, and off you go!”

En masse, we all casually yet purposefully approached Des and Brynn. They were at a table together, playing blackjack. I was close enough to hear them arguing about whether she should take another card from the dealer.

“Take one,” I sagely suggested. Suddenly, I was an expert at the game.

The bluest eyes I’d ever seen looked up at me, and that carefully constructed smile that I’d seen in so many movies was directed at me. My heart almost stopped, but my brain kicked in at the last moment and reminded it to beat.

“Excellent! Tell us, are you an authority on blackjack? On whose word should we accept such an opinion? Do you make a habit of giving advice to perfect strangers? And, if you’re decided to be said expert, why only take one card instead of doubling our bets, or perhaps even playing two hands?” He fired questions at me in much the same way that Tom Cruise cross-examined Jack Nicholson in
A Few Good Men
.
Could I handle the truth..? Maybe not.

“Actually, I’m not, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night!”

He looked at me in utter confusion.

“Clearly you don’t watch much American television,” I added.

“Ah, that’s the explanation. You’re an American.” Des’s blue eyes glinted with superiority when he zinged back at me, poking the air with his finger.

While I had been playful, the superior tone of his voice instantly put me off. “I hope that not all people buy into stereotypes. For example, should we assume that, because you’re English, your teeth need straightening, capping, or whitening?” I inwardly cursed myself for my temper.

At this point, I received a genuine smile and chuckle from Des that evaporated my anger.

“Darling, it’s time to go!” Brynn stood up and possessively placed her hand on Des’s shoulder. Clearly, his sharing a laugh with someone else was not on Ms. Roberts’s agenda.

“Well, it was charming to receive such useful advice from such a learned traveler! Good evening. Enjoy your stay at the Holiday Inn Express.” With that, Des Bannerman departed from the table, taking his companion with him.

The universe reconfigured, the clouds re-gathered, the sun faded, and with them went my hopes.

Hillary, Kathleen, and the rest came thundering over. “How’d it go? What’d he say?” they asked in unison.

It was a bit embarrassing, considering that Des and Brynn were only about two feet away. “For the love of God and all that is holy, could you at least wait for them to be out of hearing range?” I whispered loudly.

The flash of white passing by at waist level reminded me of “The Grand Plan.” I had forgotten to tell him about his fly. I still had a way into the sphere of Des Bannerman’s world. All hope was not lost, and Brynn’s agenda be damned: I was going in for another play.

“I’ll be back!” I said with the same determination as the Terminator.

I returned immediately. They’d disappeared, again. “What is it with these people? They disappear instantly! I need help finding him! Go! Find him!” I felt like a general sending her troops into battle.

Thankfully, the troops returned unscathed, and quickly. Des and Brynn had made it only as far as the bar. That seemed like an exceptionally reasonable place to reacquaint myself with him. Not too over the top at all.

Again, en masse we trooped to the bar. Hovering on the boundary of personal space, we chatted about skiing, the hot spots we had ventured into, the spa we were visiting the next day—anything we could think of to keep us there, hoping beyond all measure of hope that Des would turn around and provide an opportunity to speak to him.

Nothing happened. We talked, but he didn’t turn around.

“Move closer,” I whispered. En masse, we took a step backwards. Considering there were now nine of us, fortunately we did so without too much incident. “Ask me about my luck at the blackjack table,” I whispered to Kathleen.