about. It hardly seemed possible. And what would her old childhood friend make of her new persona? She’d always been a bit of an oddball when it came to fashion, but her most recent look was what you might call a bit of a change from lollipops and pigtails…
As she examined her reflection in the mirror Mia remembered the day she had breezed into Monsieur Michel’s salon to ask for a job. The canny old survivor had quickly guessed she had no qualifications in the hairdressing industry. She was only lucky that her noble-sounding name had got her foot in the door. It turned out that Monsieur’s troubled early life had left him with a weakness for the sort of eccentric folk who bumbled along the best they could in genteel poverty as Mia’s parents always had. Mia would be his meet-and-greet girl, Monsieur had declared, removing at a stroke any possibility of an amateur snipping dead ends from his duchesses.
Monsieur had seen the lot over the years, and instead of turning his face away from Mia’s injuries, which she dreaded—or gushing over her, which was almost worse—the eccentric proprietor of Monte Carlo’s most glamorous beauty salon had promptly renamed her Arabella, the Terror of the Seas, after the infamous pirate queen, Arabella Drummond, insisting Mia ditch her health scheme patch and adopt the jewelled creation he had specially created for her.
The novelty of wearing a costume, of which the eyepatch was just a small part, had held immediate appeal. The dressing up box had been Mia’s favourite escape at home—but this was fancy dress taken to new and exotic flights of fancy. She hadn’t known such fabulous outfits existed, or could be made—but then she hadn’t had much experience of theatrical costumiers before. Her dark, spiky hair lent itself to dramatic make-up, Monsieur Michel had insisted—sympathetically leaving out the fact that it also helped to cover her scars. So now she wore a big gold hoop in one ear, tiny leather hot pants and thigh-high leather boots, while an important-looking pad and pen hung in a pouch from the studded leather belt she wore slung low on her hips—not that there was anything written on the pad, but Monsieur Michel said she had to be ready for all eventualities—and if she was at a loose end she could always direct her talents towards the skilful use of a brush and pan.
Like all his staff, Mia adored her eccentric employer and knew Monsieur Michel’s only purpose was to make everyone feel welcome under his roof. He gave her the sort of nonjudgemental friendship Mia badly needed. The accident that had left her scarred and blind in one eye had led to six months of hell in rehabilitation, and had rocked her self-belief to the foundations. It had taken time to rebuild her life and she hadn’t done so quietly. She could never do that. She always had to walk on red-hot coals just to know she was alive. A winter working as a ranger in the frozen north out of touch of everything happening in the world had been just the start of her recovery. After that, she had come here, to the most glamorous principality on earth, where the language was French and the currency was good looks or money—and as she had neither, she wasn’t exactly off to a good start—but she had reasoned that if she could make it here she could make it anywhere, and Monsieur Michel had helped her to make that happen.
Mia would be the first to admit that her new look was ‘in your face’. It flaunted the fact that she was injured. There was nothing remotely apologetic about it. So she had a duff eye. So what? This was who she chose to be now. She had never been pretty, but at least now she had something that set her apart. Arabella Drummond? Dead-eyed Tic, more like, Mia concluded wryly as a muscle jumped in her damaged cheek.
Picking up a copy of that day’s newspaper, she glanced one last time at the front-page photograph of Ram. With perfect irony, he was one of the best-looking men in the world. But there was a definite improvement, she decided, studying the picture intently. Perhaps it was the air of danger surrounding him…Ram wasn’t even in his prime yet but he was clearly having fun getting there. Any sensible woman would run a mile…
Which was why she would be meeting with him tonight…
‘No more mirror-time. You look beautiful, chérie, and clients are waiting.’
Monsieur’s arrival meant Ram had to go on the back burner for the time being—not his seat of choice, but she had to concentrate on her duties, which wasn’t going to be easy with the Maharaja in town.
But when Monsieur Michel swung the door wide Mia knew that loyalty to her employer would soon sort that out. In Monsieur Michel’s view of the world lay the root of his success. Monsieur could always see beyond the flawed shell to the person underneath. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, he never tired of telling his staff. And Monsieur Michel saw beauty in everyone—
‘Chop chop!’ he exclaimed, shooing Mia ahead of him.
Neither of them was under any illusion as to why Mia was so valuable to the salon. They both knew there wasn’t a woman in the place who wouldn’t feel more beautiful when they compared themselves to Monsieur Michel’s flawed pirate queen.
The trouble with Ram’s rally car was sorted out sooner than expected. He took a shower and changed, and then his thoughts turned to meeting Mia. Why not bring the appointment forward? There had been far too many simpering, low-fat milksops in his life recently. Wasn’t it time to take a walk on the wild side and eat some clotted cream? Mia had never made life easy for him and he was bored with easy.
Mia and he hadn’t parted on the best of terms. The last time he’d seen Mia had been at Tom’s engagement party when he had already known that his fate was cast in stone. He was to return to Ramprakesh and take part in an arranged marriage. It was how things were done—
How things used to be done.
He’d bought Mia a dress in Paris—a goodbye gift totally over the top, he realised now. In hindsight, that gift seemed little more than a crass attempt to soften the words when he told Mia he was leaving to get married and take up his place in a world she could never be a part of. A crass attempt at telling Mia he loved her and would always love her, but he had to give her up without ever really knowing her.
While they’d packed the dress he’d had a vision of one last dream night together. He’d been young then. He was cynical now and couldn’t believe he hadn’t considered the possibility that their dream night would go wrong from start to finish.
But that was then and this was now. And he was eaten up by curiosity. There were so many blank spaces to fill in between that night and this.
Monte Carlo was so much more than a race track, Ram reflected as he walked the short distance to Mia’s place of work. The principality of Monaco was a tiny pink jewel, rich in culture and tradition set to perfection on an aquamarine sea. It was also a place where Mia was beginning to feel at home, he gathered. Five star plus suited her? It had never used to. Mia had always been dismissive of pomp and ceremony and all in favour of keeping it real. So what was she doing on the French Riviera where dreams were made of money? Or tinsel.
What wasn’t Mia telling him?
He’d soon find out.
Perching on the staffroom window sill eating a doughnut during her break, Mia had almost managed to convince herself that with this type of view she could forget Ram—
Well, that was a laugh. Staring at another flawless blue sky was bliss, but it was overshadowed by a pair of mocking eyes. Was she up to this? She stared unseeing out of the window. Maybe she’d go to the beach later to chill out in readiness for meeting Ram. Ram would never go to a public beach, though the beach was fabulous. You could dream there—you could be anyone you wanted to be. You didn’t have to go onboard one of the zillionaires’ yachts in order to feel special in Monte Carlo. In fact, there were far fewer complications if you decided not to go onboard—
‘You
