immediate circle knew it existed. It wasn’t a city apartment or one of the many homes owned by her father around the world.
Nope.
This was all hers.
A country retreat bought and paid for by one Coco Monroe.
And that’s how she liked it.
Yep, being the daughter of a self-made squillionaire seriously sucked.
But what sucked even more was having three older brothers who made it their mission in life to make hers a challenge. She gave as good as she got. Telling them that since they were getting old and decrepit - they were in their early thirties - it was more than time they settled down, found a good woman and added to the Monroe line. And if she really wanted to mix it up she said it in front of their father.
Hehehe.
Two of her brothers simply stated that since she was the one with the uterus, she should do her family duty. Bruce and Wallace Monroe fought for their country courtesy of Her Majesty’s armed forces in Afghanistan and other hot spots.
Coco sat back with her coffee, black no sugar, easing herself into the day by watching Jezebel and Honey play on the immaculate lawn. Vast folding glass doors to the garden were wide open and a balmy breeze of late summer carried the scent of full blown roses into the room. She grinned as the pug nipped the St Bernard’s paws then leapt out of harms way. Jezebel was a little tease.
Wearing low slung yoga pants of light cotton, she propped her bare feet onto a chair, opened her laptop, switched it on.
Her emails lit up and she took a leisurely scan of her messages.
She straightened in her seat, frowning at the sender alert on the screen and the subject in shouty letters.
From Raphael Cavendish, DO NOT IGNORE THIS MESSAGE.
Poop.
She’d been ignoring him for three days.
What the hell did he want?
A picture of the Rafe the last time she’d seen him entered her mind.
She’d infuriated and frustrated him.
But most of all, she’d hurt him.
Coco told herself it was only human to feel regret, but he’d left her with no choice.
And it was all her own fault if her long lonely nights had been filled with memories of The Kiss, of that amazing face, of inky hair, of an outstanding butt on a superior body, of a stunning looking man with an air of danger.
He had fabulous eyes. Eyes a woman, if she was stupid enough, could drown in. And Coco Monroe was not stupid.
Her index finger hovered over the mouse.
Open or ignore, decisions, decisions.
She glanced at the time.
Hmm, he’d sent it at 6.00am.
That was typical of him, up and at ‘em.
And in many ways she liked that about Mr Fix-It.
Or as Louise called him, ‘Mr Fix-Coco.’
Louise reckoned Rafe Cavendish was a monk since he kept to himself in a way that made a recluse look like a party animal. But he received his fair share of press attention too. Most of the celebrity scribblers described him as a loner, polite but aloof. Now Coco laughed out loud recalling a gossip article highlighting the top ten bachelors in the country, penned by Ms Tabitha Crew.
Coco bet what had been written about him had put a hitch in Rafe’s long stride through life.
God, she’d give good money to be a fly on the wall when he read it.
As far as she could tell he wasn’t seriously dating.
No, Rafe remained determinedly single.
And Coco could respect that since she was determinedly single herself.
Wearing low-slung jeans and a vest the exact colour of her eyes, Louise swung through the garden doors, dumped brown paper sacks filled with what she termed real food on the table.
The dogs’ spooky radar told them there might be a treat in the shopping bags.
Sure enough, Louise held a couple of milk bones in her hand and raised her brows.
Immediately Honey and Jezebel dropped their butts to the floor.
The St Bernard’s whole body trembled as Louise gave Jezebel her treat before handing Honey hers.
‘Good girls.’
With a frown Louise cocked her head to listen to the music thumping from the iPod deck. ‘Is
Nope.
This was all hers.
A country retreat bought and paid for by one Coco Monroe.
And that’s how she liked it.
Yep, being the daughter of a self-made squillionaire seriously sucked.
But what sucked even more was having three older brothers who made it their mission in life to make hers a challenge. She gave as good as she got. Telling them that since they were getting old and decrepit - they were in their early thirties - it was more than time they settled down, found a good woman and added to the Monroe line. And if she really wanted to mix it up she said it in front of their father.
Hehehe.
Two of her brothers simply stated that since she was the one with the uterus, she should do her family duty. Bruce and Wallace Monroe fought for their country courtesy of Her Majesty’s armed forces in Afghanistan and other hot spots.
Coco sat back with her coffee, black no sugar, easing herself into the day by watching Jezebel and Honey play on the immaculate lawn. Vast folding glass doors to the garden were wide open and a balmy breeze of late summer carried the scent of full blown roses into the room. She grinned as the pug nipped the St Bernard’s paws then leapt out of harms way. Jezebel was a little tease.
Wearing low slung yoga pants of light cotton, she propped her bare feet onto a chair, opened her laptop, switched it on.
Her emails lit up and she took a leisurely scan of her messages.
She straightened in her seat, frowning at the sender alert on the screen and the subject in shouty letters.
From Raphael Cavendish, DO NOT IGNORE THIS MESSAGE.
Poop.
She’d been ignoring him for three days.
What the hell did he want?
A picture of the Rafe the last time she’d seen him entered her mind.
She’d infuriated and frustrated him.
But most of all, she’d hurt him.
Coco told herself it was only human to feel regret, but he’d left her with no choice.
And it was all her own fault if her long lonely nights had been filled with memories of The Kiss, of that amazing face, of inky hair, of an outstanding butt on a superior body, of a stunning looking man with an air of danger.
He had fabulous eyes. Eyes a woman, if she was stupid enough, could drown in. And Coco Monroe was not stupid.
Her index finger hovered over the mouse.
Open or ignore, decisions, decisions.
She glanced at the time.
Hmm, he’d sent it at 6.00am.
That was typical of him, up and at ‘em.
And in many ways she liked that about Mr Fix-It.
Or as Louise called him, ‘Mr Fix-Coco.’
Louise reckoned Rafe Cavendish was a monk since he kept to himself in a way that made a recluse look like a party animal. But he received his fair share of press attention too. Most of the celebrity scribblers described him as a loner, polite but aloof. Now Coco laughed out loud recalling a gossip article highlighting the top ten bachelors in the country, penned by Ms Tabitha Crew.
Coco bet what had been written about him had put a hitch in Rafe’s long stride through life.
God, she’d give good money to be a fly on the wall when he read it.
As far as she could tell he wasn’t seriously dating.
No, Rafe remained determinedly single.
And Coco could respect that since she was determinedly single herself.
Wearing low-slung jeans and a vest the exact colour of her eyes, Louise swung through the garden doors, dumped brown paper sacks filled with what she termed real food on the table.
The dogs’ spooky radar told them there might be a treat in the shopping bags.
Sure enough, Louise held a couple of milk bones in her hand and raised her brows.
Immediately Honey and Jezebel dropped their butts to the floor.
The St Bernard’s whole body trembled as Louise gave Jezebel her treat before handing Honey hers.
‘Good girls.’
With a frown Louise cocked her head to listen to the music thumping from the iPod deck. ‘Is
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