She also had a brand-spanking-new US passport in her Coach purse. Tristan’s school chum Prince Maxence, upon hearing that she had a little immigration problem, had called his good buddy the US ambassador to Monaco and arranged to have one dropped off at Tristan’s boat within the week.
Colleen told him, “I’m flying super-premium first class. I don’t have a seat. I have a cubicle. A flight staff person is assigned to me to bring me anything I want for the whole flight. I’m going to be a spoiled brat when I come back.”
Tristan’s gaze at her firmed. “No, You’re my good girl, not a brat.”
That smile, those low tones, and her body melted. “Okay.”
He continued, “All the other CEOs fly on private planes. I’m going to book one for your flight back.”
“I bought a round-trip ticket. I’ve already got a flight back.”
“Still, I would feel better if you had the comfort and security of a private plane.”
“I’m fine.” A thought occurred to her. “Are you worried about the Butorins trying something else? Do you know something?”
He flipped his hand in the air, dismissing that. “The Butorins are out of the picture. I have it on excellent authority that they will never bother you, or me, or anyone else, ever again.”
“Because they’re in jail?”
He smiled at her, and his smile seemed easy as he said, “Some of them.”
“Then, there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”
Tristan sucked in a breath and almost said something else, but he stopped. He pulled the small, silver box out of his pocket with a sigh. “I got you something, princess.”
“What, you got me something for our one-month anniversary of meeting each other?”
“Because a CEO should have one.”
“After the clothes, jewelry, and makeover, anything more seems excessive. I don’t know if I feel like a CEO, but somehow, I look like one.”
He handed her the flat case. “Maybe this will make you feel like one.”
The cool metal was smooth in her hand except for some engraving in the middle of one side. She traced the filagree with her fingertip, manicured in an elegant shade of pink. “What’s that?”
“Your initials. The F is in the middle.”
They might be able to re-engrave the case, just maybe, maybe someday.
Or not. Not everything in life had to be matchy-matchy.
Colleen tried to pry it open with her fingernails. “What’s it for?”
“Your business cards.”
The silver case popped open.
Inside were a dozen eggshell-white business cards with her name and Chief Executive Officer written underneath. The address and phone number for GameShack’s corporate office were in the lower right-hand corner. When she smoothed her fingertips over the cards, the lettering was raised. “Oh, wow. You shouldn’t have, but these are really nice. Thanks!”
“My absolute pleasure.” Tristan smiled. “I’ll see you in a week.”
62
GameShack
Colleen
The door chimed with that same damned videogame song from five years ago as it opened, and Colleen strolled into the GameShack store where she’d spent the better part of the last two years trying to keep her head above the proverbial water.
The boxes on the shelves were dustier than they had been when Tristan had gotten her fired a month before, and they were stacked haphazardly instead of the pretty displays that she’d worked on whenever she’d gotten a chance.
The same out-of-date cardboard cutout of a videogame character still stood at the end of one of the rows, but it had a crease that hadn’t been there.
No one came out and greeted her. She strolled among the shelves to the desk at the back.
At the service desk, she tapped a bell that clinked loudly in the stillness of the silent store.
After a few minutes, her former manager, Frank Miller, hurried from the back to stand at the cash register. “Welcome to GameShack. How can I—Colleen Frost?”
He gaped at Colleen, and she supposed she did look different. Her high-heeled pumps with red soles even made her a few inches taller.
Now that Colleen was looking at Frank Miller as his employer instead of someone whom he could fire on a whim, the right-angle tattoo on the side of his neck above his faded golf shirt was definitely the top of a swastika.
His other tattoos were just as despicable, and his greasy skin shined in the fluorescent lights overhead.
Those horrid plaid golf pants he wore were too tight and stained on the thighs.
How had this loser ever risen to be a manager?
Miller’s irritated expression turned to a sneer. “So, Colleen Frost. Have you finally come to beg for your old job back?”
“Nope.” Colleen tossed her brand-new business card on the help desk. “I’m the new CEO of GameShack Corporation. I have HR and security waiting outside to escort you off the premises. You’re fired.”
63
Phone Call
Tristan
A few days after Tristan dropped Colleen off at the Nice airport, he was taking afternoon hot chocolate on the middle deck of his yacht.
She would’ve been better off taking a private plane. He was going to insist next time.
One of the ship’s staff brought him his tea and biscuits, and Jian came bounding up the stairs. His ribs and shoulder had healed well. “I’ve rebooked your appointment with my tailor for tomorrow since we so rudely missed our appointment last month. I took the liberty of chartering a private plane to Milan because driving for three and a half hours seemed excessive. We’ll catch a helicopter to Nice from the heliport tomorrow at nine a.m.”
Tristan raised one eyebrow at him. “And if I had plans for tomorrow?”
“Nothing is more important than proper fashion, Mr. King.”
“Do we have to have another conversation about that Mr. King business? After all we’ve been through, it seems silly to stand on that kind of formality.”
“I prefer it, sir.”
Tristan shook his head. “How much did you make off the GameShack stock dividend?”
Jian raised one eyebrow. “Enough for a tidy down payment on a house nearby in France after Anjali and I are married in a few months, but not enough to start calling you by your given name.”
After Tristan drank his tea and listened to the seagulls shriek and the waves lap at the side of his yacht, he descended into his computer office and opened a secure video chat software for an appointment.
The call opened, and a mature woman with brilliant silver streaking her dark hair that draped in loose curls around her face answered. “Hello, Tristan.”
Her husky voice seemed kind, almost maternal, though a bit nasal from her New Yorker accent. A few laugh lines gathered at the corners of her eyes when she smiled at him.
Tristan drew his face into a similar smile. “Hello, Dr. Bell.”
She inclined her head almost affectionately. “Before we start, I have a quick update on your Butorin situation. The last few problematic members of that bratva have been eliminated. At this point, their leadership is scattered to various prisons around the world or eliminated. We absorbed anyone with interesting skills and adequate assurances into our organization. They won’t be a problem to you or Ms. Frost anymore.”