Her Mile High Mates [The Hot Millionaires #4] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Read online

  The Hot Millionaires #4

  Her Mile High Mates

  Fabia Brook goes to the Spanish resort of Tosca Brava, searching for her missing sister. Something’s off about the way Tosca Brava’s being run, and clues lead Fabia to hunky owners of the flying school, Peyton Ascot and Clyde Wilson. If they know what’s happened to Sonia, they aren’t saying. Instead they distract Fabia with promises of help, trade on their mutual attraction by keeping her occupied with red-hot sex, and get her over her fear of flying by initiating her into the joys of the Mile High Club.

  As details of the Russian Mafia laundering money through the resort's casino come to light, so too does information regarding Sonia’s whereabouts. She’s being held in an impregnable fortress. Except that Fabia’s two protectors don’t know the meaning of the word, nor do they play by the usual rules...

  Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre

  Length: 50,210 words

  HER MILE HIGH MATES

  The Hot Millionaires #4

  Zara Chase

  MENAGE EVERLASTING

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

  HER MILE HIGH MATES

  Copyright © 2012 by Zara Chase

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61926-999-6

  First E-book Publication: August 2012

  Cover design by Les Byerley

  All art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

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  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  HER MILE HIGH MATES

  The Hot Millionaires #4

  ZARA CHASE

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  “Move your feet!” Fabia might as well have saved her breath. Simon didn’t budge as the ball whistled past his backhand wing. “You could have reached that one if you’d prepared better.”

  Simon jogged up to the net to join her, out of breath and sweating profusely. She’d been feeding balls to his forehand for the past forty minutes. He’d barely had to move a muscle but still looked completely out of it. The one she’d blasted past his backhand was hit during a moment of sheer frustration. She might as well have reserved her energy, since it did little to relieve the mind-numbing tedium of coaching a mediocre player who didn’t listen to a word she said. Who but a crazy Brit would schedule a lesson for midday in July when the Spanish sun was at its fiercest? She was a Brit herself, and crazy was her middle name, but even she knew better than that.

  “Sorry,” he said, his grin landing on her tits with the pinpoint accuracy that was sadly lacking in his forehand. “You took me by surprise.”

  “You think your opponents won’t notice that you do all you can to avoid your backhand? Trust me, they’ll pummel it and, unlike me, won’t send a telegram in advance.”

  “Well, I guess not. Sorry.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with his towel. “I just lost focus there for a moment.”

  “No harm done. Take a break and get some water inside you.” Fabia felt a moment’s sympathy for the guy. She needed his business and couldn’t afford to have him keel over on her. Bad publicity for the club to have a client turn his toes up on court—something that could well happen in Simon’s case if he didn’t do something about his fitness level. He was a heart attack waiting to happen if ever she’d seen one. He had to be forty if he was a day, was twenty pounds overweight, and not nearly as good a player as he thought he was. “You can dehydrate quickly in this heat.”

  Fabia took her own advice and slugged back water from the plastic bottle she’d brought on court with her. It was now baking hot and tasted of plastic. Still, needs must.

  “What brings you to this part of the world anyway, Fabia?” he asked, probably thinking that his smile was charming. Even if it had been, it was too late to score points with her. He’d blown his opportunity when he addressed his remarks to her breasts. “Pretty girl like you.”

  Oh please! “I grew up here.”

  “What, in Spain?”

  No, Outer Mongolia. “My parents moved here years ago.”

  “Ah, so you speak the lingo, then?”

  “I went to school here,” she said with exaggerated patience, “so yes, I speak Spanish.”

  “I ought to learn, given that I’m doing business here.” Yes, you should. “Trouble is, everyone speaks perfectly good English, so it doesn’t seem worth the effort.”

  “It’s polite to try,” she said with commendable restraint.

  “You know that I’m into software, right?”

  “You did mention it.” Like twenty times already in the lessons I’ve given you.

  “Money for old rope. Everyone has to have the latest app for their must-have devices.” He shrugged, failing to look as casual as he obviously wanted to. “Who am I to deny them?”

  Fabia laughed politely when all she really wanted to do was puke. She knew what would come next and tried to postpone the inevitable.

  “Ready to resume the lesson?”

  “Bought one of the biggest houses on this development. Paid cash for it.” Fabia
somehow refrained from rolling her eyes. “Right near the runway. I shall have to get some hours in so I can resurrect my private pilot’s licence. Just as soon as I’ve polished up my tennis game, that is.”

  “Well, the flying should be no problem. There’s a school right here on Tosca Brava.” She shrugged. “But obviously, you already know that.”

  “Yeah.” He winked at her. “But the instructors don’t look as good as you.”

  “Come on, Simon. We’re going to spend the rest of the lesson working on shot direction.” She placed an upturned bucket about halfway up the court, midway between the centre service and tram lines. “If you learn to place your shots, instead of just scrambling them back, it’ll work wonders for your game. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  They walked to the other end. Fabia bounced a ball and hit a smooth backhand that struck the centre of the bucket.

  “Blimey!” Simon actually looked impressed. “How did you do that?”

  By divine intervention. “Focus on the bucket, which is where you’re planning to place your shot. Then, eyes on the ball and give it a good whack.”

  She threw a ball to him. His shot went miles wide. So did the next one. And the next.

  “I was thinking, Fabia,” he said when they’d finally run out of time and were making their way back to the clubhouse. “When I get my licence back, I shall buy myself a small plane. Easier to get about that way. Can’t be doing with all those low-cost airlines that treat you like cattle. How about I take you up for a ride?”

  This time Fabia did roll her eyes. She’d only been working here for two weeks, and it was already the third plane ride she’d been offered. Except the randy bastards making the offers weren’t doing so out of the kindness of their hearts or to show off their skills in the air, either. She’d be expected to return the favour in kind, and since she didn’t have time for men in her life right now, that was a definite no-no. Not that she’d had the slightest difficulty turning any of them down. None of them exactly rocked her world. Besides, she was petrified of flying.

  “Thanks, that’s a tempting offer, but we’re not supposed to fraternize with the clients.” She remembered how badly she needed to stay employed here if she was to stand any chance of finding her missing sister, and she managed to dredge up a regretful smile. “Can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “I’ll give you a damned sight better job than this one. You’re wasted here.”

  “What?” She pretended to misunderstand him and made a joke of it. “My coaching’s that off?”

  “No, you’re good at what you do, but anyone can hit a ball over a net.” Anyone except you. “I could use you on my marketing team. You’d go down a storm, making presentations to potential clients. There’s a confidence about you that holds the attention.”

  He’s making it pretty obvious what it is about me that holds his attention. “Did you have any lessons with my predecessor?” she asked, thinking that, if she couldn’t get rid of him, she might as well ask him something useful. “Sonia, I think her name was. Everyone I’ve spoken to raves about her.”

  “No, I didn’t. I only took tennis up again recently. I’ve been travelling a lot on business.” He looked reflective. “I think I saw her once or twice, though. Attractive girl. Looked a bit like you, as a matter of fact.”

  Well, she would, given that she’s my sister. “I just wondered what she was like, that’s all. What sort of act I have to follow. This place is a bit intimidating for a newbie.”

  The cheeky sod patted her rear. “Don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about there, love.”

  She moved out of range of his questing hands. What was it with short men? Why did every single one she met appear to have a point to prove? Simon was a couple of inches shorter than her five nine and no oil painting. But his monumental ego more than made up for his lack of inches, and he appeared to think he was the answer to every girl’s dream. Money isn’t everything, pal.

  “Do schedule your next lesson at the desk,” she said.

  “How about dinner next week?” He sounded a bit desperate. Presumably, he didn’t usually have this trouble because his money made his targets overlook his shortcomings. “If we took it here at the club and talked about my tennis, it couldn’t be construed as fraternisation.”

  “Don’t forget the gala dinner at the casino on Friday night,” Fabia said, ducking the invitation. “Have you signed up yet?”

  “No, I wasn’t sure—”

  “Oh, you must come. It’ll be the event of the summer, apparently. Don’t miss out. I think there’re still a few tickets left.” More like a few hundred, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Anton has reserved a table for tennis clients, and the local media will be all over the event.”

  “Oh right, if you’ll be there.”

  “I will be, and it’s black-tie.”

  “Right, I’ll definitely sign up right now. But about that dinner—”

  “Damn.” She extracted her cell phone from her pocket. Talk about saved by the bell. “I need to take this.”

  “Anton, where are you?”

  “Stuck on the motorway on my way back from Valencia. There’s been a crash and the traffic’s going nowhere.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “You’ll have to attend the staff meeting for me.”

  “Me, but I don’t know anything about—”

  “There’s a file on my desk with all the figures in it. Just read them out when your turn comes. That’s all you have to do. Listen to everyone else and get to know them at the lunch afterward. It’ll be good for you.”

  “Okay, I guess I can do that.”

  Fabia checked her watch. Half an hour before the meeting started. She’d grab the file and then hit the shower. She couldn’t mix with the other managers in sweaty tennis gear.

  She said good-bye to Simon and made a beeline for Anton’s office. The file was just where he’d said it would be. She took a quick peek as she retraced her steps, just to be sure she knew what she was supposed to say, and stopped in her tracks. This couldn’t be right. She sat behind Anton’s desk and took a closer look. He had her down for having given Simon twenty hours of coaching. He’d signed up for twenty but had only had three so far. And there were other errors, too. The computer must have cocked up and printed out hours booked rather than hours taken.

  Time was getting on, but Fabia couldn’t possibly go to this high-level meeting with spurious information. She would look like a right idiot. She wasted precious time pulling the correct figures from the system and printed them out. The printer jammed, and she spent more time she didn’t have coaxing it back to life. By the time she’d gotten the information she needed, the meeting was due to start. She’d just have to go as she was.

  “Great,” she muttered under her breath, “just great!”

  She walked into the crowded room and winced. Everyone was already there, all of them tarted up to the nines. She felt underdressed and untidy by comparison. She hadn’t even thought to do anything about her hair. She lifted the heavy braid from her back, aware of her shirt still adhering to her with perspiration, and sighed. How to make a good impression!

  Fabia slid into a seat next to Greg, the manager of the golf course.

  “Hello, what brings you here?”

  “Anton’s stuck in traffic.”

  “Good, ’cos I’d rather look at you than him.” He grinned at her. “Especially since you look so hot.”

  “I take it that wasn’t meant as a compliment, as in smoking hot.”

  He chuckled. “Would you believe me if I said it was?”

  “Not a chance. I’ve just spent the last hour avoiding wandering hands and feeding forehands to a moron. Then I got the call from Anton and there was no time to change.”

  “Bet you’re glad you got this job,” he said, chuckling.

  “What’s this meeting all about, then?”

  “The usual. We take it in turns to stand up, quote fabricated figures—”

&n
bsp; “Fabricated?”

  “Well, that’s probably an exaggeration, but we all have targets to meet, and people have been known, shall we say, to do whatever it takes to make themselves look good.”

  Fabia wondered if that was what Anton had done. “But surely the paperwork and takings have to back up those figures?”

  Greg shrugged. “Don’t ask me, I only work here.”

  “Yes, but you’ve been here a while. You must know—”

  “The golf single-handedly keeps the development in the black, so I’m not into fiction.”

  She shot him a look. “You’re not serious, about the others being so creative, I mean?”

  “Well, it’s fiercely competitive. You know what they say. There’re lies, damned lies, and statistics. Take my advice and take everything you hear today with a huge pinch of salt.”

  Greg nodded across the table to where the managers of the restaurant and bar were sitting together in close conversation. The guy who ran the stables sat alone, tapping a pen impatiently against a pad. The casino manager and marina captain appeared to have formed an unlikely alliance, given their different spheres of operation, and were deep in conversation, too. The hotel manager and the woman who ran the spa were huddled together, ignoring everyone else. Fabia began to understand what Greg meant. It was clearly a cliquey setup, causing her to wonder who Sonia had been close to. No one she’d asked so far seemed to know.

  The head of security sat aloof, discouraging anyone from talking to him by looking straight ahead. His name was Evans. Just Evans. She’d never heard him called anything else and wasn’t sure if that was his first or last name. Since she’d shared no more than the occasional nod with him since she’d been here, she’d not had a chance to ask. Not that she really cared if he’d been named after an entire football team. She did need to talk to him, though, and would have to invent a reason that wouldn’t make him suspicious. He seemed to know everything that went on around this place, and if Sonia had gotten involved with something she couldn’t handle, he’d be able to enlighten her. Only problem was, he didn’t seem like an easy person to talk to and could probably detect bullshit at twenty paces with the wind in the wrong direction.