Page 2 of A Billionaire for Christmas
Up close, the whole place was lit up like a Christmas tree with the slow, rhythmic thrum of music seeping from the large wooden doors. The huge shutters over the windows were closed. There were no outward clues as to what was going on inside, or how many people were in there. Molly checked that the pallets of food piled high on the trailer and the crates of fine wines, champagnes and spirits were intact. There was enough for at least two hundred people. She fell on the staff door gratefully, bursting through into the warmth. As she removed her helmet, she was immediately greeted by two other staff members relieved she’d come to the rescue.
‘Thank goodness you’re here! We’ve got so many different events on tonight. Things are getting quite messy. They’re all trying to drink each other under the table. I’d have sent the gondola down for supplies, but the sheaves and cables have frozen over. We’ll unload the pallets while you prep the canapés.’
Molly politely acknowledged the frazzled woman in front of her as she got to work.
‘You’re a star. Thank you. Oh, and did Petra tell you about the no phones policy and the no unnecessary eye contact or flirting thing when you go into the parties? We’ve got some big names in upstairs, so security is super tight and staff down to the minimum. Just keep your head down and you’ll be fine.’
While she could hold her own with the best of them when it came to preparing delicious food, she was way out of her depth when it came to socialising and mixing with crowds of happy, drunk people. Blending into the background was second nature. ‘Not a problem.’
‘I’m Keela, by the way. I work exclusively up here. You must be new. Where have they got you working? Private, corporate or main hotel?’
‘I’m Molly.’ She decided not to reveal that she was the current owner of a struggling restaurant tucked away in a corner of the square, that she was working two jobs just to scrape by and hadn’t felt a man’s touch in over three years. ‘Main hotel. Catering contractor. I’ve hardly left the kitchen.’ Since Molly had started six weeks ago, demand for her skills had skyrocketed. Her speciality hors d’oeuvres had gone viral around the resort.
Keela gave her a sympathetic shrug. ‘Work, eat, sleep is pretty much the standard here, unless’ – she gave Molly a conspiratorial wink – ‘you’ve been here for five years like we have.’ She waved a hand in the direction of a friendly-looking barman who was heaving a crate of bottles onto his shoulder. ‘We know where all the fun is to be had.’
Molly managed a tight smile. She wasn’t here for fun. She was here to fulfil a promise, the only thing that mattered to her right now.
‘Here. You’ll need this costume.’
‘Costume?’
‘Yeah, sorry. We are “required” to blend in. You can change out of your snowsuit in there.’ Keela pointed to a door on the far side of the stockroom. ‘Help yourself to any stuff you need. It’s all brand new. Pick whichever shoes you want. They all scream high-class stripper but at least they’re designer and you get to keep them.’
‘Thanks.’ Molly took the outfit out of the bag, unfolded the delicate tissue paper and gasped. She held the fragile material in her hands. Where was the rest of it?
She tilted her head anxiously. ‘Is this really necessary?’
‘First time in burlesque?’ Keela grinned at her. She reached for a bottle from a nearby crate and untwisted its top. ‘House rules. Here, have one of these. It’ll help you relax.’ Keela handed her a shot glass. Molly downed it and immediately coughed. Keela laughed gently. ‘Dutch courage. You’ll need it.’
Peeling off her snowsuit, Molly inspected herself in the large mirror standing against the tiled wall. She was much thinner than she was used to due to all the grief and stress, but at least she was strong from all the running around she had done over the last year. Her thick, long, dark brown hair hung around her shoulders, framing her green eyes, which looked huge in her slightly gaunt face. She knew she had a haunted air. Every time she could bear to look at her own reflection, all she saw was her friend gazing sadly back. Molly unhooked a cotton robe and wrapped it around herself. It was warm and instantly soothing. As she picked up her snowsuit, the letter fell from her coat pocket as though reminding her why she was here. She gingerly picked it up and unfolded the damp sheets of paper.
She regarded the bucket list that came with the letter. A copy. Molly already had the original, one hundred dreams and goals crammed into a battered journal documenting her friend’s final year of life in photos, scribbled memories, dates and places. It was dotted with affirmations and such a precious reminder of all the things that shaped the person Ava had become. Brave, courageous, kind and generous, a positive force of nature, smiling right to the bitter end. Emblazoned across the front page was a famous quote by Mae West, Ava’s favourite of all the quotes inside:You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.
The last twelve pages of the journal were yet to be filled. Twelve challenges remained. Twelve promises yet to keep. Twelve days to do them. And for the millionth time, Molly closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Ava, what were you thinking?’
2
SO MANY BOXES, SO LITTLE TIME… TICK, TICK, TICK
Stepping out of the staff changing room moments later, Molly was transformed. She had managed to brush her matted hair into a blanket of silk that fell into waves down one side while the other had an ornate feathery creation pinned to it. Thanks to all the make-up lying around, she’d created the face of what she hoped was a worldly-wise catering expert. One who was decidedlyaboveall of this dressing-up nonsense; bold red to her plump lips, dark smoky eyes, strong eyebrows and a golden shimmer to her skin.
The costume was more elaborate than any she’d ever worn. She was wearing a tightly fitted blood-red corset with black lines running up the front that accentuated her curves. There was a sweetheart neckline with a black silk bow in the centre drawing the eye to her ample cleavage, the ridiculously tiny skirt and knickers a mix of ruffled red silk with black lace – but at least the frill covered her bottom, if nothing else. Theatrical, sheer black striped stockings ran the length of her long, lean legs up to her thighs and were each topped with a small, red satin bow. A sharp contrast to the milky white smoothness of her legs that disappeared beneath the ruffle of the skirt. In her long black gloves to the elbow, she appeared dramatic, vampish, emboldened, as though she did this every day of the week. She looked the opposite of how she felt inside.
The things one had to do to save one’s business!
She swallowed her nerves, threw a nearby apron over her costume and began prepping the food.
Once the platters of bite-size gourmet appetisers looked like a prize-winning art installation, Molly stood back to observe her handiwork. She inspected the blaze of colourful, delicate petals and swirls of intricate purées on top of sumptuous hors d’oeuvres. All carefully designed to take the breath away, before melting in the mouth. When Molly and Ava had set out to impress with their fledgling business, they wanted to be twice as good as their competitors, and it showed. The complex designs and the implementation of cutting-edge ideas had been the perfect distraction for Ava during treatment for her illness. The friends had spent hours and hours perfecting the art of world-class molecular gastronomy – in particular, culinary aphrodisiacs. But Ava had always been the driving force behind making smart and risky business decisions and pushing boundaries, while Molly revelled in the safety of being the behind-the-scenes creative. When they had taken over the struggling restaurant from Ava’s great-aunt, they had given the old French menu a fresh, new, scientific twist, and customers seemed to love it.
She carefully placed the trays on a trolley.
‘Wow, you look fantastic,’ Keela said, bustling through the door. ‘It’s manic out there. I’ve just restocked the bar, up in the Stockings and Garter Room on the first floor. Can you take that trolley up there, please? Then come and meet me downstairs.’
In a daze, Molly pushed the trolley through the kitchen door. Her costume (along with her remaining vestiges of pride) was well and truly hidden beneath her catering apron, where it would stay until the very last second. As the lift pinged to signal the first floor, Molly took a deep breath and stepped out onto the sumptuous carpet and turned left. The corridor was wide and brightly lit with a mix of wooden panelling and luxurious silk fabric wallpaper. Expensive-looking artwork hung between large, heavy wooden doors. It had an atmosphere that oozed the extravagance of old money. She caught sight of her reflection in a huge mirror hanging on the wall and barely recognised herself.
What the hell am I doing charging around like an underdressed pantomime dame?
Nerves and curiosity were starting to get the better of her. She tried to forget she was an award-winning chef as she took off her apron, folded it neatly and stuffed it onto the lowest shelf of the trolley. She knocked tentatively on the first door she came to and opened it cautiously. In the split second on entering, the warm smell of cigar smoke, brandy and cinnamon hit her. Gentle music filled her ears. She wasn’t at all prepared for the sight that greeted her. She took in a hazy room full of women sauntering around with stockinged legs and designer sky-high heels, their pert bottoms in black lacy thongs on display and ample breasts housed in expensive, couture lingerie and balconette bras. More men and women, in varying degrees of undress, lounged on huge wide sofas. The scene was as decadent as an eighteenth-century portrait, and as sizzling as a high-class brothel.
