14
GAZING AT THE mirror-like surface of the Mediterranean, Dahlia leaned against the railing outside of her hotel room. She wore cropped black slacks, a sleeveless white Anne Fontaine blouse, and black ballerina flats. The morning sun was soothing on her arms and she could hear the sound of the tiny, exclusive principality awakening. Seagulls squawked in the distance.
Her phone rang and she answered. It was Penelope, and she was in Monaco.
“Penelope, I’m so excited you’re here. Fianna mentioned you might be.”
Her friend’s voice floated through the phone. “Fi called me, so I tried to reach you, but you were probably in route.”
“Looks like I’ll be staying in Monte Carlo for a few days after all. Alain Delamare refuses to shoot our ad photos before the race, so I have to stay over. But I
