THE ACCIDENTAL PROPOSAL
LOUISE MARLEY
The Accidental Proposal
Louise Marley
Copyright: 2014 Louise Marley
This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission from the author.
A shorter version of this story was previously published as An Accidental Proposal in the Belinda Jones Travel Club anthology Sunlounger 2.
Cover images: iStock by Getty Images
Also by Louise Marley
Novels
Why Do Fools Fall in Love?
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
A Girl’s Best Friend
Breathless
Nemesis
Novella
Something Wicked (coming soon)
Anthologies
Sunlounger: (An Indecent Proposal)
Sunlounger 2: (An Accidental Proposal)
Short Fiction
The Indecent Proposal
The Accidental Proposal
About the Author
Louise Marley is the author of five romantic suspense novels, all set in a fictional area inspired by the New Forest. They can be read in any order.
Her first published novel was Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, which was shortlisted for Poolbeg’s ‘Write a Bestseller’ competition. She has also written articles for the Irish press and short stories for women’s magazines such as Take a Break and My Weekly.
To find out more about Louise, please visit her website: https://www.louisemarley.co.uk
THE ACCIDENTAL PROPOSAL
LOUISE MARLEY
Chapter 1
New Orleans
Luca’s phone wouldn’t shut up. He switched it to silent and was tempted to switch it off altogether, but there was something oddly hypnotic about watching notifications bounce past without doing a thing about them.
He’d had twenty-eight messages from his manager. No, wait … twenty-nine. It was beyond stupid. Because, obviously, if he was not going to answer the previous twenty-eight, he’d definitely respond to number twenty-nine, right?
Ah, make that thirty.
Luca turned over the phone so the screen lay flat against the table and picked up his bourbon instead. The humidity had melted the ice long ago, leaving the bourbon warm and watery. He drank it all the same.
Bourbon on Bourbon Street. He’d been unable to resist it. And while he was wallowing in irony, he’d chosen a hotel room with a balcony overlooking the busiest street in the Quarter too. Half the English-speaking world was looking for him, yet all anyone had to do was look up and they’d see him. Beyond stupid.
When Luca had walked off stage last night, he’d kept on walking – past the fans, past the tour bus and straight into the nearest cab. The reason was the envelope on the table in front of him, containing a hastily scrawled letter and a thick, chunky ring.
Dear Luca, the letter began. I know Remy would have liked you to have this ring. He was thrilled by your success and would tell anyone who would listen how he knew you from the old days, before you were famous …
Unable to continue reading (he’d read the letter so many times now, he knew it by heart), Luca folded it into four and tucked it into his wallet. His old friend had died almost three years ago now and, while his widow had explained that it had taken her this long to pluck up the courage to sort through his possessions, receiving this letter yesterday had been a shock.
And then there was the ring itself – solid silver, big and chunky, shaped like a grinning skull. The rubies in its eyes were real. Luca knew that because he’d worn its twin on his right hand for the past five years. Remy had given him that ring too, to bring him luck, and it had – right from about the same time Remy’s had run out.
Luca slid the ring onto his left hand to see how it looked. Completely wrong, was the answer to that, so he switched them around. That was worse. So he took Remy’s ring off altogether, cursed and had another swig of bourbon, emptying the glass. The ring promptly slid between his sweaty fingers, bounced against the floor of the balcony and rolled straight through the ironwork to the busy street below.
“Fuck!”
Tempting as it was to throw himself over the balcony in pursuit, it would have been pointless. At this time of night he couldn’t even see the street for the tourists, let alone one silver ring, no matter how chunky.
He cursed again, this time in Italian. No one looked up. No one even heard him. Music poured from every window and door in the Quarter, fusing into one endless soundtrack. It should have sounded terrible. Oddly enough it didn’t.
So he grabbed his phone and headed back through his hotel room, down the stairs and out onto the street. Emerging into a constant flow of people coming at him from both directions was disorientating enough; trying to find Remy’s ring amongst the crap being kicked along the gutter was something else entirely. It would be a miracle if he ever saw it again.
At which point the crowd parted and there it was, lying on the pavement, glinting defiantly.
Luca dropped onto one knee and scooped up the ring. There wasn’t a scratch on it. Even the rubies were still there, glittering balefully as he held it up to the light. He was just thinking that the skull appeared to be sneering at him, when someone snatched it right out of his hand.
The thief was a woman. She was blonde and she was pretty, and when she beamed down at him he was drunk enough to grin right back. So it took a moment for him to realise exactly what she’d said:
“Darling, of course I’ll marry you!”
And she stuck Remy’s ring on her finger.
* * *
Ten Minutes Earlier …
As far as Gaby Andersen was concerned she wasn’t running away, she was re-grouping. Reorganising, re-evaluating, rethinking – and lots of other words prefixed with ‘re’, which didn’t remotely mean ‘fired’.
“Of course you’re not fired,” Jeremy had told her. “This isn’t the 90s. In a few weeks it will all be forgotten. Why don’t you take a break and get away for a bit?”
Gaby wasn’t reassured. She knew that Jeremy couldn’t fire her, because she didn’t actually work for him. She was a freelance journalist who earned her living submitting news stories to an entertainment website specialising in up-to-the-minute celebrity gossip. Her gift was getting strangers to confide in her and being able to seek out the most salacious stories, usually through some unwitting third party. In short, she wasn’t a very nice person, she had no illusions about that, but after being turned away from two of her favourite celebrity haunts in the space of one week, she had to admit that maybe Jeremy had a point. She could hardly be a gossip columnist who never got to hear any gossip. So she admitted defeat and asked her sister if there was anywhere hot and sunny that she’d like to go on holiday (assuming Pris would choose somewhere obvious like Spain, or one of the Greek Islands) only to have her pick New Orleans.
It turned out to be hot all right – hot and humid, with the odd monsoon to liven things up. At least they got a good deal on the hotel, presumably because no one else was daft enough to book a holiday here at the height of summer, but she had to admit the French Quarter was stunning. Creole townhouses in pretty pastels with old style shutters, balconies and galleries with exquisite ironwork, hanging baskets trailing ferns and flowers; it was like walking around a movie set. A very noisy movie set
, for on practically every street corner there was a jazz band, or someone singing the blues, or dancing, or doing magic tricks. It was utter chaos, and she couldn’t get enough of it.
The busiest street of all was Bourbon Street, with every flashing neon sign proclaiming yet another bar or strip club. Pris was in her element, intent on visiting every bar she’d written down on one very long list. Gaby was trailing behind, slightly over-awed but drinking it all in, when she saw him.
“Bloody hell!”
Pris, who had her head down trying to follow the directions in her guide book, promptly walked into the back of her. “What?”
“Look,” Gaby said.
Pris obligingly looked. “The Bourbon Orleans Hotel? It’s pretty enough and quite old. It even has its own ghost. Several, in fact. And I know this because it also happens to be our hotel. The one we walked out of five minutes ago.”
Sometimes Gaby worried about her sister. “No, look up. I was talking about the hot guy on the balcony.”
“What on earth for? Men are pretty much the same whichever country you’re in. We’re here to have a good time and you don’t need a man for that.”
Gaby begged to differ but it wasn’t the time and place for that argument. “That is Luca Corbellini,” she said. “No one has even noticed him. And don’t say it’s because no one ever looks up, because this is New Orleans and that’s all everyone ever does – look up at the beautiful creole architecture.”
“And drink, and eat, and listen to music, and party,” reeled off Pris. “Not that I would know anything about that because we’ve hardly walked ten metres from the hotel and – ” She watched Gaby slide her bag from her shoulder and give it to her to hold, while she rummaged about inside. “Now what are you doing?”
Triumphantly Gaby extracted her phone from where it had become wrapped up in her sunglasses. “Calling my editor,” she said.
“You’re supposed to be on holiday! And weren’t you fired after you sold him that story about the footballer, the model and the meerkat?”
“No names were mentioned and the meerkat was a cuddly toy – although no one ever seems to remember that bit. Once it went viral everything got twisted. Anyway, Jeremy can’t fire me, I’m freelance.” Gaby dug in her wallet and took out a handful of dollars. “Here, buy us a couple of drinks.” She pointed Pris in the direction of a brightly lit bar on the corner of Bourbon and Orleans. “There you go, Tropical Isle. Isn’t that one of the bars on your list? Buy me something refreshing and fruity.”
As Pris reluctantly walked off, Jeremy answered his phone.
“Gaby, darling,” he said. “Why are you calling? Is New Orleans really that boring?”
It was hard to keep the triumph out of her voice. “I’ve got a story.”
“I thought we’d agreed that after the meerkat – ”
“Luca Corbellini. He’s right here in New Orleans.”
Silence. And then, “I’ll need a photo. Add a hundred words and I’ll pay the usual.”
“If you give me an extension, I’ll engineer a meeting with the guy – maybe we can get a feature out of it?”
“Rock Star Has Meltdown? It’s hardly news – it’s practically their job description. Send me a photo to prove he’s there, and a hundred words will be fine.”
“That’s not a story, that’s a caption!”
“There is no story, and as soon as another Brit sees him it will no longer be news.”
“Not if I can get an interview with him. Please, Jeremy?”
Another pause, long enough for her to wonder if she’d been cut off, and then,
“Send me a photo and a hundred words and I’ll hang fire – but as soon as anyone else gets even a whiff, I’ll run it. If you can come up with something better, I’ll run that instead. Deal?”
It was the best she was going to get. “Deal,” she said, and dropped her phone back into her bag as Pris strolled over, carrying two cocktails in neon-green plastic cups. She handed one to Gaby, who put the straw to her lips and took a long gulp – then almost choked. “What the hell is this?”
Pris’s smile was positively beatific. “Gin, rum, vodka – ”
“I thought it was non-alcoholic!”
“It’s called a Hand Grenade,” Pris said.
Although the top of the cup was long and thin like a test tube, the base was rounded and shaped like a hand grenade. “It has a happy, smiling face!”
“I know, isn’t it brilliant?”
“If you’re planning on drinking a cocktail like this in every bar we visit, we’ll end up face down in the gutter.”
“I do hope so!” Pris noisily sucked up every last drop through the straw and then dropped the cup into a bin. “Why do you think I made a list?”
Gaby handed her own drink back. “One of us needs to stay sober. I have to keep a clear head to write this story.”
“Then you’d better get a shift on,” Pris nodded in the direction of the hotel, “because your story is making a break for freedom.”
Luca Corbellini was no longer sitting on the hotel balcony but pacing the road outside. At least no one had recognised him – yet.
“Do you have your camera?” she asked Pris.
Her sister pulled a ‘well, duh!’ expression.
“Start taking photos,” Gaby told her and positioned herself directly in Luca’s path.
For once Pris did exactly as she’d been told. Although she still clutched Gaby’s Hand Grenade, somehow she managed to aim her camera in Luca’s direction, while simultaneously giving Gaby a thumbs up.
Luca was now kneeling on the road directly in front of her.
Gaby sighed. She knew musicians could be eccentric, but what on earth was he doing? And what was that in his hand? A ring? Seeing him knelt on the ground like that, anyone would think he was –
And that was her photo opportunity right there – and a story worth considerably more than one hundred words.
Without stopping to consider the consequences, Gaby snatched the ring from Luca’s hand and stuck it on the third finger of her own.
“Darling,” she beamed down at him, “of course I’ll marry you!”
Everyone around them cheered.
Luca stood up. And up, and up, and up.
Gaby felt her neck give a distinct crack. He was tall. She was a good five-ten, but he was well over six foot and probably on the way to seven. Tall, lean, overwhelmingly hot and, thankfully, smiling.
It didn’t stop her taking a cautious step back though.
“Funny,” he said, and held out his hand. “Now give it back.” Considering he was supposed to be half-Italian, he spoke with a recognisably English accent.
Gaby prevaricated, hoping it would give Pris the time to take more photos. “You’ve changed your mind? Already? How heartless of you!”
“Typical man, eh?”
“But the girl always gets to keep the ring.”
“Not this ring, cara mia. Hand it over.”
Gaby risked a glance back at Pris. Hurry up and take the damned photo!
“Is this a scam?” he enquired, when she didn’t answer. “Because if so, you may want to re-think your mark.”
“No, no scam,” she said quickly, turning her attention back to him. “I only want to … er, hold it for a little bit longer … ”
“OK, you win.” He held out his hands, palms down, splaying the fingers. He had very nice fingers and he wore a ring on every single one of them. “Pick a ring,” he said, “any ring, and be done with it – but I want that one back. Now.”
The ring was made of silver and shaped like a skull, with two tiny red stones for eyes. It looked like the kind of thing you’d get out of a Christmas cracker. Why was it so important to him?
“You already have one just like it,” she felt obliged to point out.
He slid the other ring from his finger and held it out to her. It was not quite identical. The skull’s eyes were green instead of red and it was a slightly different shape. But, as
Gaby bent her head to get a better look, he grabbed her hand and easily slid the other ring from her finger.
“Grazie,” he said. Then he tossed her the other one in return and stepped back into the crowd, effectively vanishing.
Feeling slightly dazed, Gaby returned to Pris. “Please tell me you got a photo?”
“Relax, your entire humiliating experience is now preserved for posterity,” Pris told her, with slightly more snark than was necessary.
“I suppose that’s something.” Gaby held out her hand and showed her sister the skull ring. “I’ve got a souvenir too. Luca had a ring on every finger and offered me my pick to get back the one I stole. Don’t you think that’s strange? There’s definitely a story there.”
“Don’t even think about it,” said Pris. “Just don’t. You’re supposed to be on holiday, remember?”
“Yeah, I know. Have you any idea which way he went?”
Chapter 2
Luca did not return to his hotel. He let the crowd take him down Bourbon Street and into St Peter’s, before following a herd of them into the familiar terracotta-painted building that was Pat O’Brien’s. He took his seat in the darkest corner and ordered another bourbon. He’d hardly raised the glass to his mouth when the English girl walked in with a friend. What were the chances?
Quite high, he decided, watching a waitress show them to a table very close to his own. Evidently he’d been recognised.
He watched the two of them argue over the drinks list as the poor waitress waited patiently for them to make their choice. And then he decided to hell with it; they were pretty and he was bored. So he walked over and dropped into the seat between them.
“Two Hurricanes,” he told the waitress and she gratefully took the order and left.
His new drinking buddies regarded him dubiously. They were so alike, they had to be sisters.
“If you were planning on stalking me all around the Quarter, I hope you can hold your liquor,” he said. As he appeared to have effectively stunned them into silence, he added, “I’m Luca Corbellini – but you already know that. So why don’t you tell me who you are?”
“I’m Gaby,” the older one said, somewhat reluctantly, “and this is my sister, Pris. We’re not stalking you, we’re on a bar crawl. My sister has a list.” The green-eyed skull ring appeared on the table in front of him. “And you can have your ring back.”