The Hotel Riviera(32)

“Then why d’you stay there?”

“My family’s always lived there. It’s where I build my boats.”

I leaned on the rail separating the porch from the path. There was no moon and the sea looked black, with just the sloop’s riding lights gleaming green and red.

“Newport,” I said. “Old family money, I suppose.”

“I make my own living, doing what I like to do.”

“Me too.”

He came to stand next to me, his back to the sea, arms folded. I could feel him looking at me. He said, “Did you always like to cook?”

“Right from when I was a kid. Actually, my dad taught me.” I laughed at his surprise. “Girls don’t usually learn cooking from their fathers, and if you’d known him, you would have thought it even weirder. He was such a man-about-town, so handsome, dark hair, blue eyes, six two, and charming. All my girlfriend’s mothers fell for him. And so did my girlfriends, when they were old enough.” I stared into the darkness, seeing my father’s handsome face, smiling at me.

“So you were a daddy’s girl,” Jack said, bringing me back to the present.

“Oh, I was such a daddy’s girl. When I wasn’t feeling well he’d fix soft-boiled eggs and toast soldiers for me. He’d bring them to me in bed and dip the toast into the egg yolk, feeding me like a little bird. I always felt better right away. Somehow it all seems so simple when you’re a kid,” I added. “You just love one other and enjoy life. When Dad died, I thought I’d die too.”

We stared at each other in the dim glow of light coming from the house, then to my surprise Jack put his hands on my shoulders. He held me at arm’s length, smiling at me. “I’m sorry, I’ve got no toast soldiers to make you feel better tonight,” he said. “See you tomorrow. Nine.”

“It’s a date.”

He gave my shoulders a little squeeze then strode off down the path to the beach.

I waited on the porch until I saw the sloop’s lights go on before heading for my lonely bed.





Chapter 29




The next morning at nine a sailor in white shorts and a white T-shirt with “Agamemnon” printed in deep blue, was waiting for us in Saint-Tropez, in a thirty-seven-foot Sea Ray that would have been anyone else’s idea of luxury. Until they saw the Agamemnon, moored in deep water off Monte Carlo, that is.

Picture any luxury yacht, then double it in size. The Agamemnon was 240 feet. Add a helicopter and a seaplane on top, a small fleet of powerboats tucked inside, and fifty or so crew, including, so the sailor told me, round-the-clock chefs, and you had your own private love boat.

I was glad I’d made an attempt to look dignified and adult, in a white cotton skirt, a yellow shirt, and my espadrilles. I’d clamped back my hair with a tortoise comb, and was wearing lipstick and dark glasses—in case I got emotional. Miss Nightingale was in her Wedgwood-blue and Jack wore his usual shorts, sneakers, and a crumpled linen shirt, untucked. We looked like a bunch of tourists taking in the big time.

“The Ritz Carlton afloat,” Jack said, as the dazzling white cliff of the Agamemnon loomed over us. Another white-uniformed sailor helped us up the steps into what looked like heaven, but might turn out to be hell. I had a bad feeling in my stomach about which it would be.

A steward ushered us along a corridor carpeted in Agamemnon dark blue dotted with silver stars, then up a sweeping mahogany staircase to the grand saloon. He offered us refreshments which, though we were dying of thirst, we refused on the basis of not being seduced by the enemy. We were told that Monsieur Solis would be arriving soon and left to cool our heels in the enormous art-filled room.

I took in the view of Monte Carlo from the huge picture windows. I’d never seen it from this angle before, with the Corniche roads snaking above and below, and was surprised of how green and lush it looked.

I stared around at the tables inlaid with precious woods, at the creamy leather club chairs and sofas deep enough to get lost in. I took in the Léger, the two Picassos, the Matissse, the Brancusi sculpture, and the huge, colorful, rotund sculpture of a dancer by Niki de Saint Phalle. I noticed the antique Venetian mirrors and all the priceless bibelots and trinkets scattered around, and fear crept up my spine. There was no way I could fight this kind of wealth. For some reason, Solis wanted my little hotel and now I had no doubt he could get it. In fact, he could get anything he wanted. The puzzle was, why did he want it?

Jack pointed to the Niki de Saint Phalle dancer. “Remember, it’s not over till the fat lady sings,” he said, making me laugh, just as Laurent Solis walked into the salon.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face at our laughter, quickly replaced by a smile as he walked toward us, both hands held out in greeting. He was older than I’d expected from his photographs; a big bear of a man, silver haired and perfectly attired in a white linen suit and dark glasses, which he did not remove.

“Welcome, welcome to the Agamemnon,” he said.

A couple of strides behind him came a gorgeous blonde, young enough to be his granddaughter, over six feet tall in a pair of killer yellow mules, a tiny yellow bikini, a lime-green sarong, and a blinding amount of carats in diamonds—in her ears, around her neck, on her wrist, and on three of her fingers. I glanced at Miss Nightingale to see what she thought of this vision, but her face showed no reaction. Solidly queen-like in her Wedgwood-blue and pearls, she inclined her head regally as first Solis introduced himself, then said, “And this is my wife, Evgenia.”