The Hotel Riviera(50)
She flung herself from the bed and began throwing on her clothes. “If you think I’m going to waste my life being a married man’s mistress, Patrick, then you are mistaken.”
She paused at the door, looked back at him, eyes burning. “You’ll never see me again.”
Patrick thought fleetingly of Lola. “I’ll think about it,” he agreed, stalling for time. He couldn’t bear to lose Evgenia. She had him under her spell, the way certain women have with men from the beginning of time. He belonged to her.
Chapter 48
The powerful Ducati ate up the miles, threading easily through the traffic out of Menton. Patrick crossed the border into Italy at Ventimiglia, where he stopped to get a quick sugar-laced espresso at a small bar, before pushing on. He soon arrived at the small seaside town of San Remo, where there was a rather grand hotel, the Hotel Rossi.
He swerved into the circular driveway in a throttled roar, parked the bike in the prime spot reserved for him in front, next to his new metallic-blue Mercedes, cut off the engine, swung his leg over, and stretched his limbs.
“Signor March, welcome back.” The doorman touched his cap, smiling.
“Grazie, Nico,” Patrick said, tipping him a couple of euros, despite the fact that all he had done was open the big glass door for him.
Everyone here knew him as Signor March. His driver’s license, his identification, all his papers now stated that he was Cosmo March, a French national, from Paris. His hair was closely cropped, almost shaved, and it was remarkable how just that had changed his whole appearance. Not that it mattered; nobody here in Italy gave a damn that he was someone other than Cosmo March. Which, by the way, was the name of Lola’s father. Well, almost. Her father’s name had been Michael Cosmo March, but Patrick had dispensed with the Michael when he’d taken on his identity.
To the people of this small resort town, he was just another rich guy, whiling away his time at a seaside hotel, though the puzzle was why he wasn’t at some even grander hotel, in one of the more fashionable spots, like Portofino, or Santa Margarita di Ligure.
These were actually places Patrick would have preferred, but in San Remo he was half an hour from Monaco and the Solis yacht. And therefore close to Evgenia, who managed to slip away on the pretext of shopping to meet him in the small villa he’d rented in Menton. He never went there unless he was meeting Evgenia. He preferred the slightly more urban delights of the San Remo hotel and cafés and even the beach club where he met pretty girls. Nobody had written fidelity into the contract he’d made with Evgenia, though she probably would have killed him had she known. Still, a leopard can’t change his spots and Patrick wasn’t about to try.
And then, of course, there was the casino, second only to the one in Monte Carlo, and where he had become a well-known high-stakes player. Once a gambler always a gambler.
The Hotel Rossi was built in the grand style of the early 1900s when luxe was the word. The entrance hall, with its massive columns, soared to a great height, and there was a domed ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs and the rays of an everlasting sun. The marble floors rang under the clatter of high heels and the high chatter of children’s voices as they hurried out with their parents for the evening passeggiatina, the stroll around the café-lined promenade that everyone participated in. They greeted those they knew with warm embraces and slaps on the shoulder, and eyed those they didn’t know inquisitively, assessing their clothing and jewels and hairdos, because in Italy a bella figura, the way a woman was turned out, was essential to her standing.
In the hotel, gilded consoles topped with tall bouquets and enormous mirrors lined the hall. Stiff sofas and chairs in gold silk were scattered around, though no one was ever seen sitting on them. It was very different from the Hotel Riviera.
Patrick went directly to the bar overlooking the leafy courtyard at the back of the hotel. The white-jacketed bar-man greeted him by name and, without asking, brought him his usual Campari and soda.
“You have good day, Signor March?” he asked, and Patrick smiled and admitted that yes, he’d had a pretty good day, grazie. They discussed the weather, the latest soccer results, and the talent contest that was to take place that night at the beach club. Then Patrick took the elevator up to his suite on the top floor, not the grandest suite in the hotel but suitable for a rich man alone, like himself.
He took the packet from his jacket and inspected the seal. It had been sent FedEx to the Banque du Soleil in Menton, to Monsieur C. March, and the seal was intact. He put the envelope down on the Biedermeier desk, then walked into the bathroom, shedding his clothes. He stood under the cool shower for ten minutes, washing away the grime of the day and the exhaustion and anxiety that always accompanied his expeditions into France, when he wondered whether he would be recognized, what he would say if he were. And also how he would explain the contents of the packet.
Cool again, he put on the hotel robe, a waffle-weave fine cotton, white piped in navy with the hotel’s monogram on the breast pocket. He took a bottle of Pellegrino from the well-stocked minibar, flung himself into the chair, and took a long drink of the water.
He turned the packet over in his fingers. Finally, he ripped it open and looked at the contents. A bundle of dollars, fifties, hundreds, folded inside a Post-it with the written notation “$110,000.” Plus a pair of earrings, large tear-shaped pearls swinging on the end of diamond drops. The earrings were wrapped in a scrap of chiffon the color of the setting sun. He held it up, laughing. Evgenia had sent her underpants, the thong she’d been wearing yesterday when she had FedExed the package to him. He held it to his face, breathing in the scent of her.