The Hotel Riviera(52)
“We’re out of coffee and food,” he said. “How about breakfast in Saint-Tropez?”
“Sounds good to me,” I agreed, and we climbed into the little dinghy. The dog jumped in after us, and we chugged across the sea toward the town. I looked back at the Hotel Riviera, alone and neglected, on its beautiful promontory. I vowed I would fight for it to the end.
Chapter 50
Evgenia
Evgenia Solis strode past her husband without so much as a glance his way. She leaned on the deck rail, watching a small boat carving a foamy wake through the calm blue Mediterranean. She heard Solis behind her but she did not turn to greet him. She didn’t even want to look at him, though he owned her as surely as any other man owned a priceless piece of art. Evgenia was a rich man’s wife, but that did not mean she was a rich woman.
She had been born Evgenia Muldova, in poverty in Russia, one of seven children, all girls. Her parents worked in a local factory and all nine of them lived in two rooms, considered lavish accommodation by local standards. But not by Evgenia, the youngest and the beauty. No one understood exactly what gene pool Evgenia had evolved from, since her siblings were short, brown-haired, and sallow-skinned like their parents. And all six of them followed their parents into the factory.
Evgenia took a long look at their lives: at their home and at the factory. The horror of it made her blond hair stand on end. She was destined for better things. At fifteen, she left—without a word. She never saw her family again. Lying about her age, she worked the clubs in Saint Petersburg, as a dancer/hostess, whatever euphemism you care to use.
Meeting men was easy; but meeting men who were willing to help her was not. Still, she was making money and they indulged her passion for clothes and the occasional bauble; nothing of any great value, but because she was young and had never had a gift in her life, they pleased her.
She’d finally been brought to Europe by a man who “handled” women like her, and it was there that she met Laurent Solis.
It was in Saint-Tropez at Les Caves du Roy nightclub at the Hotel Byblos. As always it was packed, jammed too tight even to dance. Impatient with the crowd, Evgenia clambered over the silver-haired man sitting alone on a banquette, then up onto his table, where she proceeded to dance.
She was aware of herself, of the impact she was making, and that all eyes were on her. Especially the man whose table she had chosen for her dance floor. Arms waving over her head, her silvery dress catching the light, tossing her long blond hair, totally abandoned to the music, she was also aware of the man. She took in the immaculate white linen shirt, the dark glasses, the pricey magnum of Cristal, unpoured. She noted his expensive watch and the fact that he was at the best table in a club where money and celebrity were the main virtues, followed only by looks and style. He was older, but he looked important, and rich.
She stopped dancing and stood, hands on her hips, swaying slightly to the music, looking down at him.
Laurent Solis looked up at her, a blond goddess on the pinnacle of his table; he took in the length of her slender legs and the sheen of youth and sweat on her skin. And he wanted her. He took her back to his yacht, he showed her he was a powerful, rich man, that the world was his. And Evgenia, shrewd little peasant girl that she was, refused to sleep with one of the richest men in the world, even though he promised her a fur coat and a diamond necklace and just about any other darn thing she wanted. Evgenia wanted marriage, and she got it.
What she wasn’t clever enough to get, though, being unsophisticated in the ways of the real world of the very rich, was a prenuptial agreement. And so now here she was, just a “rich man’s wife.”
It was better than being poor, certainly. She had unlimited credit at every store in Monaco and Cannes, in Paris and London and New York. She could buy as many designer clothes as she wished. She was a regular customer at top jewelers, though Solis had to approve purchases above a certain price. But he was shrewd, too, and knew that to keep her he had to allow her a bit of freedom. He bought her a Ferrari, but not a Gulf stream jet; a sable coat, but not her own house.
In any woman’s terms, Evgenia would seem to have it made, but her mind worked on a more basic level. How to take Laurent Solis for as much money as possible, because who knew when he might trade her in for the latest Riviera beauty. After all, he was a serial bridegroom: Evgenia was his fifth wife. Her time was limited, she had better make it fast.
Ever the peasant, she began in a small way with the clothes, buying at the shows in Paris and Milan, then selling them on immediately, usually at half the price, which, the way she spent, amounted to a tidy sum. She bought a couple of expensive cars, then pouted sweetly to Solis that she didn’t like them after all. Since she had taken care to buy them in her own name, she was able to sell them on and bank the change. Then she hit the jewelry, big time, only she didn’t tell Solis she was buying and selling, and of course she still had the important pieces to flaunt whenever he wanted to see her dressed up, and plenty of diamonds to give her enough glitz to satisfy her and to fool him. Anyhow, for her, jewelry was as good as money in the bank.
But Solis was nobody’s fool and he was dangerous. Evgenia knew she had to be careful. There had to be an end to all this; she couldn’t just go on stealing the “petty cash.” She had a couple of million stashed by now but she needed more. She needed big money. She needed to be rid of Solis. She was seriously thinking about pushing him off the yacht some dark night, remembering the way the newspaper mogul Robert Maxwell had been found floating in the sea, somewhere around here, wasn’t it? But before she could do that, she would have to make sure she had the lion’s share of the Solis estate.