Authors: Barbara Palmer
“They gave me some painkillers. They’re in a bag around here somewhere.” Lillian tried to smile. It was a wan effort.
Maria put her arm around her. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Would you like to go home? We’ll do whatever you want.” She opened the pill bottle and shook two into her palm.
“I’d rather stay with you and Andrei,” Lillian replied, swallowing the medication with a sip of tea.
Maria knew what she was thinking:
I don’t want to stay in the apartment, alone.
Lillian got into bed. Maria pulled the covers around her and lay beside her, stroked her damp, black hair until the drug took hold and Lillian fell asleep.
Andrei thanked the guard and sent him away with a generous bonus. He poured a strong cup of coffee and took up his post in the armchair beside the door. His face looked drawn and grim; gray pouches lurked under his eyes. He seemed to have lost weight in the past couple of weeks. Maria noticed him begin to nod off, then jerk his head up. He scrolled through his cell phone idly to keep himself awake.
A phrase she once heard came back to her.
Endings come in
their own time, not necessarily when we want them to.
The phrase echoed in her brain. It was apt, nonetheless. Unless she discovered her stalker’s identity very soon, a single alternative lay ahead. Let Lillian and Andrei go to keep them safe. Cut herself off from them, decisively, cleanly, permanently. She couldn’t hire new staff either—as if Andrei and Lillian could ever be replaced. The horrors of the recent past would only be repeated on the new employees.
Andrei swore under his breath.
“What?” She kept her voice low to avoid waking Lillian.
“Another message.” He held out his phone. She eased herself off the bed and took it from him. The screen showed a new poem.
Little girl from Siret
Name of Maria
Six-year-old.
Lani’s friend
Won’t keep the promises she makes,
Innocent angel?
The man in the iron mask knows
She’s just another whore—soon to die.
She looked at Andre. “Do you get the allusion?”
He looked at her quizzically.
“The man in the iron mask was a famous prisoner on Île Sainte-Marguerite off the coast of Cannes,” she explained. “Dumas wrote his adventure of revenge based on the prisoner’s life. For thirteen brutal years, he was isolated in an impenetrable cell and his identity never revealed.” The very words
conjured up a dank stone-walled cell, instruments of torture, a crude metal mask that could never be removed.
“This guy has got to be hacking into my text messages. How else could he have known about San Francisco, and that we’re heading to Cannes next?”
Andrei nodded grimly and tossed his phone on the table. “You’re right. He must be.”
For a few moments she considered canceling her appointment, then decided against it. Whether they stayed in Cannes or returned to New York wouldn’t matter. Her pursuer seemed to know her location wherever she was.
CHAPTER
16
CANNES
Maria had booked them into a small, elite hotel on La Croisette near the beaches, bistros and shops. The longer stay proved a wise decision as Lillian needed more time to rest and recover. Maria insisted on being the one to change the dressings and apply antibiotic ointment to Lillian’s damaged fingers. The Geneva doctor said she’d need reconstructive surgery when she got back to America.
On the second day, Lillian felt well enough to go out, so late in the morning they found a pleasant harbor-side café shaded by green palms. Andrei stretched his legs out and tipped his head back to catch the sun. His face had a hint of brown already because he tanned quickly, and with his Persol sunglasses and lithe body, Maria thought he looked like a film star himself. With amusement, she watched the group of women at a nearby table, chests puffed out like amorous birds, showing off their busts in tight low-cut dresses. They sneaked glimpses at Andrei, hoping
to catch his eye, and Maria could tell they were trying to figure out which movie they’d seen him in.
Andrei removed his sunglasses and sent a few glances their way. One of the young women, with a long tumble of fawn-colored hair and delicate features, responded with a knowing smile. She shifted her chair sideways and picked up the menu as if to see it in better light, extending one leg as she did so.
Atrocious little flirt. Just an excuse, Maria suspected, to give Andrei a good look at her shapely thighs and neat ankles. Of course, he
was
quite sexy. No surprise the women were interested.
The fawn-haired girl took a pen from her purse and scribbled something on a paper napkin, tucked it under her plate. The group got up to leave. As the girl walked away she wagged her rump slightly, tossed her long hair and took a quick look behind her to see if Andrei was watching.
“Aren’t you going to retrieve your message? I expect she’s left you her cell number,” Maria said. “She’s very pretty.”
“Sure I will.” He laughed, reached up and ruffled a lock of her blond hair. “But my boss is so demanding, she probably wouldn’t give me the time off for a date.”
She watched with amusement as a busboy hurried over to clear the plates and glasses from the vacated table. The napkin with the phone number disappeared into his pocket.
During the film festival the population in Cannes swelled. People thronged to the city to party, catch a glimpse of the stars, clinch business deals or simply feed off the energy of the world’s most important film festival. Among these were a small army of prostitutes. Asian and East European call girls, addicts trading fifty-dollar blow jobs for crack, agency escorts with prebooked
clients, bit actors both male and female willing to screw to rub shoulders with important movie men, local street walkers. And among them, a few—models and actors—dabbled in prostitution if the money was right, even though it wasn’t their primary source of income. Some commanded upward of forty thousand a night. Her client had offered fifty thousand; she couldn’t turn it down.
For the last two days she’d been on a green juice fast, mindful of the need to keep her figure svelte for the evening’s performance. A great sacrifice in this land of delectable food. She set down her juice glass, fanned herself with her napkin and looked at Lillian, who was gazing thoughtfully past the yachts crowding the harbor. White boats floated on the azure water; tinkling bells sent out a melody as the breeze stirred the halyards; the smell of the salt sea was thick in the air.
She scanned the yachts. Tonight she would be on one of them. Her client’s boat. What would be waiting for her there? She took a sip of her juice and tried to push down the panic and worry that never left her for long.
A
streamlined inboard sprayed wash against the pier. A crew member held out his hand to assist Claudine aboard while the other man kept the boat from drifting. Uninvited, Andrei jumped in after her. A quarrel in French ensued over whether Andrei could board, but she stated flatly she wouldn’t leave without him, so with a roar of the motor they took off. Their destination was the
Hercules,
a 220-foot-long yacht built by Austal, with four decks and thirty-five staterooms. It could reach a cruising speed of seventeen knots and accommodate forty crew.
It had two elegant lounges, one complete with a fireplace, an adjoining dining room, spa, outdoor pool and Jacuzzi. The Middle Eastern businessman who owned it preferred flying in his private jet to yachting. He was her host for the night.
He’d not asked for any role-playing, so she wore pink Saint Laurent and Fendi stilettos with fabric straps that curled around her ankles. She’d visited a nail shop in the afternoon for her manicure and pedicure, left her blond hair natural, dipping below her shoulders, and put on her own makeup with Lillian directing, seated in a chair beside her. Once again, Andrei had arranged for hotel security to watch over Lillian.
Her client, Hassan, an impeccably attired young man, greeted them as they walked into the outdoor lounge. He spoke perfect Oxford English. Solemn faced, only a touch taller than she, he held himself erect; his serious expression gave way as he glanced approvingly at her.
It was the custom to pay escorts with envelopes stuffed with cash. Hassan motioned to one of his staff standing nearby who extracted a large Kraft envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. She immediately passed it along to Andrei. No need to count it. Middle Eastern clients had a reputation for grand gestures. If anything, the envelope contained more than the amount agreed upon.
Drinks were poured into green cut-glass tumblers bearing the
Hercules
insignia. The guests milled around the lounge and paraded along the deck, taking in the balmy evening air. Laughter and music welled up from a boat anchored near them. The
Hercules
rocked gently with the swell of the waves. All of the men, fifteen of them she counted, appeared to be well over forty. They sized her up boldly. They knew how much Hassan
had paid; it was part of the ritual and expected that as top dog, their host would trump all the others.
Of the women, in equal numbers, the oldest could not have been more than twenty. While the men were fully dressed, the women were either completely naked or wore “barely there” thongs. Claudine wondered humorously where they’d stashed their envelopes. Several girls frolicked in the Jacuzzi, two with carefully streaked hair falling to midback, one with curly locks as black as ink. She wore a diamond necklace that dangled into her cleavage. She caught the eye of the man nearest to her and playfully splashed water over her enormous breasts.
Hassan took her by the elbow and escorted her to the deck. Claudine noted how he’d kept his eyes on her from the first, as if she were his lover, not a service bought and paid for. She encouraged him by flirting with him hard. Once or twice, she caught Andrei observing this behavior with a frown. That was unusual. Normally Andrei kept his expression stiff and remote when they were on assignments. Likely just worried about security, she told herself. Working alone, with this many people on board, he couldn’t be sure to cover every possibility.
She and Hassan leaned on the railing and gazed out at the lights of Cannes. “Your dress is very becoming; you have such a pretty figure. I asked you to remain clothed because you’re my private pleasure. The imagination is better stirred in such a way, is it not?”
She squeezed his hand. “Like everything else in life, people want it all immediately. I prefer to take my time.”
He clearly liked her reply. “I am looking forward to that. I’ve heard a lot about you.” His smile widened to a grin. “That you bring much pleasure.”
She brushed her hand lightly along the side of his thigh and she could feel his muscles tense pleasantly in response. He moved closer to her. “What is more delicious, do you think? The anticipation or the act?”
“One requires the other so that both can be enjoyed.”
“You’re clever too. Very nice.”
As she glanced at the water, Claudine’s attention was caught by a boat about thirty feet in length, not far off from the
Hercules
’s stern. It was painted black. Its sails were furled but the boat drifted through the water noiselessly. Cabin lights illuminated the figure of a lone man standing on the deck, holding a pair of binoculars, his face lost in shadow. Something about him made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t say exactly why, just that the black boat and the man’s stillness felt menacing. The vessel passed uncomfortably close to the
Hercules
. The man lifted his binoculars and trained them on her.
She touched her client’s arm. “Do you recognize the boat?”
He looked at the passing yacht. “We get many of those. They want to see the girls. It’s common around here.”
She turned her back to the railing abruptly. “It’s cool out. Do you mind if we go back to the lounge?”
“Not at all. Whatever you wish. I am glad to have your company tonight.”
They mingled with the guests for a while longer. Some began to pair off, eagerly escaping to the privacy of the guest rooms.
Claudine caught sight of Andrei, who’d trailed after them into the lounge. He nodded when she gave him a sign to let him know she’d be disappearing to spend time with her host. Along with one of Hassan’s bodyguards, he remained discreetly at the stateroom door.
The stateroom was impeccably appointed, and all the hardware had been fashioned out of gold. A little over the top, she thought, but it definitely made a statement. The king-sized bed had been stripped of its spread and covered with a fine cotton sheet. “Strip for me, please,” Hassan said.
Soft lighting caught the silvery highlights in her hair and the satiny sheen of her skin as she let her dress slip to the floor. She unclasped her pink bra and slid the straps from her shoulders. Her panties, also pink, she pushed down over her hips. She stepped out of them delicately but left her heels on. Without an invitation, she sat demurely on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside her.
He grinned, approving of her boldness. “I like to watch movies first. Are you agreeable?”
“Whatever you wish.”
“It’s loaded already.” He picked up an enormous remote and pressed buttons. A panel slid back to reveal a giant screen, a DVD player and stacks of movies on shelves underneath. The screen brightened. A porno flick started up. Two naked, dark-haired women performed cunnilingus on each other in front of a desk on a beige carpet with office plants in the background.
Claudine stretched back on the bed, amused at her client. His eyes were glued to the screen with the single-minded concentration of a teenage gamer.
Without looking away, he gestured toward the women on the screen with the remote. “Illegal in our country.”
Anything goes outside it, though, for the men, at least, she thought.
The women, having reached thundering orgasms, scampered toward a well-hung man with rock-hard abs and a prize
fighter’s shoulders who’d just entered the office. With no preliminaries, he fucked first one, then the other. Each girl climaxed with a series of “Ohs” exactly in tandem with the guy, who managed to come twice in a total span of about five minutes. No fantasy there, she thought, laughing to herself.