Heirs Book Two: American Lady (18 page)

Then, his mouth a grim, down-turned line, he
changed his mind about following the Ferrari. She had always been
intrigued by St John. Why should he be surprised that she was going
off with him? When Newt had given him her message earlier that
evening he had been astounded, but seeing her in the car with St
John it all made sense. She hadn’t mentioned her plans to him, but
that didn’t mean she hadn’t had this trip with St John scheduled
for awhile. Perhaps she had just been amusing herself with him
waiting for St John to return?

Who needed Jazz Bradley any way!

Recklessly he revved up the old pick up and
reversed out into the main street. He was going back to the condo
and it was time to party hearty.

Jazz and St John stopped overnight in Paris before
flying down to Nice. St John went shopping with her and bought her
several designer swimsuits and she had blown her carpet renovation
money on one extravagant evening dress. Then he whisked her over to
a smart hair salon on the Fauberg St Germain to get her hair styled
à la Princess Di.

When they arrived in Cannes Jazz was
disappointed. Although St John and she were staying at the Carlton
Hotel with its old-worldly façade overlooking the azure
Mediterranean in an exquisite room with a king-sized bed and a
private balcony, they had arrived in the dying throes of the
Festival with blue skies leaking like a sieve. St John’s father and
sister were also staying at the Carlton along with Lorenzo, Nikki
and Charley and Jazz struggled not to feel overawed by their
company.

“How are you enjoying Cannes?” Charley,
looking radiant in a dusty pink summer dress, quizzed Jazz when she
joined her for breakfast.

The hotel bistro was half full with tourists
keen to catch a glimpse of celebrities on display. Nikki and
Jennifa were still in bed. Lorenzo was sweet talking a foreign film
distributor in a corner of the room taking advantage of the fact
that during the Festival, Cannes was the hottest film industry
location in the world. Jazz, looking wan despite her feathery new
bob and heavily made up eyes, sat between St John and Sir Roddy,
picking at her breakfast.

“The Riviera is not what I expected,” Jazz
said simply. She glanced out the rain splattered window, watching
the antics of a six foot tall Care Bear trying to entice tourists
out of the hotel. “I always imagined it would be sunny.”

Charley laughed. “I know someone who’s very
pleased with the weather because thirty five thousand visitors are
deserting Cannes every day to head down the coast in search of
sunshine on the beach at St Benezet.”

Looking up from his croissants, Sir Roddy
also sighed. “As this Festival is being billed as the year of the
Yank there’s not much joy for the rest of us either, my dear. I
don’t anticipate walking away with this year’s Palme d’Or.”

“Hasn’t anyone enjoyed the movies?” Charley
asked, after placing an order for breakfast.

St John grinned. “Personally, I hate
subtitles. But the closed-circuit TV wasn’t bad. I did enjoy
Isabelle Solar taking a bubble bath.”

Charley lent over and threw one of Sir
Roddy’s bread rolls at him. Isabelle Solar was a famous French
soft-porn movie star.

Sir Roddy quirked a bushy gray eyebrow. “In
that case, my boy, I recommend you go and view
Rendez-vous
.
It introduces a totally delectable young actress to our notice,
Mademoiselle Juliette Binoche, on a rather lascivious sexual romp
around Paris.”

“That’s appalling,” Charley complained.
“There are so many films showing here that stretch your
imagination. Why not concentrate on something as intoxicating as
Insignificance
, or even Woody Allen’s latest offering.”

“As I said, so much Yank material winning
all the prizes,” Sir Roddy grumbled. Then crinkling his brown eyes,
so reminiscent of St John’s, and giving a flourish towards Jazz and
Charley, he offered them an apologetic smile. “Present American
company excepted of course.”

Sir Roddy scraped back his chair. “Excuse
me, children, but I’m going to get my old bones along to the Palais
des Festival. There’s nothing like being part of the crowd. And you
never know, the jurors might still boo off my competition leaving
my palatable little movie in with a chance.” Turning towards Jazz’s
forlorn face, he asked, “Would you care to join me for an early
morning stroll along the Boulevard de la Croisette? I think it
would do my egotistical young son good to do without your company
for a while.”

Jazz leapt to her feet. “It would be an
honor,” she stammered. It was impossible not to immediately like
the courtly old character.

Spry and brisk in his taupe linen trousers,
white T-shirt and linen vest under a tan suede jacket, he pressed
Jazz’s hand to his arm and they passed Nikki with a slight bow and
moved on out of the dining room.

Floating into the restaurant on a cloud of
white organdie, kitten-heeled white shoes and carrying a white wool
princess line coat that made her look like a 1950s film star, Nikki
gazed around the room to get her bearings. She noticed Lorenzo in
his element at the bargaining table and Charley and St John by the
window. She had been far from happy when Charley left the hotel
last night in the company of the Marchessinis, going to view the
evening’s Festival film entries. Paparazzi had swarmed around them
but there were so many other celebrities to buzz around that the
group had found themselves dining anonymously. Despite Leigh’s
sangfroid that a blood bond was unlikely between the two lovers,
Nikki still felt unsettled about their growing intimacy.

Joining the table, she flicked her coat over
her upholstered backrest and ordered black coffee and a tall glass
of freshly squeezed orange juice. It was too early in the morning
for her to eat. She had already had a phone call from Griffin in
Paris complaining about the eighteen hour days he was working
chasing up material for the winter collection, sketching new
designs and pursuing elusive manufacturers to strike bargains to
supply everything from beads to zippers. Nikki felt guilty about
leaving him in the deep end, but far too harassed about Charley’s
relationship to offer him much support.

“What are your plans for the day?” she asked
her daughter.

Charley played with her coffee cup, looking
too twitchy to eat the breakfast she had ordered.

“Prince Maixent has invited me to spend the
day on his yacht,” Charley answered demurely. Both women were well
aware of St John’s presence.

“Darling, do you really think that’s wise?
You were out with him and his family last night.” In spite of her
resolve not to nag, Nikki found herself hassling Charley. “You
promised you would keep things low key.” She knew Charley and
Maixent were still being discreet enough not to be seen out alone
together, but the gossip columnists were out in force in Cannes.
Luckily the French and American newspapers were caught up reporting
comments from Reagan and Gorbachev grandstanding before their
forthcoming meeting.

With an ostentatious rustling, St John
pulled out the morning newspaper, holding it in front of his face
to give them the illusion of privacy, while he earwigged
unmercifully.

“I promised not to make any official
announcements, but I didn’t promise not to see Maix. Why can’t you
be pleased for me?”

Nikki realized she had pushed Charley too
hard and made an effort to sound conciliatory. “I just want you to
think things through very carefully. You’ve got plenty of time to
make a decision. There’s no need to rush into anything.”

Charley was furiously pleating her napkin
into an accordion.

“I’m old enough to know what I want.”
Ignoring St John and her mother’s frantically waving hand, she
insisted, “I intend to date whoever I want so you’d better get used
to the idea.”

Before Nikki could reply Lorenzo strolled
over to their table with a self-satisfied grin.

“Ah, cara,” he greeted Nikki, leaning over
to kiss her cheek. He nodded to a stormy faced Charley and a
half-hidden St John as he took a seat, waving away the waiter as
he’d already had a substantial breakfast with his distributor.

“How did the Eurock launch go?” St John
broke the glacial silence between the two women, folding up the
Nice Matin
paper which he had been pretending to read. “The
last time I saw you, you were heading off to Barcelona to sort out
the last minute production hiccups before the twenty-four hour hit
parade went live.”

“Excellent, excellent. It’s transmitting to
most western European capitals. By the way Charley, the logo
designers loved your concept of the small e and big u to badge the
channel.” Lorenzo fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a
crumpled sheet. “Here’s the finished product.” He shoved it towards
her. The page held a blocky, brightly colored image with the word
filled in as Charley had suggested to Lorenzo: eUROCK TV.

“They’ve done a great job,” she said,
passing St John the design.

Lorenzo turned to Nikki. “Cara, I have just
done a magnificent deal and I feel like celebrating. Let me take
you shopping this morning. You deserve a complete new outfit for
tonight’s presentation of Sir Roddy’s film. We cannot let him down
nor let Jennifa outshine you,” he insisted. Lorenzo had produced
and Sir Roddy had starred his daughter in a psychological mind
bending thriller that the Festival committee had chosen to be shown
this year. Lorenzo pulled a protesting Nikki to her feet. She felt
she wanted to say more to Charley, but there was nothing she could
say to stop the relationship in its tracks apart from the truth.
Reluctantly she left the table with Lorenzo.

Charley turned a baleful glare upon St John
but before she could take her anger out on him, he commiserated
with her. “Shame that your mother is so against your relationship
with Prince Maixent. Wonder what she has against him?”

Charley scowled irritably. “She’s barely
even met him but she acts like he’s some kind of dipstick that I
should avoid at all costs. You’d think she’d be pleased I haven’t
fallen for another lame dog again.”

“Perhaps it’s because of his mother,” St
John suggested.

“How do you mean?”

Rushing back into the restaurant to collect
her forgotten coat, Nikki stopped midstride at the sight of Charley
and St John with their heads together. They were seated with their
backs toward her, and she stole quietly close enough to overhear
their next words.

St John shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.
“No real idea. It’s just that when Nikki saw Queen Leigh at the
Inauguration Ball she turned ghostly white and told me she hadn’t
seen Leigh Taylor since they went to high school together. Perhaps
they’re childhood rivals who never got along?”

Charley looked dumbstruck by St John’s
revelation. “Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand?” She eyed him
doubtfully. “I know mom attended the Mary Magdalene Academy in New
York. Obviously Leigh Taylor was raised in the States so it’s
possible they went to the same school. But why wouldn’t mom have
mentioned it? And neither has Queen Leigh even though we’ve had
several conversations. If they really went to school together why
keep it a secret?” She chewed her lip thoughtfully.

Overhearing, Nikki’s heart skipped a beat
and she felt faint.

“Ah, so there is some mystery,” St John
nodded perceptively.

Charley shook her head. “No, I think you’re
mistaken.”

From across the room the maître d’ signaled
to Charley that the royal yacht had arrived. “I have to go, St
John.”

Nikki hustled backwards behind a large
potted ficus as Charley rose, pushing her chair away from the
table. “Remember, nothing you’ve heard this morning about me seeing
Maixent is to go any further. Don’t get your newspaper buddies
frothing at the mouth.”

St John gave her a knowing smile and Nikki
saw him run a finger and thumb across his lips like a zipper, but
from her vantage point she also noticed that under the table the
fingers on his other hand were crossed.

Charley stretched out on the deck, rolling over and
loosening her bikini top so that her breasts would brown. Her
Trinidad and Tobago tan needed a top up. The royal yacht’s twelve
foot tender had picked her up at the Carlton Beach jetty just after
breakfast and had ferried her out to the yacht which had then taken
off between the Lérins Islands, circling around the inhabited Ile
Ste-Marguerite and Ile Saint-Honorat before anchoring near the
uninhabited Ilot Saint Ferréol.

“I’ve been on larger yachts, in fact some of
Lorenzo’s friends have yachts the size of small ocean liners, but
this is cozily private.”

Maixent found himself flexing under
Charley’s approving gaze. Stretched out beside her, he watched her
slathering sun cream over her breasts and wished he could take her
below decks again, but they had already spent the whole wet morning
making love. This afternoon he had important issues to discuss with
her.

“My father’s Minister of State wants me to
get a list of boyfriends from you,” he confessed warily.

“I’ll give you my details if you give me
yours,” she grinned wickedly at him and he relaxed. “What’s he
going to do with the list?” she asked curiously.

“He’ll try to make sure there are not going
to be any nasty kiss and tell surprises when our engagement is
announced,” Maixent explained.

“Lucky for you I haven’t had that many – at
least not sexual boyfriends which I guess is the real list you’re
after.” Charley threw him a sideways look as though gauging his
reaction but Maixent remained unruffled. He realized he would have
to be circumspect with his list if Charley wasn’t going to blow a
jealous gasket.