Carnal in Cannes (20 page)

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

97

Mere heartbeats later, as if he sensed her presence, Casmir"s gaze locked on to hers, and his lips firmed. An almost imperceptible flick of his pinky pointed to the open doorway. Martine dipped her chin to acknowledge she understood and snaked her way along the wall and out the bar.

A layer of ash clouds dimmed the sun"s rays and heat. Martine shivered as she idled in front of a neighboring window display of glass-bottled miniatures of ancient triple-masted sailing ships.

“Meet me at the trawler near the old market.”

The words came from a man wearing a brown jacket with a raised hood who stood to her right. Without glancing at Casmir she fell into step alongside him until a crowd of young men and women wearing the chic tailored uniforms of the old port"s five-star Sofitel hotel separated them.

She hadn"t been back to the fishing vessel in over three months. The boat,
Le
Wanderer
, served as Casmir"s premier residence and never remained anchored in one spot for very long. Martine lengthened her stride when she realized that the trawler would be off-loading the afternoon catch, and not ten minutes ticked by before she boarded the boat.

“Are you mad?” Casmir snapped the second she ducked below deck into the enclosed, low-ceilinged room that served as his kitchen, living area, and bedroom.

“Why didn"t you come to me?”

“How could I ask for more?” she countered. “All those weeks you nursed me, you gave me a roof over my head, and protected me from the authorities. I need to make my own way as you do.”

“I thought to prevent you from selling yourself in the streets.” His mouth sank at the corners. “I must congratulate you—not many whores command the price of a million euros.”

Martine didn"t flinch, but the verbal blow shattered her soul. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin as the word “whore” echoed and reverberated in her mind, she willed her limbs to still. Hands fisting at her sides, she said, “I know what I am.”

Instantly his fierce expression softened, and he dragged both hands through his hair.

“
Cherie
,” he said, “I did
not
mean that. You did what you had to. We all do. But if I had known your plans, I would"ve imprisoned you in Grasse.”

“I"ll leave now. You"re not in the mood to listen.”

“No. Stay. You wouldn"t have come without a good reason.” Casmir took his hands out of the pockets of the dusty jacket he still wore and gestured to a wooden table to her right. “I met with your new husband earlier. Harry wants me to investigate you.”

Martine grabbed the back of a chair but still swayed. “Merde.” She pressed a damp palm to her forehead as the room swam and blurred.

98

Jianne Carlo

Strong arms cupped her elbows and helped her into the chair. “I"ll make some Arabic coffee. Have you eaten today?”

“You will be a good papa one day,” she murmured. “Always worrying about those in your care. I"ve eaten and eaten, Casmir. So much food and such wonderful flavors. He"s been kind to me, Harrison Indiana Ford. But why does he do this now?

I thought after last night and this morning…” Martine realized she"d spoken her thoughts aloud and abruptly clamped her teeth together. She watched the Gypsy shrug off his coat and gather two mugs and a stovetop stainless-steel coffee percolator. “How do you come to know him?”

“Have you the time to gossip?” He shot her a wry gaze as he emptied a teaspoonful of ground coffee into the percolator basket.

Martine shook her head.

“Quickly, then. Harry knows you"re from Haiti and that you"re illegal—”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “How? The lawyers said my papers for the marriage were fine.”

“And you didn"t get them from me, cherie.”

Martine stifled a groan. “I suppose you know all.”

“I know you went to the Bandoleer. He holds your chits and will
not
sell them to me.”

“I can pay him from the million euros.”

“Which you will not have for at least nine months. With the interest you"ll owe him, you"ll not earn half the money.”

“Half a million euros, Cas? It"s more than enough.” Martine rubbed the pulse beating behind her eye socket. “What does Harry want with you?”

This room and
Le Wanderer
held so many memories she cherished. The Lord had delivered her into the best hands when she"d set foot on French soil so many months ago. Martine"s gaze lingered on the neat built-in kitchen forming a small L

in the corner, and then shifted to the three portholes above a plump two-seater couch. Casmir"s antique desk was bolted into the corner; his laptop lay on the polished walnut surface, the screen flickering a screensaver of aquatic images—

exotic fish, conch shells, and geometric coral formations.

“He wants to know when, where, and how you entered country, and he"s paying me a premium to have the information by tomorrow evening. He also wants to know everything you"ve done since you arrived.”

“I had hoped for more time.” Martine hugged herself. “C"est la vie. How much will you tell him?”

The aroma of coffee tickled her nostrils and she sneezed.

“Bless you.” He filled the percolator with water, inserted the basket into the coffeepot, and closed the lid. “I can refuse the job and make him go elsewhere. It will buy you a day or two.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

99

Casmir turned the knob on the two-burner camp-stove on the counter, and air hissed from the holes in the metal plate. He lit the isobutane gas with an old-fashioned foot-long match he ignited by swiping it on the sole of his boot. He set the percolator on the stove, adjusted the flames, and turned to face her. She hadn"t realized the despair she felt showed on her face until he cursed, and in one step he reached her side and propped a foot on the chair adjacent to hers, folded forearms resting on his bent knee so their gazes were almost level.

“Let me buy you the time,” he coaxed.

“And give someone else the euros. I think not,” she stated, shaking her head.

Her lips quivered, and moisture hazed her vision as she remembered Harry"s promise of a home and the tantalizing suggestion of a family.

I knew I shouldn’t have allowed myself to dream.

“Tell him what he wants to know.” She raised her eyes to the grayed and stained canvas covering the room"s ceiling. Martine pulled a folded brown envelope from her jacket pocket and slid it onto the table. “I brought copies of the contracts. I want you to have your lawyer friend check them to make sure I will get the euros no matter what.”

He picked up the envelope and extracted several loose sheets of paper, and his lips lifted in a sneer. “Legal mumbo jumbo. I prefer the Gypsy ways of business. I"m sure all will be in order, Martine. Harry is not a swindler.”

A sharp piercing whistle blast followed by two others silenced her answer. She twisted in the chair to see the clock on the wall behind and choked back a groan before facing Casmir again. “I must go.”

“Martine,” he muttered and set his palm on her shoulder. “Harry served in Afghanistan. He plays the simple country boy, but he"s not. He"s a dangerous man when crossed. Be careful.”

“I will. You think Harry will harm me?”

“No.” Casmir fingered his square chin. “He"s not a wife beater, cherie, but if you get in the way of him getting his inheritance…” He shook his head. “He"ll be very angry.”

“I see. He"ll give me to the gendarmes.” Martine blew out a long sigh. “I now understand the saying „damned if you do, damned if you don"t."”

“Now go. I"ll have someone follow you until you reach the
Glory’s
pier.” He pulled the chair back, and Martine levered to her feet. “I"m to meet Harry tomorrow around this time.”

She preceded him up the five stairs leading to the trawler"s deck. Jute nets lined with the carcasses of fish not purchased by the market"s vendors hung from posts to the right of the gate leading to the jetty. At the first whiff of the decaying catch, Martine switched to breathing through her mouth, a habit picked up when she had lived aboard the boat. Half of a reddish-haloed sun peeked above a tall edifice that cast the entire square into deep shadows.

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Jianne Carlo

“Au voir,” Martine murmured, and she kissed Casmir"s warm cheek. “Merci, mon ami.”

By the time she reached the
Glory’s
jetty, only a quarter of the circle of the sun was visible. The angle of the rays shot a luminous silver beam through the center of the bay"s darkening waters, the smooth surface of the sea broken only by the occasional splash of a pelican diving to retrieve an unwary and unlucky fish.

Anxiety dampened her palms, and she wiped them on her jeans, forcing her legs to take one step, then another and another until she stood in front of the narrow bridge leading to the
Glory
. All the while her lungs labored, and the cold, brine-moistened breeze burned a path down her trachea. Martine ground her teeth and stepped onto the metal platform, her footsteps muted as she took care to tread in the center.

She"d never had to cross the bridge by herself before. Choppy waves slapped the wooden jetty and the yacht"s hull, a gusty wind pelted the sea spray high, and a fine mist wet her cheeks. The bridge shuddered. Her pulse soared.

The sixth sense that had saved her time and time again when she was a street child flared ice and fire at the back of her neck, and her gaze jerked to the bow.

Harry stood there, hands jabbed into the pockets of a navy pair of trousers, the strong breeze curling his brown hair around his face and neck, eyes narrowed, normally curving lips compressed to an angry slash, and his gaze raked Martine head to toe.

Her legs quailed, and she stumbled and fell forward, half on, half off the bridge. Panic filled her brain as the vision of the endless drop to the bottom of the ocean, her mouth opening, water filling her lungs, shadows creeping across her vision, mushroomed like a nuclear bomb exploding. Her mind surrendered to darkness.

“It"s okay, it"s okay. I got you, Martine,” Harry muttered. His warm arms cocooned her entire body, and she curled into a tighter ball. “You"re safe.”

“I can"t swim,” she mumbled. “I can"t swim.” She crushed the linen shirt he wore with her hands, and her fingers refused to release their hold on him, on the comforting solid feel of his hardness.

He stroked her spine slowly, relentlessly, and gradually she grew aware of her surroundings, of the fact she sat in his lap on a lounge chair on the deck. Martine remembered him glaring at her from the boat. Pushing away from his chest, she looked him in the eyes. “You are angry with me.”

“Are you okay now?”

He wore no trace of anger save the almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw.

“You"re angry with me.”

His lips pinched together slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “I"m angry that you were thoughtless and self-centered enough to disappear without letting anyone know where you were or when you were coming back.” His focus shifted, and he added, “Or
if
you were coming back.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

101

She hung her head. “I have nowhere else to go.”

“You"ve been living in France for three months as far as I know. All that time and you made no friends?”

I wish I could tell you the truth.

The cloud cover was full now, and the light had grown dusklike even though it was only midafternoon. Martine peeked at him and then wished she hadn"t.

Shadows cast his profile into relief, and she couldn"t discern if fury still gripped him. Sorrow sharper than a blade cut across her chest, and a hysterical desire to tell all, to bare her soul reared. As her lips parted, Casmir"s warning jumped to the forefront of her brain.

“Look at me.” He cupped her jaw and turned her face to his. He flicked a switch, and a muted golden glow lifted the gloom. “Did Delora hire you?”

Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped open. Martine shook her head, certain she"d misheard.
That I would do that to you, Harry? I have no choice now. I must tell
him some of the truth.

Martine took a deep breath. “No. The first time I saw her was in the hotel before the exam.” Folding her hands in her lap, she swallowed around the words clogging her throat and stared at a spot over his right shoulder. “Ask me what you wish to know.”

“You"re from Haiti?”

“Oui.”

“How did you get to France?”

“On a cargo ship.” She kept her eyes resolutely fixed.

“When?”

“I am not sure of the exact date, but I have been on French soil for almost five months.”

“You worked at the café for three months. Where were you before that?”

“I cannot answer that without betraying someone,” she replied. “I do not want to lie to you.”

“I can live with that,” he said, “for now.”

You think you’ll know all tomorrow when you meet with Casmir.

His thighs under hers radiated warmth, and his body heat combined with the now familiar scent of his CK aftershave had a tranquilizing effect on her tingling nerve endings. The terrifying images of her near fall from the bridge faded from where they had settled at the corners of her mind. Breathing in a normal, even rhythm, she waited, trying to anticipate what his next question would be.

“Why did you leave Haiti?”

“Why does anyone leave Haiti?” Martine shrugged. “To escape.”