Dreamboat (13 page)

Her question was soon answered when the dance ended and Jenny
came to the table. “I'm getting my purse,” she said, “and joining a friend. I'll see you later. 'Night.” She leaned down to Crissy and brushed her cheek with a kiss. “I won't be in tonight, so don't worry about me.”

Crissy nodded and watched her sashay happily toward the exit. Obviously, Manolo had gone on ahead, so they wouldn't be seen leaving together.

The doctor, his hooded eyes alert, watched her as well. He turned to Monika then and said, “The young waste so much of their youth, don't they? Chasing after the impossible . . . or the undesirable.”

Monika nodded in agreement. “Yes, but you must remember what your own youth was like, Doctor.”

“You're right, of course,” he said. He turned his attention to Crissy. “Young lady, are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, Doctor,” she replied. “I've been having a wonderful time, thank you. What about yourself?”

“Oh, I always do,” he said with a wink.

He didn't look more than seventy, and from what Jenny said, he certainly hadn't lost interest in women. She turned her attention to the dance floor again, and saw Valentin dancing with yet another woman, this one also middle-aged. She was overweight and not particularly attractive, but she was having a very good time apparently, laughing at Valentin's chatter. She saw the captain returning to his table and followed him with her eyes. The tall, aloof officer she'd seen come in with him was still sitting at the table, sipping wine and looking bored. She hadn't seen him dance or talk with anyone, and found herself wondering once again about what sort of man he was. He was so good-looking but obviously wasn't enjoying himself, and she found that curious. Suddenly she realized that he was staring at her, and she quickly averted her gaze, hoping she hadn't made a fool of herself by studying him so intently.

Across the room, she saw that Mark, the handsome young man staying in the expensive suite, had just entered. He caught sight of her and immediately headed in her direction. Crissy shifted nervously in her chair. He was very handsome and had about him an aura of money, but what made her feel slightly uncomfortable was his sexiness. She had little time to reflect on her feelings, however, because he was standing at her side.

“Would you like to dance?” Mark asked, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Yes,” Crissy replied, her mind whirling.
Could this handsome, obviously rich man possibly be interested in me?
she wondered.

Mark led her to the dance floor and held her close as they moved in time to the slow tune. “Are you enjoying the ship?” he asked, his dark eyes gazing down at her.

“I love it,” Crissy said. “It's really wonderful.”

“It is a great ship,” he replied in agreement, “and there are some interesting passengers.”

“Yes,” Crissy said, thinking that he must surely be one of the most fascinating men aboard.

“Like you,” Mark added.

“Oh?” Crissy said, blushing. “I'm . . . I'm just an ordinary person from New York.” She couldn't help but feel flattered by his remark, although she knew he had no reason to think she was interesting.

“You certainly don't look ordinary,” he said.

She blurted a nervous laugh. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Mark said with a nod. “You're beautiful, but you also seem . . . accessible. Not stuck on yourself.”
And you're certainly accessible to me,
he thought,
and anything I want from you. Aren't all women?

“Thank you,” Crissy murmured, not knowing what else to say. His sudden interest in her was disconcerting, perhaps because it was unexpected. Meeting Adonis in Athens had been a wonderful experience, but Mark, she thought, was in another league altogether. She imagined that with his looks, combined with his apparent money, he could have anyone he desired. What's more, she thought, his body felt strong and warm next to hers, as if he gave off a lusty animal heat that excited desire in her.

“I saw men delivering a huge trunk to your cabin,” Crissy said, making conversation.

“Oh?” he replied. “So you've been spying on me?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “I happened to be in the hallway, and saw them follow you with it. I didn't know people traveled that way anymore. Not nowadays. It's so huge I couldn't imagine what you have in it. It's really grand, isn't it?”

“I wouldn't know,” he said shortly. “I simply know that I am sometimes away for a long time and have to take clothes for many occasions.”

“I didn't mean to be nosy,” she said. “I just thought . . . Well, I never saw anyone traveling with a trunk before.”

And in the circles you travel in, I doubt that you ever will,
Mark
thought. He drew her closer and led her around the floor very slowly until the music ended. Then, still holding her, ignoring the musicians' segue into a fast tune, he gazed down into her eyes again. “Would you like to come to my stateroom for awhile?” he asked.

She could tell by the confidence in his eyes that he knew she would say yes. Didn't they all, knowing who he was?

But she wouldn't, not tonight. She was unnerved by her own attraction to him and didn't feel ready to act on it.

“I'd better not,” she said. “Maybe . . . maybe another time.”

Mark let her go and drew back, standing rather stiffly but with a small smile on his lips. “Maybe,” he echoed. He put a hand on her back and led her toward the table.

Crissy felt that she had offended him. He had probably seldom been refused, if ever.

“I'll see you later,” Mark said, pulling her chair out for her. “Thank you for the dance.”

“I enjoyed it,” Crissy said, but Mark was already turning to leave, ignoring her and the rest of the people at the table.

She sat down and took a deep breath.

Monika's eyes glittered from across the table. She looked at Crissy with obvious curiosity. “I don't believe it!” she began.

“What?”

“I leave for a few minutes and return to find you dancing with
him,
” Monika said. “Tell me. How was it?”

“Fine,” Crissy said. “He's so good-looking, isn't he? And he's a good dancer.”

“My darling,” Monika said, “of course he's good-looking and a good dancer to boot. Anyone with eyes can see that. That's not what I'm asking. Was there a connection? Will you see him again?”

“He asked me to go back to his stateroom with him,” Crissy said.

“And you didn't go?” Monika asked, her eyes suddenly huge with surprise. “Do you know who he is?”

“No,” Crissy said, “but I gather he's rich. I know he's in one of the most expensive suites. And he's exceptionally . . . appealing.”

Monika let a hand fall to the table, her immense rings making a loud thunk detectable even above the loud, fast music. “My darling, he's not in one of the most expensive suites,” she corrected her. “He's in the
owner
's
suite. That ravishingly handsome young man is Mark Vilos. His family owns the shipping line.”

“Oh,” Crissy said, remembering the large Vs emblazoned on the steamer trunk. “I didn't know.”

“Crissy, darling, he's the most desirable catch on the ship,” Monika said.

Chapter Eight

T
he next morning Crissy went up to Deck Six for the cafeteria-style breakfast, and when she returned to the cabin, she found Jenny just getting out of the shower. “Oh, you scared me half to death,” Jenny cried.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to,” Crissy said, then smiled. “I bet you had a good time last night.”

Jenny threw her arms in the air, then around Crissy's shoulders. “Honey, it was the best. He's the most fantastic lover ever.”

“Ooooh, I see,” Crissy said with a giggle. “Where did you go? Isn't there some rule about crew not sleeping with passengers?”

“I don't know if it's really a rule,” Jenny said, releasing her hold on Crissy, “but he likes to be cautious. First we went to his office and closed the curtains. We had a couple of drinks there and made out on a little sofa sort of like this one.” She pointed to the sofa in their living/dining area. “That went on forever, till I thought I was going to go crazy if we didn't get down to business. Anyway, he finally told me to wait there a minute while he checked to see if things were cool in his part of the crew quarters. He came flying back and practically carried me to his cabin. Then the real fun started, and I mean
fun
. All night long.”

“All night?” Crissy said.

“Well, almost,” Jenny allowed. “We did catch a few winks. The only hitch came this morning when I was sneaking out. Manolo looked and didn't see anybody, but this fat little bitch who's a manicurist in the spa is on the same hallway and came out just when I did. She saw me and marched down the hall and started asking me questions. ‘What're you
doing in the crew quarters?' Real nasty. Manolo stuck his head out the door and whispered to her, then told me to get moving. I did, believe me.” She smiled at Jenny. “So here I am. Fucked again!”

Crissy put her hand over her mouth when she laughed. “You're too much, Jen.”

“He's almost too much, honey. You should see!”

“No, no! I don't want to hear about it,” Crissy said, laughing. “Anyway, are you about ready to leave? The shore excursions leave in about thirty minutes, but I want to go up on deck and take some pictures when we dock in Catania.”

They took the stairs to Deck Seven, where a crowd had already gathered for the same reason they had. The ship was very close to Catania now, and Crissy and Jenny were both excited. They could see mountains in the distance, but they weren't certain that one of them was the volcano. The sky loomed low and gray, and rain threatened.

As they neared the city, they could see parks with palm trees and wildly baroque church facades that were almost black. Many of the buildings were built in the neoclassic manner with pediments and columns. The big ship entered the port, and they could see tour buses lined up waiting to take them away.

As they disembarked, the steward inserted Crissy's card in a slot, and her image appeared on a video monitor.

“That's amazing,” she said.

“It's scary, if you ask me,” Jenny said. “Talk about Big Brother.”

Down the dock, they said their good-byes. “Don't get swallowed up by that volcano,” Crissy joked.

“Don't worry,” Jenny replied. “I've got too much to look forward to when we get back.”

Crissy spotted Monika's silver hair a few feet away and went in that direction.

“Crissy, my darling,” she called. “Rudy and Mina are already on the bus. They are saving us seats. We want to make certain that our little American friend is well taken care of.”

They boarded and saw Mina and Rudy midway back, waving to them. Within minutes, after a head count, they were off to Taormina. They wound through the narrow streets of Catania, and Crissy found herself amazed with the baroque architecture. It was surely the most fanciful in the world.

“The black you see,” Monika pointed out, “is not just grime. They are built of volcanic rock, you see.”

“That's fascinating,” Crissy said. “I'm glad you know these things.”

“Now you do, too,” Monika said with obvious pleasure.

Outside the city, they passed many housing developments. Most of them were built after World War II as part of the plan to rebuild Europe after the destruction of the war. The bus began climbing a mountain toward Taormina, and the road was treacherous, twisting and turning at the very edge of cliffs. Beautiful villas dotted the landscape all about. Looking up, she saw Taormina in the distance, and it was stunningly beautiful, appearing to hang suspended from the mountain. The bus soon pulled into a parking lot from where they would walk, the town being largely pedestrian.

When they reached the town, Crissy suddenly stopped and laughed.

“What is it, darling?” Monika asked breathlessly, as the climb had been arduous for her.

“The first store you see is Prada,” Crissy replied. “Jenny will be really upset that she missed it.”

Nearby was a lovely square dominated by an ancient tree of huge proportions, and to one side was a small sidewalk café. Shops chock-full of beautifully painted Majolica tiles, pots, and vases sprinkled both sides of the pedestrian lane, but there were also expensive-looking boutiques. Window boxes were colorfully planted with geraniums and vines. Just beyond an exclusive-looking cliffside hotel they passed under an enormous arch and entered the ancient theater that had helped put Taormina on the tourist map long ago. Crissy was awed by the first sight.

“It's still used for performances,” Monika said.

Crissy nodded, then looked beyond the theater toward the gray skies. For a moment the clouds parted and the sun shone through. She could glimpse the top of Mt. Etna in the distance.

“Look!” she cried to Monika. “That's Mt. Etna, isn't it?”

The older woman followed Crissy's gaze. “Yes, darling,” she said.

Almost before she had finished her sentence, the top of the volcano disappeared from view, covered by clouds again. Crissy's foursome soon left the other ship passengers behind and wandered back down to the town's main street with its beautiful and expensive shops. Even more fascinating to Crissy were the occasional glimpses she caught between buildings. To her right, narrow stone steps led up to restaurants, hotels, and
shops on higher levels, and on her left, steep steps led down to other establishments.

“People must walk themselves to death here,” she said.

“That is the curse of such a beautiful site,” Monika said. “It's practically straight up and down, but it's well worth it.”

They came to a large piazza with two imposing ancient churches. On one side of the piazza was a low wall, and they went to it. Looking straight out, the sea, sparkling even with the cloud cover, stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see. Wandering back to the small square near the entrance to the town, they sat at the sidewalk café and ordered espressos. Shopkeepers were stopping by for coffee or drinks, and Crissy noticed how well dressed and groomed they were. She also observed how men often walked arm in arm, chatting away. “You would never see that in America,” she pointed out to Monika.

Monika tinkled laughter. “No, my darling,” she said. “This is absolutely normal here. There is no fear of men touching or kissing here as in your country, but these men are probably more obsessed with machismo than Americans are. Obsessed with
bella figura
. Always looking their best. Bodies, clothes, the works. Image is everything.”

“How odd,” Crissy said. “Where I come from, those men we saw would be laughed at. Everybody would think they're gay.”

“One of those little cultural differences, darling,” Monika said. “See the pair over there? Near the newsstand?”

“Yes,” Crissy said.

“Laugh at them or insult their masculinity, and you might end up thrown off the cliff.”

Members of their group were straggling into the square, where they had been told to meet to return to the bus. Soon the vehicle set off back down the mountain, the twisting road no less hair-raising than it had been coming up. After going through the security checkpoint with their key cards, they boarded the ship. She and Monika went their separate ways, promising to see each other at dinner. In the cabin, Crissy found herself alone because Jenny had not yet returned from Mt. Etna or she was off somewhere else on the ship. She undressed and spread out on the bed, thinking that she would get up in a minute to shower and change for dinner, but she fell asleep almost at once.

Georgios Vilos' black Mercedes limousine pulled away from the curb in front of the Lampaki brothers' lighted building in central Athens, but he didn't give the bank's venerable marble facade a backward glance. Rosemary, his personal assistant, stared straight ahead, as did he, her teeth clenched in nervousness. She knew that her employer needed comfort—kind words, caring pats, anything—but she also realized that he would turn on her like a wild animal cornered by predators if she so much as mentioned what had happened in the boardroom at Lampaki.

A uniformed guard had met them at the lobby door and escorted them to the fourth-floor boardroom. They were ushered into the large, sedate mahogany-paneled room with its brass chandelier and gloomy portraits of long-dead bankers—an imitation of an English bank—and faced a long, wide conference table around which sat the four brothers and two assistants, both women. They were all of middle age or older, the men wearing dark pin-striped suits and conservative ties, their carefully cut hair gray or graying, the women in dark suits that deemphasized their sexuality, their hair almost identical in small, brown-tinted curls.

The men rose to greet Georgios Vilos and Rosemary, and after introductions, they took the seats proffered. Water was poured into crystal glasses from a silver pitcher, and they were asked if they wanted coffee.

“Not for me,” Georgios replied. “Rosemary?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Several minutes of small talk followed—long, interminable minutes to Georgios Vilos—concerning the cool weather and other such innocuous subjects. Finally, Niko, the eldest of the brothers at the table, opened a folder in front of him, then placed his hands on it ceremoniously. He looked down the table at Georgios Vilos with clear blue eyes from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. “Mr. Vilos,” he began, clearing his throat, “we've reviewed your application and of course have studied your financial statement with great care.”

Georgios Vilos nodded. “As I would assume,” he replied. “As you can see, it is no secret that Vilos Shipping, Ltd. is in dire financial straits, but we have considerable assets and a very good international reputation.” He paused and scanned the faces at the table. “We've been in business all of my life and my father's before me, and we've grown steadily over the years to arrive at this point. Unfortunately, we've overextended ourselves in the present economy, but I've already taken drastic measures—and will take many more—to reduce our expenditures and get us back on a solid financial footing.”

“Be that as it may,” Niko Lampaki began, “we here at Lampaki, after careful consideration of your application, find that we cannot lend you the requested monies to repay the German banks to whom you are indebted. Regrettable, I know, but we see no choice.”

Georgios Vilos digested Niko Lampaki's words, trying to keep his facial expression as neutral as possible. His stomach roiled and lurched, however, and his mind began to race in a dozen different directions at once. Buying time before speaking, he picked up the crystal glass in front of him and took a long drink of water. Setting the glass back down, he looked directly at Lampaki.

“I was under the impression, Mr. Lampaki,” he said, “that you were perhaps willing to cover these loans for me at a very high rate of interest. As you know, I have considerable collateral. My ships, my tankers, the office buildings . . .”

“We here at Lampaki don't take the same view of the situation, Mr. Vilos,” Niko Lampaki went on.

The words drifted over Georgios Vilos barely heard, as if they were dust motes in the air. He soon listened as the other brothers, one barely distinguishable from the other, repeated what in essence Niko Lampaki had already said, driving home the awful truth. They were not under any circumstances—no matter the interest rate—going to make him the loan.

After their endless discourse, much of it a litany of Vilos' financial woes that he knew better than anyone, Georgios finally took a deep breath and gazed about the table again, making eye contact with everyone there. “I understand what you have to say,” he said in a clear voice, “and I know that what you say is true.” He took a sip of water. “But I am begging you. Put whatever price you deem necessary, whatever conditions you desire, on this loan, and offer it to me.” Looking at each one in turn again, he added: “I have never begged anyone for anything, but I am begging you now.”

The room was silent, and Georgios Vilos could sense their embarrassment for him; perhaps, too, their pleasure in being able to deny him the wherewithal to save his company. Even though they were a notoriously usurious group, these were low-profile bankers, and rich men all, and they conducted their lives behind closed doors in a luxurious privacy that the outside world was seldom permitted to view. Georgios Vilos—in their eyes, at least—was a high-profile, high-living profligate whose family
peopled the fashionable magazines and press, their palatial homes and expensive exploits endlessly featured for all the world to see. He was of another caste that they found vaguely distasteful—
nouveau riche,
but worst of all, careless. He knew it was useless to pursue these men and their money any further.