It All Began in Monte Carlo (32 page)

Sunny wondered who had proposed that. Maha, she supposed. “Thank you, Rahm Singh,” she said, realizing that she was indeed hungry.

“If it is acceptable to
madama,
the cook suggests something light. A tomato soup, for which we are famous. A cauliflower dish made in the oven with tamarind and cumin, and paneer, our Indian cheese. A little sliced chicken, lightly seasoned with curry and of course, basmati rice, flavored gently with jasmine. And perhaps for after, our famous rice pudding, soft and creamy with the lemony hint of cardamom.”

Sunny felt suddenly weak. The journey and the strain of ferrying the jewels were catching up with her. She almost fainted at the thought of more food. Sinking into the down-filled cushions of the white silk sofa she thanked Rahm Singh and explained that she would prefer, if possible, a little sandwich instead. “A BLT or tuna,” she said, feeling ridiculous and all-American, but she had to eat carefully after a long-haul flight. “Oh, and a glass of white wine, please, Rahm Singh.”

Minutes later, afloat in the immense round dark green bathtub, rose petals surrounding her, scented oils soothing her tired limbs,
Sunny wondered why Maha traveled so much when she had everything life could offer, right here in her own magnificent home with its band of servants to do her bidding.

Half an hour later, clean and fragrant, relaxed and wrapped in the softest cotton bathrobe, Sunny waited for Rahm Singh to appear with her sandwich. The three Indian women stood in line by the door, heads bowed. Awaiting orders Sunny assumed, though she had none to give and anyhow she did not speak their language. They were odd; so silent, so humble, with those bowed heads. And no smiles.

Rahm Singh appeared followed by another servant carrying a large silver tray on which reposed a platter covered by a silver dome; a fine crystal glass; a bottle of Evian water and a second glass. Rahm Singh carried a crystal wine cooler. The servant, a man this time, also barefoot and in the same kind of cotton clothing, said a respectful good evening and carefully set up the table. Rahm Singh placed the cooler to one side and skillfully uncorked the wine.

He held the chair for Sunny to sit, and feeling like the Queen of England, who probably lived like this every day of the week, Sunny sat. He held the bottle for her to approve. French; a white from the Loire Valley. Sunny remembered Maha drinking champagne every night, and smiled. That woman knew the good life.

She took a sip of the wine, thin, cool, light and absolutely perfect for the delicate way she was feeling. Lifting the silver dome, she inspected the sandwich. Round bread, puffy with air, deflated at her touch, smelling subtly of some kind of spice. Thinly sliced chicken, tomatoes, bacon strips and shredded lettuce topped with a dollop of mayo that when she put in a finger and tasted turned out to be a yoghurt-and-cucumber
raita.
If this was an Indian idea of a sandwich, it was her idea of heaven.

Rahm Singh had dismissed the three nameless women, and finally alone, Sunny sipped her wine, tasted her sandwich and then overcome by fatigue went to the window and stepped out onto the
lamp-lit terrace. She breathed in the perfumed air, admiring a narrow rocky stream that meandered through the grounds. The bag with the jewels was safely on the floor next to the bed. She wondered when Maha would call with instructions for the next part of the game. Who she was to hand over the jewels to, and where?

Her thoughts turned to Mac, alone in Prague, just as she was alone in India. What fools they both were, she thought, going back inside. She tried his number on her cell phone but got only a beep. Oh God she missed him,
how
she missed him, she couldn't wait to tell him about her Indian adventure, about Maha's luxurious home; the muted servants; the BLT in the Indian bread and the white Loire wine she would love to have shared with him. She hoped he was safe in Prague.

Slipping off the robe, she climbed up the little flight of wooden steps and into the enormous fluffy bed. Closing her eyes she was asleep within minutes.

She left a light on, of course, because she was afraid of the dark.

Kitty Ratte was sweating with panic. She was alone in the apartment because Jimmy had chosen this moment to go back to England. He said it was to try to coax money out of his wife and their ailing used-car business, or “pre-owned” as he called it, making it sound more important, and had simply left her to it. “It,” being delivering the blackmail note. He had driven off yesterday morning and told her to call him when she had taken care of business.

“Taking care of business” was not as easy as Kitty had expected. In fact it was difficult because Eddie Johanssen had left the hotel in Monte Carlo the previous night and she did not have his cell phone number. Fuming, she sat on the beige couch—the very same couch on which she had “seduced” Eddie, “seduced” being what she now preferred to call it. And glancing through the still photographs taken from the hidden high-tech video cam, there seemed no doubt Eddie was a willing participant in a night of perverted anything-goes sex.

Kitty tapped the photos against her hand, frowning. She put a hand up to her forehead and groaned. She could
feel
those frown lines; she needed Botox; she needed the Restylane filler; she needed a goddamn face lift, her fuckin' chin was sliding into her neck, which was the same width as her face, giving her five chins when
she smiled. She would have to remember not to smile so much, and besides the two cheap front veneers were looking decidedly suspect, overly white and bright and thick. She needed that fuckin' money; she was getting too old to work this game. She wanted that bar in Marbella; her own place; her own men to tease and hustle. She needed new swingers' clubs, new horizons for blackmail. She
needed
to be a predator, but she
wanted
to be
the
predator in charge. She was a woman who had always taken what she wanted, and now she wanted Eddie, and she was determined to get him.

Her cheap “gold” watch said five-thirty
P.M.
There was only one thing for it. She must go to the hotel bar and see what was happening. Perhaps Sunny would be there. Sunny would be sure to have Eddie's number and Kitty would plead with her, say it was important, that she had private news for him about his wife, Jutta. Sunny believed Kitty was her friend; she would give her the number.

Jutta and those two children were the answer to Kitty's prayers, and she knew exactly how to play Eddie. She had made sure her face was up-front and unmistakable in those photos. She would tell him it was
she
who was being blackmailed.
She
who was the poor sweet woman in trouble, only for making passionate love to a man she cared deeply about. Eddie would be forced to pay, to save
her,
and save
her
reputation. He could not betray her.

Half an hour later, showered, in a floral-print silky dress and the black leather Louboutins that were too high and that anyhow killed her; blue–eye shadowed and coral–lip glossed, Kitty put the incriminating photos in a manila envelope in her Prada bag and drove to the hotel.

She was so broke she could not afford to valet the old Fiat and she parked a block away, stumbling on the cobbles in the stilettos, cursing under her breath and sweating again. Who knew it would be this hot at the end of December? The silky dress was sticking to her cushioned bra by the time she climbed the hotel steps, just as a taxi drove up. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Eddie paying off
the driver. A relieved smile beamed across her face and forgetting all about the five chins, she called out his name.

“Serendipity,” she cried. “Oh, Eddie, Eddie, I've been trying to get in touch with you, but I didn't know how. And it's
so
important.”

Eddie was not smiling as he walked up the steps to the hotel. “I can't think of anything that would be important between us,” he said coldly, striding past her and through the swinging doors.

She hurried in after him. “Ooh but Eddie, Eddie,
please
. . . it is. It's so important you are going to
have
to listen.”

He walked on. She followed at a trot.

“For the sake of
your children,
you are going to have to talk to me.”

He stopped, stiffened, stood for a second, his back to her, then turned and met her eyes.

“And what, if anything, could you possibly have to do with my children?” He walked menacingly toward her, speaking so quietly no one else could hear. “They don't belong in the same world with people like you. Don't you dare even to breathe their names. Or . . .”

“Or . . .”
Kitty heaved a tiny sigh. Tears squeezed from her small blue eyes and trickled down her cheeks, leaving faint mascara tracks. She searched futilely in her bag for a Kleenex until Eddie, ever the gentleman, felt compelled to offer her his handkerchief.

“Thank you, thank you so much.” She sniffed back the tears and said, “It's all so awful, Eddie, I just don't know how to tell you. All I can say is that I love you, I love you so much since our precious night together. I want you so much. I need you, Eddie, darling . . .”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

She glanced over her shoulder, putting on her best “afraid” look. “No one must hear this,” she whispered, mopping the tears again. “We have to talk, Eddie. I have something you must see, you have to read it . . . it's all about us.”

Eddie inspected her closely. Something was wrong and he knew he'd better find out what before she did something crazy. He didn't like the mention of his children. Not from a woman like this.

“We could go to your room,” Kitty suggested, managing a smile. “We could be alone there.”

“We can be alone in the bar,” he replied curtly, leading the way without taking her arm, as he normally would have done with a woman friend.

It was six-thirty and the bar was filling up. Kitty led the way to a corner table at the back. A tiny amber-shaded lamp diffused a rosy light, the color of a South of France sunset. From the speakers a woman sang softly, in French, though the group, Pink Martini, was American. A waiter came to take their order. It was the younger barman, the one with the swagger who stared boldly into Kitty's face. Normally Kitty would have stared boldly back, but now she kept her eyes lowered and asked for a beer. “A Heineken,” she said meekly. It wouldn't do for the barman, who knew exactly who and what she was, to get too familiar in front of Eddie.

When the beer came she drank it straight from the bottle, glugging like a whore at an Oktoberfest, almost draining it in one go. She called back the waiter and ordered another.

Eddie took a sip of his vodka on the rocks, watching her wiping beer foam off her lips with the back of her hand. There was not one iota of grace about this woman. She was cheap and so obviously available he was ashamed to be seen sitting with her. “Tell me what's going on,” he commanded.

Kitty took a deep breath, then took out the manila envelope. She opened it, took out a piece of paper. Her eyes fixed on Eddie's, she handed it to him. “Read this,” she said. “Then maybe you'll be ready for a second drink too.”

Eddie smoothed the paper out under the pink light from the small table lamp.

Kitty watched as he read. She knew exactly what it said and she was looking for Eddie's reaction. She did not get one. He merely handed the paper back to her, saying nothing.

“Eddie, oh Eddie, but what do you think? What shall
I do.
It's a blackmail note . . .”

Eddie took another sip of his vodka. “I fail to see how it affects me.”

“But look,
look,
Eddie.” She smoothed the sheet of paper out again, staring down at the computerized message.

You have been observed. You are guilty. We will prove it in every tabloid on the planet and you will be ruined. You will lose everything. Isn't it better to pay two million euros in cash at a time and place to be appointed. Trust us, we know how to get you, in ways you will never expect. You will never know what hits you. You will be destroyed. Lose everything you've ever worked for. Including your life. And what's two million euros compared with a life? Ask yourselves that question, and come back to us with the answer so we can proceed. Kitty Ratte will be contacted later tonight. And yes, you are right to be afraid Kitty. And so is your man.

“My
man.
” Kitty choked on the words, half-sobbing. “Don't you see, they mean
you,
Eddie. Oh God, some enemy saw us, spied on us that night we were together. That wonderful, wonderful night, Eddie. I can't forget it, I can't forget
you.
I can't get you out of my mind, I'm so
in love
with you. I
want
you, Eddie, I
need
you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

She leaned closer. Eddie's icy calm was cracking and Kitty wanted to smile with pleasure, but she did not. She had him, though; she could just feel it, see it in the set of his shoulders, his tight jaw.

She took the photographs from the manila envelope, handed them to him. “Look at these, Eddie,” she said softly. “Just look at them. At you and at me. Look what you have gotten me into, Eddie. And I did it all for love of you.”

Eddie slid the black-and-white pictures through his hands, taking in the fact that the man was himself, adorned with a spiked leather collar and handcuffs and nothing else, and that the woman on top of him, naked as a plucked chicken but for her cushioned
bra and the camisole that, though he did not know it, she would never be seen without because she was so ashamed of her aging body, was Kitty Ratte. And in those photographs Kitty was sucking on him, licking him, straddling him, pushing his head between her legs, grinning in triumph, her head thrown back, holding a blue vibrator that was doing what apparently
he
could not do for her.