Parisian Affair (10 page)

When he rolled off her, they snuggled close
together. Then Allegra kissed him. 'I've got to go to sleep,' she
said, 'because of that appointment I have in the morning.'

'I know,' he said softly. ' 'Night,
Ally.'

' 'Night, Todd.' She kissed the tip of his
nose, then turned to her side, her back to him. Todd put his arms
around her, holding her lightly but possessively.

He kissed her neck once; then she heard his
breathing change as he fell into a deep sleep.

What will tomorrow bring?
she
wondered
. Why does Hilton Whitehead want to see me?
But she
fell asleep before she could speculate any further.

Princess Karima, her floor-length ecru silk
dressing gown swishing about her, paced the pale ivory Savonnerie
rug in her bedroom, a cigarette in one hand and a cut-crystal
old-fashioned glass of straight Jack Daniel's on ice in the other.
The heavy velvet draperies with their intricately embroidered satin
trim were pulled shut against the morning sun of Paris, and only a
small bronze
doree bouillotte
lamp on her desk cast a
diminutive pool of light in the vast, dark room. Its walls,
painstakingly hand-painted to resemble lace years ago, were
virtually invisible.

The princess took a long draw on her
cigarette and stubbed it out in a large onyx ashtray on the desk.
She held her drink up and eyed it curiously. She was a great lover
of this distinctive whiskey from that obscure place in America
called Tennessee, and international society the world over knew to
keep an ample supply on hand when she was expected as a houseguest.
She drank down the remainder of the fiery liquid, then set the
crystal glass down, deciding that she would wait a bit to have
another. She didn't normally drink in the morning unless she'd been
up all night partying, but today was different.

Circling around the desk, she sat down in the
embossed velvet
Regence
throne that served as a desk chair.
Before her, on the desk's surface, was the catalogue that Dufour
had sent her, and next to it, in a small pinkish beige box, reposed
the emerald ring that Stefano Donati had given her years ago.
Today, a security detail from Dufour would arrive to take it to the
venerable auction house.

She opened the box with long ruby-lacquered
fingernails. The dark green emerald glimmered up at her from its
heavy gold setting. She took the ring out and put it on her finger,
twisting her hand this way and that, her eyes glued to the
magnificent gemstone.
It is beautiful
, she thought.

She slipped it off her finger and replaced it
in its suede niche. It had been a symbol of an undying love, she'd
thought at the time. A love affair with one of the richest, most
powerful, and best-looking men in the world. For years she had been
convinced that he would leave his wife for her. But she had been
wrong. She eventually learned that Stefano would never leave the
beautiful Bettina, a princess of ancient lineage, not for an
arriviste Arab princess.

Princess Karima slammed the box shut, but not
before noticing the gilt- stamped name inside the lid: JULES LEVANT
JOAILLIER. And below that: PARIS. Suddenly, she threw back her head
and laughed aloud. She would never forget the day Stefano bought
the emerald. They had invited the handsome young Arab who had
handled the purchase to come to her newly decorated
hotel
particulier
—another gift from Stefano—for a drink. In the
salon, she had belittled the Algerian from the housing projects in
front of Stefano, who had taken great pleasure in watching the
young Arab's humiliation. It had all been a show put on for
Stefano's amusement.

He must hate me still
, she thought
with a feeling akin to merriment.
But so what? Most of the Arab
world hates me. They despise me as they would the most odious
infidel
.

She had hardly mingled in the Middle Eastern
world. She'd been sent off to boarding school in England when she
was young, then finished in Switzerland. Her life since had
primarily revolved around European society and the aristocracy.
After her first marriage, to a French pharmaceuticals heir who was
also a vicomte, her position in society was assured. Her title and
enormous wealth had helped, of course, but hadn't made her an
automatic member of the 'club.' Her subsequent divorce and
high-profile affairs with the most sought-after men in Europe had
done nothing to diminish her star in this celestial firmament.

She had become a legend in her own time. Rich
and beautiful, she was also a seductress without peer. But all of
the attention and acceptance she felt did nothing to salve the
wounds caused by her breakup with Stefano. She would never be like
his wife, descended from an ancient European royal house, and thus
would never be completely accepted by the uppermost level of the
social order. Princess Karima still felt that despite her status
she was an outsider, and she knew that would never change.

Her youth and beauty on the wane, she still
attracted men, but she found herself increasingly relying on gay
'walkers' to squire her around the world in her endless search for
diversion. They were rich and handsome men, many of whom would
willingly marry her, but she did not relish growing old in such a
relationship.

Then an idea had come to her only a few
months ago, during a sleepless night when she'd nursed a bottle of
her much beloved Jack Daniel's and chain-smoked till past dawn. She
would announce her 'enlightenment,' and the establishment of a
charitable foundation in her name, the endowment of which would
begin with the proceeds from the disposal of her worldly goods. In
her quest to see that only the most deserving would enjoy the
largesse of her foundation, she would single-handedly control the
foundation and handpick its recipients.

Fueled by whiskey and cigarettes, she had
written the press release before she finally slept that fateful
dawn. She included her intention to sell her luxurious residences
and move to a charming little millhouse on the outskirts of Paris,
where she could meditate and make decisions without the intrusions
of society. She concluded with the announcement that she would
appear once a year—and only once a year—at a grand ball in Paris
that would serve as a fund-raiser for her foundation.

Lighting a cigarette, she rose to her feet
and walked to the liquor cabinet and minibar that were concealed
behind a jib door in the wall's hand- painted lace. She poured Jack
Daniel's into a clean glass and tossed in some ice cubes. Swirling
the drink around, she turned and strode over to her vanity table,
where she sat down and looked at her reflection in the baroque
Venetian mirror over it.

Her gaze studied her carefully dyed black
hair pinned back in a loose chignon; her perfectly arched and dyed
brows; her subtly made-up eyes, face, and lips. She shrugged out of
her silk dressing gown, and her eyes surveyed her flesh. A web of
wrinkles traversed her neck and the cleavage between her once
lovely, firm breasts, which now hung like useless appendages. Soft,
dimpled skin exhibited itself from between her arms and chest.
Simply lifting an arm exposed the loose, aging flap of a woman far
beyond her prime.

She was still a beauty—a mature beauty—but
the ravages of time were taking their inevitable toll, and no
amount of cosmetic surgery and makeup could conceal her loss of
youth. But no matter. Now that these physical assets had deserted
her, she had others to put to use.

She raised her glass in a toast.
You're
brillia
nt, she said to her reflection.
As your legend grows
in the eyes of the entire world, as it's burnished beyond the
brightness of mere stars, no one will know who you really are and
what you are really doing. No one will know the vengeance you're
extracting until it's far too late.

There was a soft knock, and the princess
shifted her gaze from her mirror image to the door. It would be
Mimi, her devoted housekeeper of many years. Slipping back into her
silk dressing gown, she called out to her. 'Come in, Mimi,' she
said, placing her drink on the vanity.

The door opened quietly, and the ancient,
wrinkle-faced woman hobbled into the room, her small, close-set
eyes focused on her mistress. Despite her advanced age and slow
movements, she was still sharp-witted and strong, with the stamina
of the peasant stock from which she came. 'The men from Dufour are
here, madame,' she said.

'Already?' the princess asked, turning to
face Mimi. 'I had no idea it was so late.'

'Shall I have them wait for you to dress,
madame?' Mimi asked.

'No,' Princess Karima replied. 'You can show
them in. They'll only be a minute.'

The old woman nodded, then turned and left
the room, closing the door behind her. Princess Karima had a sip of
her drink and lit another cigarette. Taking one last lingering
glance in the mirror, she rose to her feet and crossed to her desk.
She picked up the box that held the emerald ring and started to
open it again, but decided against it. Putting the box back on the
desk, she went around to her chair and sat down, flicked ash off
her cigarette into the ashtray, and waited for the Dufour security
detail. Her fingernail lacquer shone in the small pool of light
cast by the desk lamp, but she was in the shadows; her features
were barely visible, though her dark eyes glittered.

There was another soft knock at the door.
'
Entrez
,' the princess commanded imperiously.

Mimi opened the door, then stood aside to let
two men enter. They stood silently in the triangle of light emitted
from the hallway. One of them appeared to be no more than twenty
and was a tall, strong-looking specimen with short-cropped blond
hair. The other was middle-aged, his muscular body covered with
layers of fat. Both of them wore dark blue livery, somewhat like
police uniforms, and there were holstered guns on their belts. They
held their caps in their hands.

'Please, gentlemen,' she said. 'Come forward.
I assume you brought the paperwork I have to sign?'

'Yes
, madame la princesse
,' the older
one said, nodding and stepping forward slightly.

The younger man lifted his gaze from the
floor and looked toward Princess Karima. She saw his cap quiver
slightly in his big, powerful- looking hands. She rose to her feet
and came from behind the desk. 'The ring is there,' she said,
indicating the box with a hand.

'I have the paperwork here,
madame la
princesse
,' the older man said, holding out a folder in one
hand. His head was nodding rapidly, and he was smiling widely.
'With your permission, madame la princesse, I have to fill out the
time of pickup and the exact location, things like that, then get
your signature.'

'Of course,' she replied. 'There. Use the
desk. There is a pen if you need it.'

'
Merci, merci
,' the older one said,
his head still nodding. 'So sorry to disturb you,
madame la
princesse
. It will only take a minute.' He stepped forward to
the desk, gingerly placed the folder on it, withdrew a triplicate
form, looked at his watch, then began filling in the appropriate
blanks.

Princess Karima ignored him and kept her gaze
on the young man, whose face reddened before he averted his eyes
from her. She stepped toward him boldly and loosened her dressing
gown, letting it slip off her shoulders, revealing ample cleavage.
'You must be new at Dufour,' she said as she provocatively thrust a
leg in his direction.

Without looking at her, he replied. '
Oui,
madame la princesse
.'

She lifted a hand and, with one finger,
traced a line down the side of his face. 'I didn't think I'd seen
you before,' she said, barely able to contain her amusement at his
embarrassment.

He didn't know how to respond. He'd never met
anyone like her before, had never been in such a palatial house,
had never smelled such an intoxicating perfume nor seen such a
lavish dressing gown.

'I hope you will guard my ring with your
life,' Princess Karima said to him, her finger trailing down his
uniformed chest.

The nod of his head was barely visible.
'
Oui, madame la princesse
,' he replied. 'I... we will.'
Still, he would not meet her brazen glance, but his face reddened
as the bulge in his pants became apparent.

The older man turned from the desk. 'I only
require your signature,
madame la princesse
,' he said, 'and
we will take the ring and leave you in peace.'

'Of course,' Princess Karima said. She turned
from the young man, deliberately brushing against him, then leaned
down and signed the form on the desk. She stubbed out her cigarette
in the ashtray, then looked at the older man. 'There you are,' she
said to him. She picked up the box. 'And here is the ring. I
suppose you should check to make certain that it is there.'

'Oh, no,
madame la princesse
,' the man
said, his obsequious smile still in place. 'That certainly won't be
necessary in this case. We'll be going now, and you can rest
assured that your ring is in good hands. There are two more armed
guards outside, and we're traveling in an armored truck.' He held
his hand out for the box.

'Very good,' Princess Karima said. 'One can't
be too cautious in Paris these days, can one?'

'Ah, non, madame la princesse,' the older man
replied. 'You're absolutely right. Paris can be very dangerous,
especially for someone like yourself.'

Princess Karima turned back to the young man.
'Here,' she said, proffering the box in his direction. 'Since
you're new, I think you should have the pleasure of taking my ring
to Dufour.'