The Beautiful and the Wicked (10 page)

Though she was only twenty-­three years old, Lucien Freud and Francesco Clemente had already painted her. She modeled for Patrick Demarchelier and Karl Lagerfeld. And she was a fairly accomplished painter in her own right. Almost thirty years her husband's junior, Esperanza came from the same circle of privilege in São Paulo. Ten months before this very moment, they had met at a wedding in Capri, and four weeks later, Thiago proposed to her on a ski lift in Gstaad. They'd been inseparable ever since.

Boarding the yacht with a casual grace, Thiago wore a white linen shirt unbuttoned to his sternum and a slim-­fitting white suit. Esperanza had long, straight black hair that fell around her thin shoulders and large, soulful dark brown eyes. A pale lavender floor-­length dress with a plunging neckline and a hip-­high slit showcased her lithe body. They were locked in conversation when they boarded the yacht and continued speaking in Portuguese as they grabbed champagne and kicked off their shoes. Neither acknowledged Lila's existence.

A few minutes later, Paul Mason and Daniel Poe climbed onto the yacht together, surrounded by a gaggle of underage Russian models. They also would be on
The Rising Tide
the night of Jack Warren's murder, so Lila was familiar with their backgrounds. Paul Mason, age fifty-­one, was a lawyer and a legendary investment banker, famous for brokering some of the biggest merger-­and-­acquisition deals of the last decade. He and Jack had been friends and colleagues for years after Paul was the lead banker in charge of Warren Software's IPO, which made them both very rich men.

Daniel Poe, age thirty-­eight, was a superstar of the art world, famous as much for his bad-­boy persona and his insatiable drug habit as for his over-­the-­top, multimillion-­dollar art installations. Like Jack, he was a working-­class boy done good. Today, he was the most successful living artist in the world, worth about $100 million, with every new piece breathlessly covered by all the leading art critics.

On the surface, Paul Mason and Daniel Poe couldn't have seemed more different. Where Mason was preppy incarnate, with his slicked-­back hair, Nantucket-­red pants, Sperry Top-­Siders, and custom-­made shirt, Poe had the rich-­artist look down to a T. He reminded Lila of Keith Richards in the seventies, before he started looking like a deranged pirate. He was disheveled and emaciated, but still wore leather pants that easily cost five grand. He had thick, black, square-­framed glasses, a black leather jacket, and a skull ring with diamond eyes on his left hand. Lila reckoned that Paul and Daniel's odd-­­couple friendship was based on their shared love of money, beautiful girls, and getting their way.

“Aren't you a lovely thing,” Paul said to Lila as she was bending over to help one of the young models off with her heels. She could feel his eyes burrow down the front of her dress. Lila instantly shot back up.

“I expect nothing less from Jack,” Poe said, with a dreamy-­eyed slur. “He always surrounds himself with the most beautiful women. Doesn't he?” He grabbed Lila's hand and gently kissed it. His skin felt cold and clammy despite the heat. From his tiny, pinprick pupils and the slack, rag-­doll heaviness of his arms and head, Lila guessed he was on heroin, or some other opiate.

“What's your name, gorgeous?” Daniel said to Lila as he grabbed the tiny ass of the model who was closest to him.

“Nicky Collins, sir,” Lila said.

“Will you be with us the whole trip?” Paul asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Delightful. Absolutely delightful,” Daniel said, giving her a wolfish look. “Then we'll have all the time in the world to get to know each other.”

Lila wanted to punch this perv in the throat, but she controlled herself. She needed to stay on the boat, and even if that meant putting up with the creepy advances of Daniel Poe, she'd do it. For Ava, she'd do anything.

“Of course, sir,” she responded, giving both Paul and Daniel a demure nod. The men walked with their harem into the boisterous party.

Once the majority of the guests were on board, Mrs. Slaughter informed her that she could leave her shoe duty to help Sam and the rest of the crew with ser­vice. But Lila found out quickly that she wasn't much of a waitress. Carrying those heavy silver trays laden with food and drink as she navigated around the tipsy and mingling revelers was more difficult than she expected. Her arms were shaking from the strain.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her sister far across the room.

Lila felt her heart jump into her throat. She hadn't laid eyes on Ava in more than ten years. And here she was now. A gaggle of dancing models moved right in front of Lila, obscuring her view. She dodged them with the ease of a running back and cut quickly across the room toward Ava. How her sister could have boarded the boat without her noticing was something she didn't even question. Then Lila saw her again from behind, walking toward the side deck all by herself. It was unmistakably her—­the long, flowing strawberry-­blond hair, the pale, almost alabaster skin. Lila, burdened with the tray, hurried after the woman who was quickly weaving through the crowds.

She wanted to shout out her sister's name, but she knew she couldn't. After all, how would the conversation go? “Hi, I'm your sister from the future. I've traveled through space and time in order to save your life.” This was an instance where the truth was stranger than fiction.

“Miss?” Lila called out, deepening her voice so that her sister wouldn't recognize it. But her sister didn't hear her. She kept walking quickly with Lila not far behind. Lila's pulse was pounding in her skull as she finally got within reach. She removed one hand from the tray so she could stretch out her arm to grab her sister. She tried to say something else, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. The magnitude of the moment had robbed her of her voice. Mute and terrified, she brushed her fingertips up against her sister's bare shoulders. But the moment she touched her, she knew it wasn't Ava.

She instantly withdrew her hand as if she'd just been scorched. The strawberry blonde whipped around to see who had touched her. Lila's heart sank. She didn't even closely resemble Ava. Feeling light-­headed and short of breath, like she'd just seen a ghost, Lila thrust her tray out toward the confused woman, who didn't understand why a breathless server was chasing her down.

“Champagne?” she panted, trying to pull herself together.

The woman grabbed a glass, gave Lila a little frown, and then went on her merry way. Disheartened, Lila quickly turned around and . . . disaster. Upon reversing her direction, she collided with a dark-­haired man who she hadn't realized was standing directly behind her. She lost control of the tray and glass upon glass of champagne precariously teetered before—­no, no, no, Lila said in her mind—­the whole thing loudly crashed to the ground in an ear-­shattering explosion of smashed crystal. The very revealing, slightly diaphanous dress that she'd been forced to wear to the party was now dripping wet and totally see-­through. Lila held the unwieldy silver tray over herself, hoping to cover up her now very visible breasts. She shifted uncomfortably, hearing hundreds of dollars' worth of premiere champagne squish around in her one-­size-­too-­small high heels.

“Are you okay?” she heard a voice ask. She turned to see the very familiar face of someone who was also soaked to the bone in champagne. He was the one she'd bumped into.

“Ben Reynolds,” Lila said, without thinking. She recognized him instantly from her research. Thirty-­two years old and a lifelong sailor, he was the first officer of
The Rising Tide,
and from what he and the other crew members were to say in their police interviews, he was the closest to Jack of any of the yacht's employees.

“I'm sorry,” he said, looking confused. “Do we know each other?”

“No, it's just. I . . .” Lila was tongue-­tied. Though she'd seen plenty of pictures of Ben, his inquiring, kind eyes staring intently into hers worked some kind of black magic on her, rendering her speechless.

But before she could get a complete sentence out, Mrs. Slaughter came storming toward her, a tablecloth in her hand. Was it possible that Lila saw actual steam coming out of her ears?

“Take this,”
Mrs. Slaughter hissed between her clenched teeth, grabbing Lila by the shoulder and moving her to a quiet corner of the deck. She tore the tray out of Lila's hands and gave her the tablecloth. “Cover yourself.”

As Lila wrapped the stiff cotton around her now-­see-­through dress, she whispered, “Sorry,” to Ben.

“Edna,” Ben said. In the thirty-­six hours Lila had spent suffering under the thumb of the chief stewardess, she'd never heard anyone use her first name. It struck her as some kind of blasphemy, the oral equivalent of looking directly into the sun.

“Yes, Ben,” Mrs. Slaughter said, keeping her back to him. Despite her polite tone, her extreme annoyance was clear.

He looked at Lila and gave her a warm, reassuring smile. “This was totally, one hundred percent my fault,” he said. “I ran into . . . um . . .”

“Nicky,” Lila answered. He was ruggedly handsome, with long, curly, dark hair, heavy brows, and light brown eyes. She felt something close to mesmerized as she stood, wet and humiliated, looking into those long-­lashed eyes of his.

“Right, Nicky. I ran right into Nicky here and knocked over all these glasses. So, don't blame her.”

Mrs. Slaughter straightened her back and turned to look at Ben. “I don't tell you what direction to steer the ship,” she said. “Do I, Mr. Reynolds? Nor do I give you my thoughts about the route you've chosen. Correct?”

“Nope, you sure don't,” he replied with a frown as the combination of being soaking wet and scolded quickly stripped away his good mood.

“Then refrain from telling me how to do my job, please, and thank you.”

Ben nodded. Lila found it somewhat reassuring that even this strapping man seemed rather terrified of Mrs. Slaughter. At least she wasn't the only one.

“I'll leave you to it, then,” Ben said. “But remember,
I'm
the oaf who caused this. Nicky, nice to meet you. And apologies. Hopefully next time we run into each other, I won't make such a god-­awful mess. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go to my cabin and slip into something less”—­he paused, holding up his wet arms and looking down at his dripping shirt—­“soggy.”

Ben and Lila exchanged a smile before he quickly marched across the deck and took the staircase to the lower level.

Lila was still smiling when Mrs. Slaughter turned back to her. “What are you grinning about?” the older woman sneered. “Oh, Ben, of course. You two are peas in a pod. Neither of you knows the value of respect. You should be aware of the fact that I will discuss this matter with Captain Nash. This subordination will not stand.”

“Please,” Lila begged. “I know we got off to a bad start, but I promise that I won't let you down again.” She absolutely could not get fired. If she was forced to leave the yacht, then the whole mission would be botched.

“A promise, then a blunder, then a grovel. That seems to be your flavor of ineptitude and I'm quite fed up with it,” Mrs. Slaughter said. “But I'm too short staffed to lose you tonight. So pull yourself together. Go to your room, change, and then go to the galley. Mr. Liss needs his dinner brought to his room, which is stateroom three on the third deck. Think you can handle that?”

“Yes, Chief Stewardess Mrs. Slaughter.” Lila stood there, not sure what to do to please this impossible-­to-­please woman.

“Well, stop standing there staring at me like an idiot. Go do as I say. Then come back here directly.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lila said as she hurried across the deck to go to the crew quarters.

She changed into her regular all-­white uniform, then went to the galley to pick up Liss's food, excited that she'd finally be face-­to-­face with the chief financial officer of Warren Software—­Jack's second-­in-­command. She'd kept an eye out for him all night, but now realized that he must've boarded the boat sometime during the day—­probably when she was doing one of her hundred menial tasks.

Jack and Seth were polar opposites. Where Jack was famous for his A-­list celebrity friends and million-­dollar toys, his CFO disdained the spotlight and abhorred excess. Even though this fifty-­eight-­year-­old numbers whiz from Wisconsin was a multimillionaire, he lived like a pauper. “I keep my nose as clean as my spreadsheets,” he told
Forbes
in a profile that detailed how “the frugal millionaire” brought a tuna fish sandwich to work every day, drove an Acura sedan, and lived in the same three-­bedroom house he bought for $325 grand when he first moved to Silicon Valley back in the 1980s. Though Liss's disdain for Jack's way of doing things was a well known fact among business-­world insiders, Liss had never publicly challenged Jack's authority.

When Lila entered the galley to pick up Liss's meal, she encountered a snarling Chef Vatel.

“He's a philistine,” the chef said, his thick French accent full of disgust as he pushed the tray toward Lila. “A well-­done hamburger with Miracle Whip and this hideous plastic cheese on top. They don't pay me enough to prepare this travesty.” He paused as his outrage bubbled up out of him. “I am an artist!”

Lila just shrugged her shoulders at the chef, grabbed the tray, and left. She had enough to worry about.

As she walked down the hall toward Liss's room, she heard a voice loudly speaking what sounded like Mandarin. When she knocked on the door, the voice abruptly stopped. Then Liss shouted, “Enter!”

Lila walked into his room. With a cell phone pressed to his ear, he waved her in and resumed barking Mandarin into the phone.

He had the second largest stateroom on the yacht, with elegantly curved walls covered in exotic stingray skin. The furniture was constructed out of brass and hand-­stitched leather. The stateroom came with its own en suite bathroom and a large office with a spacious balcony overlooking the water. It was a room fit for a king, a luxury that would have astounded even the one percent of the one percent, but Seth Liss looked far from happy. He gestured toward Lila, pointing to where she could put the tray on the desk, which was heaped with manila file folders, several bound presentations, and his laptop, open to a very complicated-­looking spreadsheet. She cleared a little space on the desk, placed his dinner down, and turned to leave. But Liss waved his hand at her to get her attention, then, putting his palm over the cell phone, whispered, “Stay one minute.”