It All Began in Monte Carlo (11 page)

When he walked through the green light at customs, carrying the small bag he had packed hastily before the quick trip to the airport—it was Christmas Day and there was no traffic—he was
stopped along with everyone else, and had to wait a frustrating ten minutes to be searched before being waved on.

He was hurrying through the main arrivals hall, heading for the taxi rank when he spotted the Police Inspector, whom he knew from last year, when they had worked together on the series of art thefts taking place along the Riviera. The Inspector looked harassed and tense and whatever had happened Mac knew it must be big and probably dangerous.

He called out to him and the Inspector swung round, throwing his hands in the air, saying, “I might have known I would see you here. Back like a bad penny to haunt me again.”

“No more hauntings.” Mac grinned, referring to Chez La Violette, the villa he'd rented the previous summer. “This looks like more trouble than that.”

“It is,
mon vieux,
trust me, it is.” The Inspector gave Mac a sharp glance, but did not ask why he was here without Sunny. He was a Frenchman and too discreet for that. Instead he said, “All the roads are blocked, you'll get nowhere.”

Mac told him where he was going. “Then you had better come with me. I'm driving back there now. They've worked over another La Fontaine. That place must have nothing left by now, they already did the Paris store on Christmas Eve. Come on, Mac, ride with me. I'll drop you off at your hotel.”

Speeding past the outlying cop wagons, waved through red lights, the Inspector brought Mac up to date on the robberies. “Two, here in France,” he said, “plus one in London, one in Rome, Berlin, Milan . . .”

“You're looking at a lot of loot to be disposed of,” Mac said. “You have any idea who they are using?”

“None.” The Inspector gave an angry shrug, then smoothed his smart uniform jacket back down again. He adjusted his cap to a better angle, peering out the window at the helicopter lights sweeping the coastline. “Nobody knows how they can get away with
those diamonds without cutting them and that will more than halve their value. The other stuff, emeralds, rubies, they'll get rid of easily enough, they'll already have men in place for that. But the diamonds are another matter.”

“How much do you reckon they're worth?”

The Inspector took a deep breath. “In Paris, one necklace alone was worth over twenty million. They took rings, each worth many hundreds of thousands. And the unset stones,” he shrugged again, “well, La Fontaine is still guarding their real value even from us, probably because they had more than the tax man knew about. But trust me, Mac Reilly, we are talking hundreds of millions.”

“But
here,
in Monte Carlo?” Mac couldn't help adding, “Of all places, surely the safest on earth.”

“Certainly, along with Zurich, it's one of the safest in Europe. As yet we have no knowledge of exactly what was taken tonight. They used the same format, expensively dressed women shoppers wearing masks, Marilyn Monroe if you can believe it. They hijacked the security doorman, shot out the security camera, took all the mobile phones, cut the lines and locked the door after them. There was no alarm, no sign that anything was wrong until somebody walked by, saw lights on and people lying on the floor. That was when she called us.”

“She?” Mac looked at him curiously. He would have thought it would have been a man who sounded the alarm.

“A female. Anonymous. Said she didn't want to be involved, but that something was wrong at La Fontaine. My men have the place surrounded, the area's cordoned off. We sent ambulances.”

Mac's eyebrows rose. “There are casualties?”

“It would seem so.” The Inspector's voice had a grim edge to it. “Here we are,” he added as the big car swept past the square and along the boulevard to where an area was roped off with yellow police tape. Emergency vehicles stood by along with dozens of cop cars, blue lights flashing. A couple of fire trucks waited on the other
side of the street and police photographers busied themselves taking shots of the storefront. Lights were on in the shop and Mac could see uniformed men inside.

“Sorry I won't be able to get you to your hotel,” the Inspector said, talking on his mobile at the same time to somebody inside the store. “I'm needed here.”

Mac thanked him as he climbed out of the car. Halogen lights suddenly bathed the scene in hard white industrial light. As he watched, a black body bag was carried from the store and loaded into a dark van Mac knew must be from the coroner's department. He felt a familiar clench of anger in his stomach. The bastards had killed someone, probably the security guard or some innocent store assistant. God, what men would do for money. For some, life was meaningless in the face of millions of dollars.

He turned and walked quickly away, waved through by the cops who had seen him arrive with their chief, hearing the wail of even more sirens.

The hard white light disappeared into the soft melting darkness of a Côte d'Azur night as he quickened his step, thinking only of Sunny. Sunny was here. They would find each other again, he would tell her how much he loved her; what she meant to him. He would marry her whenever she wanted. Just please God let her still love him. Let her leaving him not be the end.

 

Pacing the square, smoking her second cigarette, Sharon debated the rival lures of the bar and a double Scotch on the rocks against another cigarette. She shivered, hearing the sirens, seeing the halogen glow to the sky in the east. She was both drawn to it and repelled by it.

She saw an attractive man carrying a bag, making for the hotel. In an almost reflex female action, she smoothed her skirt, settled her little black fur jacket more closely around her face, holding it
with an unbejeweled hand. Her large diamond studs glinted in the lamplight. Her eyes followed him. He had not even noticed her.

Sharon's eyes narrowed as she watched him striding in an easy lope up the hotel steps. She knew him from somewhere, she could swear she did.

 

Kitty Ratte had been forced to park a couple of blocks away due to the police cordon and had to walk to the hotel. She too saw the man and guessed immediately from Sunny's description that it was Mac Reilly. She eyed him appreciatively. He was too good to miss; as good as the “companion” Sunny was with the other night. Maybe even better. Great. Two men were always better than one. And with Sunny either too innocent or else too dumb, the field was clear for a little play. And “play” was what Kitty really loved. In fact she made her living from it.

 

 

Pru was starving, as always, and Allie knew she'd better get her some dinner, and also get some food into Sunny, who was probably starving too, only in the opposite way to Pru; from not even thinking about food instead of the desire for it. She couldn't believe her eyes when she saw Mac walking across the foyer.

“Oh my God.”
Allie clasped Pru by her plump shoulder. “He beat me to it.”

“Who?” Pru folded the flimsy gray shawl over her bosom in an effort to look thinner.

“Mac Reilly, of course.”

“You are kidding me!” Pru peered shortsightedly across the spacious marble hall. “I always watch his show. He's so cute . . . I mean in the nicest possible way, not sort of jerky or showbiz or anything. Just, well you know,
nice.
”

“He is that,” Allie agreed. “Except when it comes to pinning him down to marriage. And now what do I do? Look, he's giving the bellboy his bag, he's not even going to his room, he's heading straight for the bar.”

“But that's where
Sunny
is.”

Pru was so excited her soft brown hair seemed to stand on end all on its own without any of the vigorous back-combing and spray
she usually gave it. Pru had been back-combing her hair for two decades and still couldn't accept the fact that a great fluff of teased hair was not where it was at these days. Now, of course, she no longer bothered and her hair simply hung, stringy, around her shoulders.

Allie and Pru watched Mac walk toward the bar. A young woman preceded him; a slender young blonde in a short white dress carrying a bouquet of lily of the valley. Her hair was pinned with a diamond crescent and a spray of jasmine that Pru could smell from fifty paces.

And behind Mac, hot on his heels, in fact, came another woman, this one with flame-red hair that reflected the light in a halo of dazzling color. She hurried in a fast knock-kneed trot, the skirt of her orange shirtdress riding up on plump thighs, Chanel purse swinging from her dangling arm, Dior earrings swinging in her ears.

Behind
her
came another woman: tall, stalking on towering heels, little black fur jacket clutched to her throat and with a smoker's cough that could be heard from where they stood.

“Well. How about that,” Allie said. “Mac has a female escort.”

“What shall we do?” Pru asked, thrilled at the thought of meeting Mac Reilly.

Allie considered. Should she let them meet, let them talk to each other, work it out alone? But she was worried. Sunny had told her it was finished. Over. Sunny was distraught, not in her right mind, and Allie knew that when a woman's heart was broken she could not think properly. In that state thoughts just milled around women's heads . . .
he said this . . . he did that . . . I told him . . . he told me . . . I should have done this . . . that . . . whatever . . .
She couldn't just leave Sunny alone feeling like that. She would have to help her.

“So, okay,” she told Pru. “We'll sneak into the bar and sit in a corner at the back, where they won't see us. If I think there's trouble we'll go help.”

 

 

Sunny couldn't believe “the bride” was running into the bar again, still in her white shift, still clutching her posy of now-wilting lily of the valley. Again, she climbed onto a chair and demanded, “Martini. On the rocks.
S'il vous plaît.
”

The young bartender gave her an appraising look and shrugged; they got all sorts in bars, even ones as classy as this. The bride tossed back the drink in one long swallow, took a deep breath, stuck her chin in the air and stalked back out again, passing Mac Reilly at the entrance.

Surprised, Mac turned to look, wondering what a bride was doing alone in a bar. His glance caught that of a middle-aged woman with fiery red hair behind him. She gave him the eye and a come-on grin.

 

Eddie Johanssen knew he had fallen hard for Sunny. It was difficult not to. Sunny was beautiful but it was more than that. She had a natural charm, an ease, a flirty, girly air that took him out of his divorce troubles and into another world where life was fun. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her full lips that he knew would taste so sweet. He had not felt this way about a woman in forever. If only he
could get Sunny to believe that there was life after the detective fiancé and perhaps a future for them . . .

Sunny was leaning into him, telling him how much she'd enjoyed being with him. “But . . .” She hesitated, and looked sadly at him.

Eddie hated that
but.
“But
what
?” He placed his hand over hers. “But
what
? Sunny. You told me you'd left Mac, that it was over. I saw how unhappy you were. Can't I be the one to console you?”

“Believe me, you're the only man who could.” Sunny was aware of the pressure of his hand on hers. She could not allow this to go on. She must not. She turned her eyes away. And shocked, saw Mac.

How could it be anyone else in that faded T-shirt and the old black leather jacket? His chin was blue with stubble, his hair was rumpled and his eyes were tired.

Eddie realized who it must be. He took his hand away from Sunny's but she didn't even notice. She was looking at Mac. It was as though Eddie were no longer there.

Sunny's eyes linked with Mac's exactly the way they had the night they met at the cocktail party in Malibu. Time had stopped at that moment and it stopped again now. There were only the two of them in this room, in this hotel, in this world.

Kitty Ratte watched. She quickly took in the situation, saw the possibilities of the game. Her serpent's eyes hardened.
“So,”
she whispered to herself.
“This is just perfect.”

Eddie got up and walked to the far end of the bar. Kitty hurried after him. In their dark corner, watching, Allie and Pru held their breaths, afraid of what might happen.

Maha, flanked again by Sharon and her other employees also watched the little scene taking place; a scene so fraught with sensuality it hung in the air like an aura around the main players.

Mac walked over to Sunny. He held out his hand and she took it. She slid off the stool, adjusted her skirt, then, forgetting all about her purse which she left lying on the counter, and forgetting all
about Eddie, with whom she had been so involved just minutes ago, she walked hand-in-hand with Mac Reilly, out of the bar, and through the marble foyer to the elevator.

They stopped and looked at each other.

“Room ten-oh-one,” she whispered, and he pressed the button. He opened his arms and she fell into them.

“What took you so long?” she said.

 

 

Allie ran after them. Sleek as a greyhound, Pru thought watching. And twice as gorgeous, even dressed so simply. No flashy jewelry, no look-at-me over-the-top style. Allie Ray the woman was the same girl she had been in high school: modest, unassuming and almost totally unaware of her good looks. While Pru, of course, was now a fat unattractive female in her early forties, in a dreadful red caftan and Allie's very expensive cashmere pashmina that could have swaddled a babe, if Pru had had a child that is. Which now she would not. Never. Have children.