Manacled in Monaco (16 page)

A glacier would prove warmer than her extremities. She touched icy trembling fingertips to Tony’s brow. “Did I hear you right? Stitches?”

“Yeah,” he said and whirled so the back of his head faced her. “See, right there.”

The sight that met her eyes, the shaved circle on her son’s head, the two ugly black slashes at its center, stamped her pupils, and black spots danced a jig in front of her pupils before blankness descended.

“What the hell happened?”

The growled voice penetrated her foggy brain and it took a few seconds before she realized it belonged to Rolan. A waterfall of images followed, Shannon Cartwright, Cindy-something, Jimmy Rizzo, the shaved circle on the back of Tony’s head. Her eyelids flew open and Sarita fought the arms restraining her, but those familiar muscled biceps tightened.

“Anthony, come here,” she ordered. “Rolan, let go of me. I’m fine now.”

“Mom,” her son said and drew the word out into a wailing complaint. “Why’d you faint? It’s just a little cut.”

“Let me see.” She straightened and examined the two stark black staples marring Tony’s skull. “How did this happen?”

“I slipped off the gangplank and hit my head on the edge. It didn’t hurt, Mom, honest.”

“The doctor said it’s a minor injury.”

Sarita looked to the doorway and saw Suresh standing there with Shannon and Cindy-something crowded behind his lanky form. All at once, everything became too overwhelming and something snapped.

“Anthony, go to your cabin. I’ll be there in after I’m done cooking. No arguing and not another word from you, young man. Everyone else, clear out, I have a meal to prepare.” Turning her back to the rest of them, she faced Austen and Madame Yvonne and added, “That includes you two. And for future reference, make out in private behind a closed door. My son has enough bad influences without having to watch the two of you groping each other.”

The Navy SEAL’s complexion reddened as she spoke, and he managed to look both abashed and defiant at the same time. However, within mere seconds, silence reigned in the kitchen and everyone vanished, including Rolan.

It was the second time within two days she had to prepare a mediocre meal and the whole situation had her nerves grated raw and open. By the time Austen cleared away the crew’s lunch dishes, Sarita had made a decision.

She took off her white apron, hung it on a steel peg, and headed to Tony’s cabin. His door stood open and he lay sprawled on his stomach across the single bed. Not even an explosion could rouse her son from a deep sleep. They’d long ago given up on regular alarms, and instead used the stereo, sound turned up to full blast, to get him out of bed. Dropping a kiss near his cut, she tucked a blanket around him and left.

Pulling the door closed, she turned and bumped into Austen.

“We didn’t expect you back until tomorrow, Sarita. I thought I had the boat to myself. Otherwise I would’ve taken Yvonne to my cabin.”

“Forget it, Austen, I overreacted. I’m sorry I snapped at you and I hope I didn’t embarrass Madame Yvonne too much.”

“No worries, lovey.” He dragged a hand through his coarse hair. “I figured you’d come back last night after Suresh phoned Rolan.”

“’Scuse me? Do you mean Suresh told Rolan about Tony’s stitches last night?” Her fingers clamped her pelvis bone so tightly the flesh stung.

“Uh-oh. Hey, forget what I said, will you? I don’t need them mad at me, too.”

“I’m not mad at you Austen, definitely not you. Now, if you’ll get out of my way, I have to see someone.”

Indignation, anxiety, rickety self-confidence all transformed into rage, and she marched down the corridor and yanked open Rolan’s cabin door. And froze.

Cindy-something lounged on the bed, one hand propping her chin, the other flipping through a glossy magazine. Vacuous powder blue eyes swept her way and then back to a photograph. She flipped the publication around and pointed one scarlet-tipped nail to the centerfold. “I gave Rolan an autographed copy, see? He’s such a sweetie. He keeps it on the bedside table. I’m probably the last thing he sees before he falls asleep.”

Sarita stifled a gag.

“I hope you give good head, sweetie. Rolan likes his cock sucked at least twice a day. Maybe I should give you some lessons. He likes threesomes, too. You could always join us tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“He didn’t tell you? We’re motoring up to San Remo and he invited us to stay a couple of days.”

Sarita fled to the kitchen and encountered Shannon Cartwright hefting a bottle of Cristal champagne out of the fridge.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our little pagan from the wrong side of the tracks,” she said in that perfect sultry Lauren Bacall drawl. “Come up in the world, have we? Rumor has it you blackmailed Rolan into marrying you. The poor man seems obsessed with his bastard son.”

“You leave my son out of this.” Sarita’s fists clenched so tight her nails felt like daggers. “Get out of my kitchen.”

“Your kitchen?” One golden eyebrow arched. “I think Geoff would object to that, but then again it is where you belong. Rolan requested some Cristal. You do know his favorite way to drink champers?” She bared her teeth in a macabre imitation of a smile.

As soon as Shannon vanished down the hallway, Sarita dashed to her cabin, threw open the head, and emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. Her fingers trembled when she poured mouthwash into a cup.

Ten years.

It had taken ten years to wipe away the taint attached to her Hindu father and her Catholic mother’s mixed marriage. Ten years to realize she belonged nowhere, neither white nor Indian, neither Christian nor pagan, she fit into no established stereotype. Ten years to forge her own path, create her own destiny, become confident in her ability to not only survive, but also rise above malicious small-town gossip.

And then Shannon Cartwright appeared and all the old insecurities soared right back into familiar crevices, slumping her shoulders and averting her eyes from direct stares. She caught a sight of her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

The pitiful cowed creature in the mirror would not win. With that avowal, Sarita squared her shoulders, gritted her teeth, stripped, and stepped into the shower. She planned the dinner menu while enjoying the cascading warm water and then relived every nuance of her and Rolan’s honeymoon, every time they’d been together.

A knock sounded on the door as she opened a drawer. “Mom? Can I come in?”

“Door’s open, son,” she replied, shrugging on a worn bathrobe.

Knuckling sleep-swollen eyes, Tony shuffled into the room. “You okay Mom? I hate it when you faint like that. Is your anemia back? You haven’t fainted in ages.”

“Come here and give me a hug, Anthony Rolan Khan,” she said, opening her arms.

Tony walked into her embrace and when she drew back to reassure him, Sarita realized he looked down at her. “When did you get taller than me?”

“Hey,” he whooped and yanked one elbow to his waist in a celebratory gesture. “I am. I’m taller than you, Mom. Holy moly. I can’t wait to tell Dad.”

A sudden grin curved her mouth as she watched him do a little warrior dance around the tiny cabin. “You may be taller, Anthony, but I’m in charge here.”

“Don’t spoil my fun, Mom. I wonder if I’ll grow taller than Dad. Wouldn’t that be something?”

He waggled wheat eyebrows in a gesture so reminiscent of Rolan, an ache formed in her chest.

“And I want you to call me Tony. Dad does.”

She hugged her shoulders as the realization struck, not only had he grown taller, but he had become more and more independent during their stint in the Mediterranean. This new assertiveness would become more and more prevalent. She sat on the mattress and patted the space besides her. “Sit, Tony. I have a surprise planned for tonight’s dinner and I need your help.”

Chapter Eleven

Everyone always said he had been born with, not a silver spoon, but a platinum one. Rolan swallowed a mouthful of brandy, dipped his stogie in the liquor, and then took a deep pull off the cigar. His ash circle drifted above the
Glory
stern railing and dissipated over a Mediterranean so azure, so brilliant, it almost hurt to look at its smooth surface. He figured that platinum spoon had gone the way of his cigar smoke since reconnecting with Sarita.

Somehow Rizzo had maneuvered the whole expedition to San Remo and he had a hunch the young cockerel would maneuver to extend the duration of the trip. Cooped up on a yacht with two of his former lovers and his new wife, his luck couldn’t stink more than that.

Or so he’d thought until he found Cindy-something nude in his bed getting off with a double-headed dildo. Before he could bang the door shut and hustle her out pronto, Harry had materialized behind him.

And Harrison Indiana Ford was famous for not being able to keep a secret.

It had taken over thirty minutes to sort that disaster out. Rolan changed the bed linens himself, had a shower, and dressed. The master still held a hint of the cloying perfume Cindy-something favored, so he sprayed a whole can of Lysol into every corner of the room and over the bed sheets. Torn between a desperate need to hold Sarita in his arms and a very real fear of rejection, he opted for solitude instead.

During a search of the cabin for the murder mystery he had been reading, Rolan came across a legal-size envelope on the sideboard bearing his name. The flowery writing seemed familiar and for a brief moment hope soared. He tore the flap open only to discover nude photographs of him and Shannon in the old high school locker room. He’d checked the cabin door to ensure it was locked before tearing the three pictures into tiny scraps.

Jesus.

It was as if he had his own personal plague hovering above, waiting, waiting. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out the last handful of the photo pieces and let them drop into the ocean. He couldn’t even begin to guesstimate how teed off Sarita would be if she’d encountered Cindy in his room or found those damned photos.

“Hiding out, boyo?” Terrence O’Connor’s Irish brogue held a hint of amusement.

“You bet,” he replied and moved over to make room for the Captain.

Both men favored the same stance, one foot propped on a lower rail, forearms resting on the top one. They puffed on their stogies in companionable silence as the
Glory
parted the smooth surface of the sea. A good two miles off the coast and with no other vessels in sight, a rare occurrence in the Mediterranean, the humming of the ship’s engines, seagulls’ cries, and the mingled aromas of cigar and brine provided the only punctuation to their serenity.

“Sarita requested we dock in that private Italian bay for dinner. She’s also announced that canapés will be served in the entertainment area half an hour before the meal.”

“What kind of mood is my wife in?” Rolan cut to the captain’s profile.

“Let’s put it this way, boyo, she was so polite and so nice, it gave me the heebie-jeebies. She never once looked me in the eye and we spoke for a good ten minutes.”

“Jesus. I was afraid of that. She’s pissed.”

“I’m not sure pissed is the right word, but she’s definitely up to something.”

“Where’s Tony?”

“Below deck somewhere.”

“Do me a big one, and find him and send him up here. I can at least get her temperature from him.”

“Will do once I finish this,” Terry waved the half-smoked cigar. “Rumor has it that this Shannon used to be your old high school flame.”

Rolan straightened. “Where’d you hear that?”

“The old flame herself. It seems she and Rizzo had a thing going for a while, and he let loose that the Pats were looking for new headquarters. She volunteered a prime piece of real estate. Rizzo invited her to Monte Carlo and introduced her to Suresh. She was at your wedding.”

“Crap,” Rolan snapped. “If Sarita had seen her, I don’t know what in the blasted hell she would have done. Do me another favor and keep that tidbit under wraps.” He turned, strode to the deck’s bar, and stubbed the stogie out in a square crystal ashtray.

“Before you go boyo, there’s one more thing you should know.”

“More good news?”

“Geoff’s meeting us in San Remo. Seems that model-turned-singer you’ve dated off and on over the past couple of years is with him.”

“Brianna’s coming? What in the damned hell is this? The annual conference of women who’ve slept with Rolan Paxton? Why the hell would Geoff do that to me?”

“He doesn’t know about you and Sarita, boyo. Don’t go taking it personally.”

Rolan left Terry on the main deck and forced his feet in the direction of the galley

Empty.

Not a person in sight. His shoulders hunched, he made his way to Sarita’s cabin and knocked softly.

“Sarita honey, it’s me,” he said and rapped again. The doorknob turned in his grip and he edged the door open.

Empty.

The head, too.

Same results for Tony. None of the below deck cabins were occupied; that meant Austen, Harry, Sarita, and Tony were AWOL. Just as he started up the stairs to the stateroom deck, the ship’s horn blew. They had arrived in San Remo.

Geoff and Brianna boarded as soon as the boat docked.

Then the locusts swarmed.

Cindy, Shannon, Rizzo, and Suresh all appeared in the entertainment area. Turned out Brianna and Cindy often partied together in New York, so they went into Valley girl speak along with the flaying hands, and fluttering fingers, and the shrieked, “Shut ups!”

His temples throbbed and he went to the bathroom in search of a couple of aspirin. By the time Rolan returned to the entertainment area, an outing to the trendy local spots had been arranged.

“What’s up?” Geoff cornered Rolan as soon as he closed the door to the head.

“I married Sarita two days ago. She and I went to the same high school. Tony’s my son.”

“What the --?”

“Pick your jaw off the floor, Geoff. What I don’t get is that you didn’t notice how much Tony looks like me. Or is it that you were too caught up with panting after my wife and you conveniently decided not to notice? Or to inform me?”

“Hold onto your high horses, chappie. Don’t take that tone with me. I am not one of your team members. I didn’t know you knew her. How could I? Calm down for Christ’s sake and use what’s left of your mental faculties. Wait a minute,” he said and tapped a finger against the dimple in his chin. “You’re sodding jealous. Rolan Paxton jealous. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

“Let’s take this above deck, shall we?”

Rolan calmed down by the time they hit the deck and he realized how irrational his accusations had been. He filled Geoff in on recent and past events. The rest of the happy passengers appeared on deck and a limo slid to a halt in front of their berth.

“Tell the driver to wait, Geoff. I’m going to get Sarita and Tony,” Rolan said and hurried down to the galley where he found Austen with a couple of wooden crates. An open crate revealed saucer-sized clay bowls.

“Where are Sarita and Tony?”

“They went into town, left about ten minutes ago. She wanted some fresh produce for tonight. Today is market day.”

“Damn. If she gets back before we do, will you let her know I need to speak with her?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Austen tipped his fingers to his temple in a familiar salute.

All afternoon a nagging feeling of impending disaster dogged Rolan, but he couldn’t pin down the reason. And between Cindy-something’s blatant come-ons and Shannon’s not-so-subtle hints about the wild sex they’d indulged in as teenagers, his headache mushroomed.

Two cruise ships had docked at a nearby port, and tourists with rented cars and scooters clogged the narrow city streets. Rolan told the driver to head to the local market after they had lunch. Managing to be the last one to enter the limo, he sat by the window and opted out of the who’s doing who gossip even Suresh seemed to relish.

Staring sightlessly out the window, wondering if all his past sins of indulgence had managed to catch up with him, a magnetic swaying backside caught his attention and he barked, “Stop the car!”

Before the vehicle braked to a halt, he had one foot on the sidewalk. Breaking into a sprint, he focused on those swaying globes and cursed as a herd of Japanese tourists milled in front of them, blocking his view.

He’d know that ass anywhere.

Rounding the corner of an ancient dirt-caked stone building, Rolan halted in the doorway of a large crowded market. Hordes of people lined shoulder to shoulder filled the wide paths between at least a dozen rows of stalls running the length of a football field. Sarita proved nowhere in sight. Rolan’s gritted his teeth. Not only had he caught a glimpse of his wife, but he could have sworn that he had seen Rizzo with her. For long seconds he surveyed the teeming market, crammed full with tourists, natives, and the odd eccentric peddling world peace, the environment. Nada.

“You okay?” Suresh materialized at his side.

“Yeah. I think I may head back to the
Glory
. I haven’t had much sleep over the last few days. I’ll see you for dinner tonight.”

“You sure? We can drop you off.”

“Nah, I’ll walk.”

Rolan didn’t notice anything on the way back to the docks. Immersed in sorting out the deep insecurity the mere presence of Rizzo generated, his crazy reaction to Sarita, the future awaiting the three of them, the two miles to the dock seemed to take mere minutes. But in actuality, dusk set before he reached the
Glory
and he halted on the pier, transfixed by what he saw.

Outlined in flickering light, the yacht glowed like a Cinderella’s castle from a fairy tale. Tiny flames covered every inch of the ship’s railings on the lower, middle, and upper decks.

And the scent of coconut assailed his nostrils.

It took some time before he registered the limo’s arrival, and only when he heard the murmured voices did he turn to note the passengers exiting from the vehicle.

“Wow,” Suresh exclaimed. “All the way here we heard murmurs about the fairy boat. Your wife is nothing short of astounding. I know what this is and she’s won me over completely. You are one lucky son of a bitch.”

In what seemed like slow motion, they made their way on board the Glory. Tiny clay circles filled with coconut oil displayed a thick wick burnishing a glowing flame. Hundreds of pots lined the boat’s railings and decorated the tables scattered about the lower deck.

“Hi boss,” Austen greeted him, tipping his usual two-fingered salute. “This way.” He gestured to the stairs leading to the entertainment area.

Rolan didn’t realize he had held his breath until he sighted the dining table. He exhaled then, taking in the exotic dishes lining its surface, and inhaled absorbing the hint of cumin, coriander, and curry in the air. Hibiscus flowers, orchids, and bougainvillea accentuated the white plates holding here, jumbo shrimp dotted with red pepper flakes, there, what seemed like square tortillas sprinkled with chopped parsley, and in the center of the table, a massive silver dish displaying cubes of beef in a cream-colored sauce.

And then he spotted Sarita and his lungs refused to function, his limbs refused every mental command. She wore a fuchsia-colored outfit decorated at its edges with tiny embroidered silver flowers. The sleeved midriff top fitted her petite form like a second skin and her nipples punctuated the silk material. Partially obscured by the soft textile, her navel held the pink diamond he’d given her and an intricate pattern of brown symbols outlined the round indentation.

Of their own volition, his feet moved and he stopped only when mere centimeters separated them. Amber eyes manacled his and once again organs refused to function. One finger traced the ornate silver headband decorating the bronzed skin of her forehead and he realized he had no control left. None. Instinct alone drove him.

“We should get married again, and you should wear this. What is it?”

“It’s a sari, traditional dress for Indian women.”

He fingered the transparent material curving over one shoulder. “I never seen this before, but it looks familiar.”

“It’s a lotus, the national flower of India. The flowers are hand embroidered as a border for the whole outfit. This piece came from my paternal grandmother who did the embroidery herself.”

“I like it. A lot.” He fitted his hands around her waist and one thumb traced the hennaed pattern around her belly button. “Did you do another mehndi? Where I suggested?”

Sarita dipped her chin in an almost imperceptible nod. His prick surged to firing point and she was fully dressed. “And I like where this is.” One finger touched the pink diamond nestled in her navel.

“Hey Dad.” Tony careened into the room and screeched to a halt besides them.

Rolan’s lips curved and all his doubts and diffidence dissipated.

“What’d ya think?” The young boy waved a hand down his body.

“Interesting,” Rolan said. “What is it?”

“It’s a dhoti,” Sarita answered. “Traditional Hindu dress for males. The vest is Arabic. Tony refused to wear the traditional kurta.”

“It’s too hot, Mom,” Tony complained. “’Sides, this looks more like what Orlando Bloom wore in
Pirates of the Caribbean
. Look, Dad, I even have a fake machete.” The young boy slashed a curved silver plastic sword through the air.

“Sarita.” Suresh hipped Rolan aside and clasped his wife’s fingers in both hands. He touched her fingertips to his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Tony and I celebrate Diwali every year.”

“Diwali?” Geoff asked as he joined their little group.

“The festival of light, it signifies the triumph of good over evil. Those clay pots are called diyas or deepas, and people line their driveways with hundreds of them so that the light overcomes the darkness. It’s a symbol of the lifting of the spiritual darkness within each human being.”

“Diwali is one of the most important Hindu festivals. It’s the equivalent of your Christmas, Rolan,” Suresh said. “I’m honored, Sarita. And all these Indian dishes.”