The Hotel Riviera (17 page)

The powerful Ducati ate up the miles, threading easily through the traffic out of Menton. Patrick crossed the border into Italy at Ventimiglia, where he stopped to get a quick sugar-laced espresso at a small bar, before pushing on. He soon arrived at the small seaside town of San Remo, where there was a rather grand hotel, the Hotel Rossi.

He swerved into the circular driveway in a throttled roar, parked the bike in the prime spot reserved for him in front, next to his new metallic-blue Mercedes, cut off the engine, swung his leg over, and stretched his limbs.

“Signor March, welcome back.” The doorman touched his cap, smiling.

“Grazie, Nico,”
Patrick said, tipping him a couple of euros, despite the fact that all he had done was open the big glass door for him.

Everyone here knew him as Signor March. His driver's license, his identification, all his papers now stated that he was Cosmo March, a French national, from Paris. His hair was closely cropped, almost shaved, and it was remarkable how just that had changed his whole appearance. Not that it mattered; nobody here in Italy gave a damn that he was someone other than Cosmo March. Which, by the way, was the name of Lola's father. Well, almost. Her father's name had been Michael Cosmo March, but Patrick had dispensed with the Michael when he'd taken on his identity.

To the people of this small resort town, he was just another rich guy, whiling away his time at a seaside hotel, though the puzzle was why he wasn't at some even grander hotel, in one of the more fashionable spots, like Portofino, or Santa Margarita di Ligure.

These were actually places Patrick would have preferred, but in San Remo he was half an hour from Monaco and the Solis yacht. And therefore close to Evgenia, who managed to slip away on the pretext of shopping to meet him in the small villa he'd rented in Menton. He never went there unless he was meeting Evgenia. He preferred the slightly more urban delights of the San Remo hotel and cafés and even the beach club where he met pretty girls. Nobody had written fidelity into the contract he'd made with Evgenia, though she probably would have killed him had she known. Still, a leopard can't change his spots and Patrick wasn't about to try.

And then, of course, there was the casino, second only to the one in Monte Carlo, and where he had become a well-known high-stakes player. Once a gambler always a gambler.

The Hotel Rossi was built in the grand style of the early 1900s when
luxe
was the word. The entrance hall, with its massive columns, soared to a great height, and there was a domed ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs and the rays of an everlasting sun. The marble floors rang under the clatter of high heels and the high chatter of children's voices as they hurried out with their parents for the evening
passeggiatina,
the stroll around the café-lined promenade that everyone participated in. They greeted those they knew with warm embraces and slaps on the shoulder, and eyed those they didn't know inquisitively, assessing their clothing and jewels and hairdos, because in Italy a
bella figura,
the way a woman was turned out, was essential to her standing.

In the hotel, gilded consoles topped with tall bouquets and enormous mirrors lined the hall. Stiff sofas and chairs in gold silk were scattered around, though no one was ever seen sitting on them. It was very different from the Hotel Riviera.

Patrick went directly to the bar overlooking the leafy courtyard at the back of the hotel. The white-jacketed bar-man greeted him by name and, without asking, brought him his usual Campari and soda.

“You have good day, Signor March?” he asked, and Patrick smiled and admitted that yes, he'd had a pretty good day,
grazie
. They discussed the weather, the latest soccer results, and the talent contest that was to take place that night at the beach club. Then Patrick took the elevator up to his suite on the top floor, not the grandest suite in the hotel but suitable for a rich man alone, like himself.

He took the packet from his jacket and inspected the seal. It had been sent FedEx to the Banque du Soleil in Menton, to Monsieur C. March, and the seal was intact. He put the envelope down on the Biedermeier desk, then walked into the bathroom, shedding his clothes. He stood under the cool shower for ten minutes, washing away the grime of the day and the exhaustion and anxiety that always accompanied his expeditions into France, when he wondered whether he would be recognized, what he would say if he were. And also how he would explain the contents of the packet.

Cool again, he put on the hotel robe, a waffle-weave fine cotton, white piped in navy with the hotel's monogram on the breast pocket. He took a bottle of Pellegrino from the well-stocked minibar, flung himself into the chair, and took a long drink of the water.

He turned the packet over in his fingers. Finally, he ripped it open and looked at the contents. A bundle of dollars, fifties, hundreds, folded inside a Post-it with the written notation “$110,000.” Plus a pair of earrings, large tear-shaped pearls swinging on the end of diamond drops. The earrings were wrapped in a scrap of chiffon the color of the setting sun. He held it up, laughing. Evgenia had sent her underpants, the thong she'd been wearing yesterday when she had FedExed the package to him. He held it to his face, breathing in the scent of her.

He walked to the window and stood looking down at the busy street and the rows of striped cabanas dotting the long stretch of beach opposite. It was late and they were empty, the beach boys were cleaning up, shaking out the cushions, arranging the chairs back in straight lines, emptying ashtrays, raking the sand. At the edge of the water, a small girl played at chasing the sea, running forward when the wave receded, shrieking with delight when it chased her back again. Her blond hair shone in the sunlight and her happy cries delighted him. He wondered what a child of his and Evgenia's would look like. Maybe a blond miniature of Evgenia, sweet though like this one, innocent…

Patrick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His days of innocence were almost over.

He paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth. He couldn't go on like this much longer. The good life in a small seaside town, even in a luxury hotel, was not his idea of a good time. He needed his freedom. He needed to be “alive” again.

He contemplated the pile of dollars on the desk. Then he went into the bedroom, got dressed, brushed his hair, dabbed a hint of cologne over his unshaven stubble.

He picked up the money, sorted it into denominations, the fifties and the hundreds, and put it in his inside jacket pocket. Life was to be lived. He headed for the San Remo casino.

Lola

I never wanted to leave this boat, I wanted to be rocked by the gentle sea forever. I wanted to shut out reality and curl up in Jack Farrar's arms and not even think about the future. But two days had passed, my time was running out.

I looked at Jack, sleeping beside me in the bed built into the bow of the sloop. Outside the twin portholes, the sea lapped, tranquil as only the Mediterranean can be on a perfect night. All the portholes and doors were open and a breeze blew through the cabin, stirring Jack's hair. I touched it; it was crisp and springy, full of life under my fingers. That's just the way Jack was. Full of life. And now he'd brought his personal energy force into my own life. A few wonderful nights of passion was all it was going to be, then he would be on his way again. He was a true sailor, happiest when he was at sea with only his dog for company.

What went through his thoughts out there alone? I wondered. Did he think about the girls he knew? Would he think about me? Would I soon become a distant figure, a mere ghost from his past? I sighed. Jack Farrar's future was set in stone, and my own future was dissolving before my eyes.

I wondered, briefly, where I could get the money to start up a restaurant. I'd just about scraped through financially this summer. What little “profit” there was would have to get me through the off season, though if I had to leave the hotel and find somewhere else to live, I didn't know how I would manage. I simply didn't have the funds.

Jack turned over, and I spooned into him, wrapped my arms around him. He was my knight in shining armor. He'd come to rescue the damsel in distress and he'd done everything he could. Jack Farrar had come to help me, not fall in love with me, and that's just the way it was.

I pressed my body against his, breathing in the soft male scent of his skin, remembering our lovemaking these past few days. He was a tender man under that tough mariner exterior, a man sensitive enough to bring me soft-boiled eggs and toast soldiers to make me feel better, a man gentle enough to bury Scramble and plant a flower on her grave. A man who'd taken me into his sea world for a few days and looked after me as though he really loved me. And perhaps he did, I thought as I drifted off to sleep, though I guessed only for the moment, because I knew that was the way Jack was.

When I awoke, the sun was up and Jack was gone. Bad Dog was at the foot of the bed, tongue lolling, staring wonderingly at me. I patted the bed and he jumped up and nuzzled my face.

“You're a good boy, you know that,” I said, running my fingers through his wiry fur, smiling because there was something about the mutt's eager expression that made you smile.

Jack stood at the foot of the steps, barefoot and half-naked, looking at me. “How do you feel this morning, Lola March?” he said, coming toward me and planting a kiss on my mouth. His skin was damp from his swim and he smelled briny and fresh and of all things simple and good.

I flung back the sheet and wriggled to the foot of the bed. “I'm going swimming,” I said, “catch me if you can.” I dashed through the small cabin up the few steps onto the deck. I posed there, naked, arms above my head, just the way Jack had the first time I had seen him, then I dived. The cool clear water closed over me, shocking my sleepy body awake, sending tingles of pleasure through every nerve ending.

I opened my eyes and peered into a crystalline world. Tiny fish darted all around me, scared no doubt by my large presence. I stayed under until I could breathe no longer, then I shot to the surface like a cork from a champagne bottle, laughing and yelling. Next minute, Jack had jumped in, followed by Bad Dog, and we all dog-paddled around, chasing each other and laughing. Oh, it was so
good
to feel so happy, so carefree, so alive. I never wanted this moment to end.

But, as no doubt Miss N would have said, all good things must end, which I certainly hoped was not true, but in this case I knew it was. Back on the sloop, I showered the salt water from my body, pulled on my shorts and one of Jack's T-shirts—I hadn't brought any clothes with me in our spur-of-the-moment getaway. I ran a comb through my long wet hair, pushed the bangs out of my eyes, and scooped it all back in a ponytail. Then I joined Jack on deck.

“We're out of coffee and food,” he said. “How about breakfast in Saint-Tropez?”

“Sounds good to me,” I agreed, and we climbed into the little dinghy. The dog jumped in after us, and we chugged across the sea toward the town. I looked back at the Hotel Riviera, alone and neglected, on its beautiful promontory. I vowed I would fight for it to the end.

Evgenia

Evgenia Solis strode past her husband without so much as a glance his way. She leaned on the deck rail, watching a small boat carving a foamy wake through the calm blue Mediterranean. She heard Solis behind her but she did not turn to greet him. She didn't even want to look at him, though he owned her as surely as any other man owned a priceless piece of art. Evgenia was a rich man's wife, but that did not mean she was a rich woman.

She had been born Evgenia Muldova, in poverty in Russia, one of seven children, all girls. Her parents worked in a local factory and all nine of them lived in two rooms, considered lavish accommodation by local standards. But not by Evgenia, the youngest and the beauty. No one understood exactly what gene pool Evgenia had evolved from, since her siblings were short, brown-haired, and sallow-skinned like their parents. And all six of them followed their parents into the factory.

Evgenia took a long look at their lives: at their home and at the factory. The horror of it made her blond hair stand on end. She was destined for better things. At fifteen, she left—without a word. She never saw her family again. Lying about her age, she worked the clubs in Saint Petersburg, as a dancer/hostess, whatever euphemism you care to use.

Meeting men was easy; but meeting men who were willing to help her was not. Still, she was making money and they indulged her passion for clothes and the occasional bauble; nothing of any great value, but because she was young and had never had a gift in her life, they pleased her.

She'd finally been brought to Europe by a man who “handled” women like her, and it was there that she met Laurent Solis.

It was in Saint-Tropez at Les Caves du Roy nightclub at the Hotel Byblos. As always it was packed, jammed too tight even to dance. Impatient with the crowd, Evgenia clambered over the silver-haired man sitting alone on a banquette, then up onto his table, where she proceeded to dance.

She was aware of herself, of the impact she was making, and that all eyes were on her. Especially the man whose table she had chosen for her dance floor. Arms waving over her head, her silvery dress catching the light, tossing her long blond hair, totally abandoned to the music, she was also aware of the man. She took in the immaculate white linen shirt, the dark glasses, the pricey magnum of Cristal, unpoured. She noted his expensive watch and the fact that he was at the best table in a club where money and celebrity were the main virtues, followed only by looks and style. He was older, but he looked important, and rich.

She stopped dancing and stood, hands on her hips, swaying slightly to the music, looking down at him.

Laurent Solis looked up at her, a blond goddess on the pinnacle of his table; he took in the length of her slender legs and the sheen of youth and sweat on her skin. And he wanted her. He took her back to his yacht, he showed her he was a powerful, rich man, that the world was his. And Evgenia, shrewd little peasant girl that she was, refused to sleep with one of the richest men in the world, even though he promised her a fur coat and a diamond necklace and just about any other darn thing she wanted. Evgenia wanted marriage, and she got it.

What she wasn't clever enough to get, though, being unsophisticated in the ways of the real world of the very rich, was a prenuptial agreement. And so now here she was, just a “rich man's wife.”

It was better than being poor, certainly. She had unlimited credit at every store in Monaco and Cannes, in Paris and London and New York. She could buy as many designer clothes as she wished. She was a regular customer at top jewelers, though Solis had to approve purchases above a certain price. But he was shrewd, too, and knew that to keep her he had to allow her a bit of freedom. He bought her a Ferrari, but not a Gulf stream jet; a sable coat, but not her own house.

In any woman's terms, Evgenia would seem to have it made, but her mind worked on a more basic level. How to take Laurent Solis for as much money as possible, because who knew when he might trade her in for the latest Riviera beauty. After all, he was a serial bridegroom: Evgenia was his fifth wife. Her time was limited, she had better make it fast.

Ever the peasant, she began in a small way with the clothes, buying at the shows in Paris and Milan, then selling them on immediately, usually at half the price, which, the way she spent, amounted to a tidy sum. She bought a couple of expensive cars, then pouted sweetly to Solis that she didn't like them after all. Since she had taken care to buy them in her own name, she was able to sell them on and bank the change. Then she hit the jewelry, big time, only she didn't tell Solis she was buying and selling, and of course she still had the important pieces to flaunt whenever he wanted to see her dressed up, and plenty of diamonds to give her enough glitz to satisfy her and to fool him. Anyhow, for her, jewelry was as good as money in the bank.

But Solis was nobody's fool and he was dangerous. Evgenia knew she had to be careful. There had to be an end to all this; she couldn't just go on stealing the “petty cash.” She had a couple of million stashed by now but she needed more. She needed big money. She needed to be rid of Solis. She was seriously thinking about pushing him off the yacht some dark night, remembering the way the newspaper mogul Robert Maxwell had been found floating in the sea, somewhere around here, wasn't it? But before she could do that, she would have to make sure she had the lion's share of the Solis estate.

And that's when Evgenia met Patrick Laforêt and decided he was her destiny. But now Evgenia had a plan. She knew it wasn't just Lola that was keeping him from doing what she wanted. It was that awful little Hotel Riviera. It had been Patrick's father's place, and his grandfather's before that, and he loved it. Sentimentality did not exist in Evgenia's vocabulary. With the hotel gone, the land would be free of “family memories.” It would be free of Lola because she would be out of a job. It would be easy to make Lola disappear, just like the hotel. In fact, maybe she could arrange for both to happen at the same time. All she would have to do was strike the first blow. Falcon would take care of the rest.

Still ignoring her husband, Evgenia walked along the deck and up the flight of steps to the swimming pool, casting off her sarong on the way.

Following her, Solis picked it up, watching her long muscular legs as she strode up the stairs, the smooth upward tilt of her rump in the thong, the delicate curve of her breasts as she took off her bikini top. He held the sarong to his nose, breathing in the scent of her.

Evgenia could feel his eyes on her, like a vulture, devouring her flesh. She posed for a moment, giving him his money's worth. Then she dived cleanly into the smooth sparkly waters of the marble pool.