by Judith Gould
“I see,” Ariadne said.
“And you’re not like that, nor are you used to having them hanging around all the time.”
“You know what?” Ariadne asked.
“What?”
“Part of that problem could be solved if you—or I, as Nikoletta—insisted that Matt become the new head of the personal security detail.”
Adrian was struck by this terrific idea. “You sometimes surprise me, Ariadne,” he said. “That’s an excellent suggestion. I wonder why none of us thought of it.”
“Well, sometimes the best solutions are right in front of your face, aren’t they?”
The next day before lunch, Sugar Rosebury arrived in triumph, accompanied by a wealth of luggage. “There can’t be much left in New York City’s best shops,” she crowed. “But that’s not all. I had great success all-round.”
“What happened?” Ariadne asked.
“Well, first I had a little visit with Nikoletta,” Sugar said conspiratorially.
“Yes?”
“And we had a little girl-to-girl chat. You know”—Sugar’s smile widened—“I told her that I didn’t want to steal her thunder and wear something similar or, God forbid, the very same outfit to the fete as she’s planning to wear.”
“Do you think the chances of something like that happening are possible?” Ariadne asked in amazement.
“They are so remote,” Sugar said, rolling her eyes. “I doubt it would ever happen, even if we do wear the same designers sometimes. But the idea that I would try to avoid stealing any of her thunder appealed to Nikoletta’s vanity. Anything that appeals to her vanity always works wonders. So, guess what happened then?”
Ariadne shook her head. “You know I have no idea.”
“She showed me her outfit for the opening. Is that a coup?”
“I guess so,” Ariadne replied doubtfully.
“Sweetheart, think about it,” Sugar said. “Now we know exactly what she’s wearing that night, and we can copy it!”
“Ohhhh,” Ariadne said with dawning realization. “I can’t wait to see.” She found she had a growing interest in fashion. It had never seemed important to her before, perhaps because she had never been able to afford to indulge her tastes, but she was discovering that it could be fun.
“Go ahead,” Sugar said. “Open these suitcases and take a look.”
Ariadne went to the nearest piece of luggage, laid it flat, and flipped open the brass hinges. It was filled with shoe boxes. She glanced at Sugar to make certain that she had permission.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Go on,” Sugar urged her. “They’re yours.”
“Mine?” Ariadne clasped her hands in disbelieving wonder. “This is like . . . Christmas!”
“Try them on,” Sugar said.
Ariadne chose a box and opened it, then donned a single shoe—Christian Louboutin, it said. It was a perfect fit. She studied it closely. Never in her life had she seen such superb craftsmanship, such delicate artistry. And merely for shoes, she couldn’t help thinking.
“Now try on those Manolo Blahniks,” Sugar commanded. “They’re in that black box at the far corner.”
Hesitantly Ariadne opened the box and parted the tissue. She let out a gasp as she held up a pair of pointy-toed, backless, stiletto-heeled shoes fashioned of gold-dyed python. Attached to each pair were lengths of very thin gold-dyed ankle straps, also of python.
Ariadne was mind-boggled. “These . . . are shoes?”
“They’re not just shoes, sweetie,” Sugar corrected her. “They’re killer shoes!” She helped Ariadne into them, and showed her how to wrap the ankle straps and secure them.
Again, the fit was perfect, but Ariadne wobbled as she walked across the room in them. Unused to heels, let alone stiletto heels without backs, she discovered that she was going to need practice.
“Now,” Sugar announced, “for the pièce de résistance.” She herself opened another suitcase and lifted out a big flat white box tied with a silk ribbon. She handed it to Ariadne.
Ariadne was almost overwhelmed by the beauty of the package itself and only stared down at it.
“What are you waiting for?” Sugar said. “Open it.”
Sitting on the floor, Ariadne carefully began untying the silk ribbon. As she would with a Christmas package, she proceeded slowly, planning to roll up the ribbon neatly to save.
“No, no, no!” Sugar said. “Unwrap it like Nikoletta would. Tear it off like you can’t wait to get what’s inside.”
“But it’s such pretty—”
“Tear it,” Sugar commanded.
Wincing inside, Ariadne did as she was told, then lifted the lid off the box. She parted the sea of white tissue, and her breath caught in her throat. She lifted out a shoulderless sheath concocted of thick flat lengths of genuine, gold-dyed python stitched together in a chevron pattern. She was speechless.
“It was designed by Cavalli,” Sugar said enthusiastically, “and I snagged the last one. Only a few were made, and there were only two left in the whole country. Nikoletta got the one in New York, and there was one on Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles and one in Las Vegas. This one came from Rodeo Drive because the bubbleheaded girl in Las Vegas promised to save me the one she had and send it, then forgot and sold it to somebody else.”
“My God!” Ariadne breathed, running her hands over the sheath. “Real snakeskin! Why, it must have cost a king’s ransom. And think of all those poor snakes.”
“Listen, sweetie,” Sugar declared, “the reason God put snakes on this earth was for shoes, handbags, belts, and dresses like this.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Ariadne said, although she thought the dress was truly beautiful.
“I’m kidding,” Sugar said. “The dress is made of naturally shed skins.”
“I see,” Ariadne said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Now, why don’t you try it on?” Sugar said. “Let’s go upstairs.” She took Ariadne’s hand and led the way.
It was a struggle. Despite her weight-loss regimen, Ariadne had to hold her breath just to squeeze into it, and although she managed, the dress was obviously too tight.
“Sorry, but you’ll have to starve yourself for the next week,” Sugar told her. “That and the diuretics should get rid of the excess weight, so no one will be able to tell you and Nikoletta apart.” She paused, studying Ariadne. “But you know what?”
“What?” Ariadne asked, still looking at her reflection in the mirror.
“You look smashing, Ariadne,” she stated. “And what a sexpot you are!”
“Ohhh!” Ariadne exclaimed. “I . . . I don’t know. It exposes so much of my flesh, Sugar,” she groaned. “Look at my cleavage!” She gestured in distress at the way the cut of the dress accentuated her bosom.
Sugar was at her most maternal. “Those are natural resources, sweetie,” she said gently. “Think of them as God-given gifts. You’ve got to remember, you’re not in the wilds of the Berkshires anymore.”
Ariadne looked at herself in the mirror. Sugar is right, she realized. I’m certainly not in Kansas anymore!
As she continued to study the new person in the mirror, she thought, What I am involved in is a Byzantine, highly convoluted, and doubtlessly illegal plot. Surprisingly, she found that she was enjoying it.
Chapter Twenty-six
The day had been exhilarating but exhausting. Ariadne had discovered that as beautiful as the clothes, shoes, and accessories were, trying everything on became a grueling exercise after a while. With each change of attire, Sugar had fiddled with her hair and tried different shoes and accessories, determining the best overall look for Ariadne in the various outfits. When they finally finished, they celebrated with a glass of champagne and chitchat.
After dinner, Ariadne walked out to the garden alone, where she strolled among the well-tended perennial beds, inhaling the intoxicating scent that filled the air. It was a commingling of the aromas of many different flowers and herbs, and even the ri
ch earth itself. Sitting down on a weathered teak bench that was still warm from the sun of the day, she luxuriated in the beautiful, peaceful evening. She knew that Matt would join her, and soon she heard his footsteps on the garden path.
He quickly crossed to the bench and sat beside her, taking her hand in his. He kissed her cheek. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”
“I really am,” Ariadne replied, “but I wanted to come sit here with you for a while.”
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” He squeezed her hand in his.
“So quiet and peaceful,” Ariadne murmured.
“I think you’d better get to bed,” Matt said, brushing a stray tress of hair away from her face. “You can hardly hold your eyes open.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Matt said. “Tomorrow’s not going to be any easier than today, and as much as I would like to spend some special time with you tonight, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Ariadne reluctantly agreed. “You’re right. I feel like I could go to sleep here on this bench.”
Matt kissed her cheek again. “Come on,” he said, standing up, her hand still in his. “Let me walk you back to the house.”
Ariadne let him pull her to her feet. He took her in his arms and kissed her, but held her only a moment.
When they reached the house, he relinquished his hold of her hand. “Sleep well,” he said.
“What are you doing?” she asked, reluctant to part company.
“The usual,” he said. “Just checking on things. Now, off you go, Ariadne.” He smiled mischievously. “We’ll have a good time tomorrow, so you’ll need your energy, won’t you?”
She smiled dreamily and nodded. “ ’Night.”
“ ’Night.”
He watched her go on into the house, then turned and started his rounds of the property.
Ariadne undressed and got ready for bed. Instead of putting on one of her nightgowns, she slipped one of Matt’s T-shirts over her head. It was her newest and most favorite garment to sleep in, and she would gladly substitute it for all of the silk nightgowns and pajamas that Sugar had brought. Getting into bed, she pulled a sheet up over her and switched off the light. There was no point in even trying to read tonight. She could hardly hold her eyes open. She quickly fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
The stranger had already done his reconnaissance and knew exactly where to park and conceal his car, where to get into the compound, and where to enter the house. He also knew which bedroom she slept in.
At two a.m. all the lights in the compound had been out for hours. Nevertheless, at the foot of the curving stairwell, he stood stone still in his black cotton track-suit for a long time, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, his ears alert to the sound of any movement in the large house.
He could hear nothing but his own breathing.
He knew that the staircase with its old treads and risers was a potential source of noise, and when he took the first step onto it, he placed one rubber-soled track shoe down lightly as close to the wall as possible, testing it for squeaks. When there was no discernible sound, he brought the other leg up and lightly placed his foot on the step, next to the other one, willing the stair to make no sound. The step was cooperative.
He stood stock-still again, but as before could hear nothing other than the sound of his own breathing.
As perspiration began to sheathe his body, he placed a foot on the second step, once again as close to the wall as possible, gradually put his weight on it, then brought the second foot up, placing it lightly beside the other one. So far, so good. Repeating the process, he finally reached the curve in the stairwell without making a sound.
At the curve he paused, resting against the wall. Light from the moon barely penetrated the Palladian-style, second-story window because of the draperies drawn closed across it. Taking a deep breath, he began the long, tedious process again, placing first one shoe, then the other, on the next step.
He was three steps from the top when it happened. As if voicing a complaint, the stair emitted a loud squeak as he placed his shoe on it. The man stopped, sucking in his breath as he did so. His other foot was poised in midair, ready to descend onto the step next to its mate, but he held it there, unmoving, while he listened for any noise in the darkness.
Finally satisfied that he had alerted no one to his presence, he brought the other shoe down, holding his breath as he gradually put his weight on it. There was no protest, and the man quickly took the next step and the next, reaching the top of the stairs. He immediately crossed the landing and placed himself against the hallway wall, his eyes darting around the darkness, searching for anyone who might have heard him.
The house slumbered around him, quiet, still, and unknowing.
He began creeping down the hallway, staying as close to the wall as possible, where there was less likelihood of disturbing loose, noisy floorboards. Pale moonlight from a window at the end of the hall allowed him a dim view of the paintings that hung at intervals along the wall. He bent forward from the waist up so as to avoid them. The dim light also permitted him a view of his goal.
Her bedroom door.
With great patience he inched on. After what seemed an interminable amount of time, he finally reached the door. He drew a Heckler & Koch double-action, semiautomatic pistol fitted with a silencer out of his pocket, holding it pointed at the ceiling, his elbow bent, ready to bring it down to fire. Reaching down with his free hand, he slowly tried the doorknob. It turned smoothly and silently in his hand. The door wasn’t locked.
In a single fluid motion, he swung his body around on the ball of his right foot and eased his left foot down onto the floor. He stood squarely in front of the door now, ready to open it. He turned the brass knob again, held it, and slowly pushed it open a few inches, relieved that it hardly made a sound. It was a long way down the hallway and the steps, out the front door and across the lawn, and over the wall and down the road to his car. He didn’t want to alert anyone to his presence now.
He put his face to the space between the door and the jamb, his eyes scanning that part of the room within his view. Although the draperies were closed, he could make out the canopied bed in the dim light. And on it, he could detect a figure sheathed by a sheet. His mark: the young woman.
Easing the door open, he crept silently into the room. When he reached the side of the big draped bed, he brought his arm down, aiming the semiautomatic at her sleeping form. Her back was to him, but it didn’t matter. One dead-on shot would pierce her back and leave an exit wound the size of a melon.
He pulled back on the trigger, but paused a moment before shooting. Behind him, he thought he heard something, more a disturbance of the air than an actual noise. He started to look, but before he could turn his head all the way around Matt sprang from the doorway, his powerful arms extended, letting out a bellow of fury as he did so.
“Nooooooo.” The roar came from deep down inside him, so loud and animallike that the man was momentarily stunned.
Matt was a mere blur in his vision before the assassin felt the weight of Matt’s entire body thrown against him, hurling him to the floor. The pistol flew out of his hand, clattering loudly as it skipped across wood. The assassin’s head hit a bedside table with a dull thud, overturning it, sending a lamp and clock crashing noisily against the wide pine-board planking, scattering glass.
Before the assassin could move, Matt was on top of him, pinning him with his muscular arms. He heaved against Matt with all his strength, but Matt took the assassin’s head in his hands and smashed it against the floor, over and over. When he heard the man moan and felt him slump limply in his hands, Matt let go.
The room was suddenly bathed in light, and Matt jerked around. Ariadne stood at the doorway, her eyes widened in horror as she surveyed the scene. “What—?” she cried.
“I’m not sure yet,” Matt rasped, catching his breath. “I think it’s safe to say that this man just tried to kill you.�
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“Oh, my God,” Ariadne said. “Are you all right?”
Matt nodded. “I’m fine.”
They heard footsteps in the hallway, and Sugar, soon followed by Adrian, stood in the doorway. “What the hell?” Sugar cried. She rushed to Ariadne and put her arms around her.
Adrian stared at Matt. “Who is it?”
Matt shook his head. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I’ll question him after I’ve tied him up and gotten him out to the pool house.”
“Ariadne, why don’t you come with me?” Sugar said.
“No,” she replied. “I’m staying here with Matt.”
Matt was going to protest, but he saw the determination in her eyes. “Adrian, why don’t you take Sugar downstairs? Have a drink or something while we finish up here.”
“I don’t think—” Sugar began.
“Let’s go,” Adrian said, taking Sugar’s arm. “We’re only in the way.”
“Well . . . okay,” she agreed.
When they had left the room, Matt took Ariadne in his arms. “I could’ve lost you.” He hugged her firmly to him and felt a slight tremor in her body. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded. “Yes, really I am.”
“Okay,” Matt replied, knowing that she was being very brave. “Do you have some panty hose handy?”
“Panty hose?”
“Yes. I want to tie him up, and I don’t want to go downstairs or out to the garage to get some rope.”
Ariadne quickly opened a dresser drawer and handed several pairs of panty hose to Matt.
“Now, while I tie him up, see if you can find his gun,” Matt told her.
Ariadne looked about the bedroom, and her eyes soon alighted on the pistol. It lay menacingly on the floor against a closet door. She picked it up, examining it as she took it to Matt.
“Careful with that,” he said. “Here. Let me have it.” With one hand, he held both of the assassin’s, reaching for the pistol with his free one. When Ariadne handed it to him, he shoved it between the mattress and the box spring of the bed, concealing it from view.