by Nora Roberts
“I wouldn’t have made it without him—once I got it through my head he wasn’t the enemy.” She took the glass of juice and passed the waiter an American five. “You helped too. To second generation Hollywood brats.” She tapped her glass against Adrianne’s. “Your coming to the hospital to see me that time, talking to me even when I didn’t want to listen, telling me how difficult it had been to watch your mother lose herself. Addy, I’ve never been able to tell you, really tell you what that did for me.”
“You don’t have to. Michael was one of the few people who really cared about my mother. He wasn’t able to help her, but he tried.”
“I always thought he was a little in love with her. With both of you. I really hated you when we were kids.” Marjorie laughed and tapped her cigarette out. “Daddy used to talk about you all the time, what a model student you were, how well-bred and polite.”
“How revolting,” Adrianne added, and made Marjorie laugh again.
“So I inhaled, smoked, swallowed any drug I could get my hands on, married a creep I knew would abuse me, made a spectacle of myself in public whenever possible. In general, I did everything I could to make Daddy’s life miserable—and it nearly killed me. The anorexia was the last.”
“The key word is last.”
“Yes.” Marjorie smiled, the same quick, self-deprecating smile that had made her father famous. “Well, enough of all that. Did you know Althea was here?”
“Althea Gray? No.”
“Yes, indeed. Right—” Marjorie scanned the crowd, then honed in. “There.”
Deliberately, Adrianne tipped on her sunglasses before she looked. The actress was indeed present, wearing a snug tank and mini in hot pink.
“That outfit might be suitable for her teenage daughter, if she had one.”
“Althea always liked to show her talent,” Adrianne said.
“Her last two movies were bombs—I mean nuclear.”
“So I heard.” It didn’t interest her. She’d had her revenge on Althea years before. A particularly fine set of opals with diamond baguettes had translated into an anonymous contribution to the Retired Actors’ Fund.
“She had her thighs sucked a few months ago.”
“Meow.” But she couldn’t help taking a harder look at Althea’s legs.
“I gave up drinking and drugs and studs, Addy, let me have something. Oh, I heard another tidbit from tinsel town—about your mother’s former agent. Larry Curtis.”
Adrianne’s smile froze.
“It seems the rumors about his preference for young girls were fact. He was caught last week auditioning a new client. She was fifteen.”
Nausea churned in her stomach. With deliberate care she set her drink aside. She heard her own voice, glassy, distant. “You said he was caught?”
“In the act and by the kid’s father. The scumbag came out of it with a broken jaw. Too bad somebody didn’t tie those balls he’s so proud of around his neck, but it doesn’t look like he’ll be working again. Hey.” Alarmed, Marjorie sat up. “You’re white as a sheet.”
She wasn’t going to remember. Adrianne swallowed, battling the hard knot in her stomach. “Too much sun.”
“Let’s get you into the shade before this production starts. Can you stand up? I hate to use a cliché, but you look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine, really.” She had to be. Larry Curtis was in the past. All of that was. She rose and walked with Marjorie to the chairs set under a bright red canopy. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“It promises to be quite a show.”
It did indeed. She watched as Lauren went up to a podium decked with tropical flowers. Tomorrow, she had a production of her own.
Adrianne’s suite at the El Grande was decorated in pastels with wraparound windows that opened up onto a flower-strewn balcony. It had a fully stocked refrigerator and wet bar, a mirrored bath with a whirlpool tub, and its own key-lock safe. It had its points, but she preferred the rooms she’d engaged at the El Presidente under the name of Lara O’Conner.
With some regret Adrianne had retired Rose Sparrow.
In her second suite of rooms, Adrianne kept her supplies. A few hours after the fashion show she was seated at the small table near the window, nibbling on kiwi as she studied the blueprints of the El Grande. She wasn’t yet certain which of the two methods of entry she would use. A perfectionist, she worked out the finer details of both.
The phone beside her rang. “Hola. Sí.” Adrianne tipped back in her chair. Her contact was anxious. In her experience, messengers tried to sound their toughest when they were nervous. “I’ll be there, exactly as agreed. If you don’t trust me, amigo, now’s the time to pull out. There’s always another buyer.” She waited, sipping from her warming glass of Perrier. “You know his reputation. When The Shadow makes a deal, he delivers. You wouldn’t want me to tell him you doubt his ability to complete this transaction? I thought not. Mañana.”
She replaced the receiver and stood, working out the kinks in her back and neck. Nerves. Annoyed, she closed her eyes, rolling her head slowly from side to side. She couldn’t remember having nerves like this in years.
The job was routine—almost too simple. And yet …
Philip, she thought. He’d thrown her a curve and she hadn’t quite fielded it. It worried her that he wasn’t on the island. It would have infuriated her if he had been.
He could prove nothing, she assured herself as she pushed the balcony doors open. And soon, very soon, she’d be finished with what she’d set out to do.
The sun hung in the western sky, brilliantly gold over the water. In a few hours the moon would rise, cool and white.
The Sun and the Moon. Adrianne rested her palms on the rail and leaned out. Symbols of night and day, of continuity, of eternity. I’ll take it back soon, Mama, she vowed silently. Once I do, maybe we both can have some peace.
The breeze fluttered over her face, warm fingers, caressing. There was a scent, hot, floral, that rose everywhere, inescapable. She could hear the waves hitting the sand, then sucking back. Over that was the sound of people laughing; shouting as they walked along the beach or snorkeled among the reefs.
Loneliness. Adrianne squeezed her eyes tight but couldn’t ward it off. The season—she could blame it on the holiday season and the memories it brought back. She could even blame it on seeing Marjorie, and envying her hold on life after so many years of floundering. But it was more, so much more than that. She wasn’t just a woman standing alone on a balcony. No matter how many people she knew, or how involved she kept herself, she was alone everywhere.
No one knew her. Not even Celeste fully understood the wars and questions that raced inside her. She was a princess from a land that was no longer her own. She was a visitor in a country that remained foreign. She was a woman who was afraid to be a woman. A thief who wanted justice.
Just now, with the late afternoon breeze on her face and the smell of the sea and the flowers surrounding her, she wanted someone to hold on to.
Turning, she went back inside. She might not have had someone, but she had something. Revenge.
Chapter Sixteen
Business wasn’t on the agenda this morning. Adrianne wanted to bake in the tropical sun, snorkel along the reef in the diamond-pure waters. She wanted to sleep under a palm tree and do as little thinking as possible.
It was Christmas Eve. Some of the guests had already returned home—Chicago, Los Angeles, Paris, New York, London. Most remained at El Grande to celebrate the holidays with piña coladas instead of hot rum punch, with palm trees rather than pines.
Adrianne never spent the holidays in New York. She couldn’t bear the sight of snow or the view through the windows at Macy’s or Saks. Christmas was an event in New York, one that had thrilled her as a child.
She could still remember her first sight of the elegant Victorian dolls twirling and spinning in Lord & Taylor’s window display while the bitter wind had blown through her fur-c
ollared coat and the smell of hot chestnuts had drifted around her. In New York there would be bells ringing on every corner, music piped into every store. Carrier would be wrapped in its bright bow. Along Fifth Avenue the sea of people would be so thick that you could get caught in the current and be swept along for blocks.
Exhilarating. There was no other place in the world that was more exhilarating than New York at Christmas. And for Adrianne, there was no place more depressing.
Christmas had been forbidden in Jaquir, even public celebrations for the tourists and Western workers. There could be no ornaments, no carols, not even a branch of pine. No little glass balls with snow dancing inside. The law forbade it.
There were memories of Christmas, some happy, some sad. She knew they had to be faced, but not in New York, where she had decorated her last tree, trying desperately to involve her mother in the festivities. It was in New York that she had wrapped her last bright packages, boxes Phoebe had never opened.
It was in New York five years before that she had found her mother dead on the bathroom floor in the predawn hours of Christmas morning. That last Christmas, where she and Phoebe and Celeste had sat together, drinking eggnog and listening to carols on the stereo. And her mother had gone to bed early.
Where Phoebe had gotten the scotch or the bright blue pills Adrianne had never learned. Wherever they had come from, they had done their work.
So she ran at Christmas, though she knew it was weak. Monte Carlo, Aruba, Maui—wherever the sun was hot. Sometimes she worked when she ran, sometimes she did nothing. On this trip she would do both, and tomorrow morning, when the bells rang for Christmas, she would have completed the job.
It hadn’t been nerves that had made her decide to spend the day away from the St. Johns’ resort. She’d simply wanted to be alone, anonymous. After two days she’d had enough of cocktail parties and chummy chats by the pool. She chose the beach bordering the El Presidente, not as Princess Adrianne or as Lara O’Conner, but as Adrianne Spring.
Thirsty, with her legs beginning to ache, she paddled toward the beach. Carrying her mask and flippers, she crossed the sand to the thatched umbrellalike hut that shaded the rest of her gear. Easily, she ignored two men who lay sunning nearby, sipping Dos Equis and hoping for a score.
“Adrianne.”
Still rubbing her hair dry, Adrianne turned toward a woman approaching her. Her body was lush and golden, set off by two narrow strings that made Adrianne’s bikini look like a suit of armor. Her hair was dark, cut short and swingy at the chin. For a moment there was only annoyance at being disturbed. Then there was recognition.
“Duja?” With a laugh Adrianne dropped the towel and opened her arms to her cousin. “It is you.” They exchanged kisses on both cheeks then drew back, one to study the other.
“This is wonderful.” Duja’s low musical voice brought back memories both sweet and sad. Long, stifling afternoons in the harem, a cool arbor in the garden where two young girls had listened to stories told by an old woman. “How long has it been?”
“Seven years, eight. What are you doing here?”
“Pouting, until now. We were in Cancún, and J.T. decided to sail over because he thinks the diving’s best here. I can’t believe I nearly stayed back at the hotel pool. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll catch up.” She linked her arm through Adrianne’s and started toward the bar. “I read about you all the time, Princess Adrianne attending the opening of the ballet, Princess Adrianne arriving at the Spring Ball. I suppose that you’ve been too busy to come to Houston for a visit.”
“I couldn’t. While Mama was alive it wasn’t easy to travel. After …” She watched as Duja lit up a slim brown cigarette. “I didn’t think I could bear seeing you, or anyone from Jaquir.”
“I grieved for you.” Duja touched on the subject of Phoebe’s death as lightly as she touched Adrianne’s hand. “Your mother was always kind to me. I have warm memories. Dos margaritas, por favor” she told the bartender, then glanced at Adrianne. “All right?”
“Yes, thanks. So much time gone. It doesn’t seem real.”
She blew out a stream of smoke. “A long way from the harem.”
Not long enough, Adrianne thought. “Are you happy?”
“Yes.” Duja crossed long brown legs and flirted automatically with a man across the circular bar. She was thirty, lushly built, and secure in her own power. “I’m liberated.” Laughing, she lifted her glass. “J.T. is a wonderful man, very kind, very American. I have my own credit cards.”
“Is that all it takes?”
“It helps. He also loves me, and I love him. I know how frightened I was when my father agreed to give me to him. Everything we’d heard or been taught about Americans.” She sighed and turned on the stool so that she could watch the sunbathers at the edge of the pool. “When I think I could be sitting in the harem, pregnant with my sixth or seventh child and wondering if my husband would be pleased or displeased with me.” She licked salt from the rim of her glass. “Yes, I’m happy. The world’s different from the one we knew as children. American men don’t expect their women to sit quietly in the corner and have baby after baby. I love my son, but I’m also content to have only him.”
“Where is he?”
“With his father. Johnny is as much a fanatic about diving as J.T. He’s also very much the American. Baseball, pizza, arcade games. Sometimes I look back and wonder what my life would have been like if oil hadn’t brought J.T. to Jaquir … and me to J.T.” She shrugged it off as she blew out fragrant smoke that reminded Adrianne of afternoons in the harem and the sound of drums. “But I don’t look back often.”
“I’m happy for you. When we were children I used to look up to you. You were always so poised and well-behaved, so beautiful. I thought it was because you were a few years older and that I’d be like you when I caught up.”
“Things were more difficult for you. You wanted to please your father, but your loyalties were always with your mother. I realize now how miserable she must have been when the king took a second wife.”
“It was the beginning of the end for her.” The bitterness came through. She sipped to wash it away. “Do you ever go back?”
“I go once a year to see my mother. I sneak her movies for her VCR and red silk underwear. It hasn’t changed,” she said, answering Adrianne’s unspoken question. “When I go back, I’m a proper, obedient daughter, with my hair bound and my face veiled. I wear my abaaya and sit in the harem drinking green tea. Strange, while I’m there it doesn’t feel odd, it feels right.”
“How?”
“It’s hard to explain. When I go to Jaquir, when I put on the veil, I begin to think like a woman of Jaquir, feel like a woman of Jaquir. What seems right, even natural in America becomes totally foreign. When I leave, the veil comes off and so do all those feelings, along with the restrictions.”
“I don’t understand that. It’s like being two people.”
“Aren’t we? The way we were raised and the way we live. Have you never been back?”
“No. But I am considering it.”
“We won’t go this year. J.T. is uneasy about the trouble in the Persian Gulf. Jaquir has been successful in avoiding a confrontation, but it can’t last.”
“Abdu knows how to pick his fights, and his friends.”
Duja lifted a brow. Even after all these years she would never have called the king by his first name. “J.T. said the same just a little while ago.” Unsure of her ground, Duja skirted the edge. “You know your father has divorced Risa? She was barren.”
“I heard.” She felt a faint tug of pity for her father’s latest wife.
“He’s taken another, only a few months ago.”
“So soon?” Adrianne drank again, more deeply. “I didn’t know. Leiha gave him seven healthy children.”
“Five of which were girls.” Duja shrugged again. It seemed Adrianne was cool enough discussing her
half siblings. “The two oldest have already been married.”
“Yes, I know. I get news.”
“The king bartered wisely with each, sending one to Iran and one to Iraq. The next is only fourteen. It’s said she’ll go to Egypt or perhaps Saudi Arabia.”
“He shows more affection to his horses than his daughters.”
“In Jaquir, horses are of more use.” Duja signaled for another round.
From his window five flights up, Philip had an excellent view of the pool, the gardens, and the sea. He’d been watching Adrianne since she’d come out of the water. With his field glasses he’d been able to see the drops of water glistening as they clung to her skin.
He could only speculate about the woman she was with. Not a contact; of that he was all but sure. There had been too much surprise, then pleasure on Adrianne’s face when they’d met.
An old friend or perhaps a relative. Adrianne hadn’t come to the beach to meet her. Unless Philip missed his guess, she’d come to be alone, as she had once or twice before when he’d followed her from the El Grande.
He thought it a pity he’d had to miss the festivities there over the last couple of days. But it had been wiser all around to keep a low profile.
He blew out a lazy stream of smoke and waited for Spencer to come on the line.
“Spencer here.”
“Hello, Captain.”
“All right, Chamberlain, what the devil’s going on?”
“You got the report I gave to the contact in New York?”
“And a fat lot it tells me.”
“These things take time.” He studied the way Adrianne’s damp hair fell down her back. “Often more than we’d like.”
“I don’t need any bloody philosophy, I need information.”
“Of course.” Lifting his binoculars, Philip focused on Adrianne’s face. She was laughing. There was nothing cool or aloof about the way her lips curved now. With reluctance he shifted the glasses to her companion. A relative, he decided now. Slightly older, very Americanized. He caught the glint of the diamond circle on her finger. And married.