by Wendy Holden
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!’ he announced cheerfully, flashing a set of beautiful teeth.
The bus driver was craning round in concern. Then the girl, who had remained at the front of the bus, sashayed over, leant a long, creamy thigh against his ticket dispenser and smiled at him. The driver stared up at her, dazzled, all thought of intervention gone.
‘Going to Sedona, right?’ The boy beamed confidently around.
‘Ja, oui, ja,’ came the panting chorus.
‘You want a sneak preview of the castle? Well, if you get off the bus just here, you can see down the mountainside right into the back garden. The private back garden,’ the boy added with another flash of his impossible teeth. ‘You might see the King in the hot tub if you’re lucky; he generally has one at this time of day.’
Within seconds, it seemed, the entire coach was empty, the ladies fighting each other to disembark. The bus driver had gone too, in pursuit of the beautiful girl. Polly was left alone.
The young man peered in from the entrance. He called down the bus. ‘You don’t want to see?’
‘No thanks. I think the King’s entitled to have a bath unobserved.’
The handsome youth leapt on board and came up to her with a swinging walk. He bent and looked searchingly into her eyes; his own, Polly saw, were intensely blue. ‘You might see the young princes too,’ he murmured. ‘Very good-looking young men. Charming young men. They often chat to their father while he’s in his hot tub. Get through quite a lot of state business that way, or so I’m told.’
Polly was up in a second and scrambling out of the bus. ‘Steady on,’ said the youth lightly.
Outside, the midday heat hit her like a fist. Wild herbs grew in the scrubland along the route and the perfume pulsed upwards in the heat. Her fellow travellers, crowded under the scorched and weatherbeaten remains of a pine tree, were peering into the chasm below. They were making puzzled noises.
‘You can’t see the garden at all,’ one indignant woman was saying to another.
You couldn’t, Polly saw. All that was visible from the clifftop was the shadowy and distant bottom of a ravine. As she stared downwards, an engine roared into life behind her. She whirled round, but too late. The bus, with the silver-shirted youth driving it, was pulling away and disappearing round the next bend.
Chapter 44
It was eleven o’clock, and Alexa was taking her now accustomed place in the corner of the bar of the Hotel des Bains. During the last two days she had surveyed most positions, and this table combined excellent eavesdropping with relative discretion. Also, as it directly faced the entrance, anyone entering from the lobby could be instantly assessed.
The third and final of the table’s virtues was its distance from the white-coated waiters behind the long polished bar. They were impeccably polite, but persistent, and Alexa had found that there was only so long the cheapest glass of white wine could be made to last. Two hours was her record.
That the staff suspected her morals was obvious; a grey-suited manager came to frown at her every now and then. But she gave them all a sweet smile, rustled her newspaper and generally faced them down. Alexa was made of stern stuff. And when on the hunt for money, she was made of the sternest stuff of all.
Seated, she fished her copy of the Financial Times out of her imitation designer holdall. This choice of reading matter was meant to send subtle signals to any passing captain of global industry that she understood his world; his fortune would be safe with her. So far, though, the signal had been neither seen nor heard.
Perhaps, Alexa thought, it was too subtle. And yet there wasn’t much else subtle about her, and in particular about the thigh-skimming leopardskin dress that had once belonged to Florrie and which Alexa had borrowed and conveniently forgotten to give back.
She had settled for careful make-up, a re-Fake Baking of her legs and brushing her hair until it fell like a sheet of oil over her shoulders. Her new footwear was extreme: high, shiny, open-toed, black and impossible to walk more than five steps in; the flip-flops in which she had made the actual journey from the flat were stowed in her holdall, along with her make-up, mobile phone and rapidly lightening purse.
But as yet, there were no takers.
Barney wasn’t doing any better. Late last night, over the roar of the helicopters, he had glumly related how the sole occupants of the Casino’s main gaming room were a group of tourists from the West Midlands who, on the signal of their tour guide, had departed to rejoin their coach.
Alexa was increasingly, gloomily certain they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. ‘Everyone must be on their yachts,’ she grumbled.
‘Quite possibly,’ Barney agreed serenely. ‘We just have to find a way of getting on them.’
Defeatedly, Alexa opened the newspaper. Then, aware of a disturbance, she lowered it. Someone had come in – stormed in was more the phrase – to the empty bar. Horrified, Alexa swiftly raised her FT barrier. It may not have attracted a billionaire, but it provided a protective screen from this most dangerous of enemies.
The unmistakable figure at the bar was resplendent in a tight-fitting white silk suit and high silver heels. She wore white gloves, carried a silver clutch and her wrists, throat and fingers were positively ablaze with diamonds.
Lady Annabel! Lady Annabel Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe! Unable quite to believe this stunningly unfortunate blow, Alexa raised her head and peered in terror over the newspaper’s peachy ridge. Lady Annabel would have no difficulty in guessing exactly what Alexa was doing here, and absolutely no qualms about denouncing her as a gold-digger to the bar staff, the lobby and anyone outside who happened to be passing. In short, if Lady Annabel knew she was in Monte Carlo she would move heaven and earth to run her out of town.
‘I’M LOOKING FOR MY DAUGHTER!’ Lady Annabel announced in a very loud, very slow voice.
Alexa gasped. Florrie was here too?
She risked another peep over the top of her paper. Lady Annabel was peering over the bar as if Florrie might be concealed among the cocktail onions. ‘SHE’S VERY BLONDE!’ she was bellowing. Lady Annabel was clearly of the persuasion that if you shouted in English to non-English speakers, they would somehow understand it. ‘SHE’S VERY BEAUTIFUL. YOU’RE QUITE SURE YOU HAVEN’T SEEN HER?’
‘No, madame,’ the obviously terrified waiters were assuring her.
‘HER NAME IS LADY FLORENCE TREVORIGUSWHYSKE-CLEETHORPE!’ Lady Annabel thundered as she rapped the bar. ‘HAVE YOU GOT THAT? LADY FLORENCE TREVORIGUS-WHYSKE-CLEETHORPE!’
‘Yes, madame, oui, madame,’ the waiters gibbered. ‘Lady Florence . . . erm . . .’
‘AND IF YOU DO SEE HER YOU MUST LET ME KNOW IMMEDIATELY!’ Lady Annabel roared, rapping the bar again. ‘I AM IN SUITE 404. LADY ANNABEL TREVORIGUS-WHYSKE-CLEETHORPE. CLEETHORPE. HAVE YOU GOT THAT?’
Alexa ducked behind her paper again as Lady Annabel turned to face the room and cast a final furious stare round. With a last, audible snort of frustration, she stormed out of the bar.
Alexa waved for a waiter. She looked shakily up at him. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic please. A double. No, make it a triple.’
Chapter 45
For all the brightness of the day outside, the King’s study was dimly lit. Its three overlapping layers of chintz curtaining had been all the rage when installed some thirty years ago. Rising in the centre like a carved wooden island was a desk piled with books, crystal paperweights, jewelled letter-openers, silver-gilt inkstands, small statues and red leather boxes containing state papers. Before the fireplace two long, worn damask sofas faced each other. It was on one of these that Max was sitting, leaning forward with his arms crossed as his father angrily held forth from the other. On the worn carpet, his feet beat out an accompaniment to his ire.
Within Max, every fibre, bone and muscle strained restlessly. Was there to be no light at the end of this long and very ornate tunnel in which he found himself?
‘It’s high time you took on more ro
yal duties,’ the King was telling his son. Max’s face fell. ‘You are going to represent me,’ the monarch continued, ‘at an important business event tomorrow. Your brother was supposed to be going, but he’s grounded.’
Sergeant Poivre of the Royal Sedona Police had not spared the details of Giacomo’s theft of the bus. The King had been mortified and furious. Thankfully, he had Hippolyte’s assurance that the press had not got wind of it
Max did not ask why Giacomo was grounded. He did not care. One puzzle did, however, filter through the outer layers of his preoccupied brain. ‘But Giacomo never goes to important business events,’ he pointed out. ‘He only ever goes to parties on yachts.’
‘Well it is on a yacht, as it happens,’ the King snapped.
‘I don’t like yachts.’ Events on yachts, in Max’s limited experience, were all about drinking and one-upmanship. He doubted any useful business could be done. ‘They’re full of stupid airhead socialites,’ he added, to make this point.
The King stared irritatedly at his son. ‘And what other sort of person do you expect to find a wife among? There’s no other type left!’
Max did not reply to this, but his expression was eloquent enough. The King scented rebellion.
‘You will go,’ he said gratingly.
‘I’d rather not,’ Max said quietly.
Fury rose in Engelbert’s chest; how dare Max defy him? Even Giacomo, reprobate though he was, never stood up to his father the way Max routinely did. There were times when Max didn’t seem like a son of his at all.
‘Maxim,’ he said heavily, as if the sheer weight of his words could crush his son’s resistance, ‘you are heir to the throne of the ancient Kingdom of Sedona. As Crown Prince, it is your royal duty to do as your monarch commands.’ Engelbert’s moustache was bristling defensively, his authoritative bass surprising even himself. ‘To disobey me is treason!’
Chapter 46
Crouched over his desk in his office, Monsieur Hippolyte had one hand placed protectively on his head as he tried to placate Jason Snort. ‘I’m sorry about Lady Florence,’ he was pleading desperately. ‘None of us know what happened to her. But I promise you, as soon as someone else comes along . . .’
‘But there’s no princess, no photos and so I’ve got nothing to sell,’ Snort raged from the other end of the line. ‘Which leaves me with no alternative but to offer for sale my latest set of pictures of . . .’
Hippolyte’s ears throbbed in panic. His heart soared into his throat. Not Madame Whiplash. Please. Please . . .
‘. . . everybody’s favourite playboy prince, Giacomo,’ Snort finished, as Hippolyte drew a deep, shuddering breath of relief. ‘Didn’t realise he could actually drive a coach,’ the photographer added. ‘Thought he sat in the back of them and got pulled along by horses.’
Hippolyte’s relief had been short-lived. Panic was once again thumping in his breast. He knew about the story; Sergeant Poivre had wasted no time in putting the chateau in the picture in the bluntest terms. But he had hoped – prayed, no less – that the incident might have gone unnoticed by the wider world.
‘We’ve got pictures,’ the paparazzo said gleefully. ‘My colleague Des passed him on the road. Veering all over the place he was. According to Des, he almost went over the edge.’
If only . . . Monsieur Hippolyte closed his eyes longingly.
‘There was a girl on board too,’ Snort added slyly.
‘Who?’ gasped Hippolyte in panic. Please God none of the international slappers that Prince Giacomo seemed to find so irresistible.
‘I can’t say,’ Snort said cagily, sending the private secretary into a fresh plunge of terror. He did not explain that the reason for this was that Des’s pictures were too bad to use. The girl was unrecognisable, as was Giacomo at the wheel. According to Des, before he could get the Prince in focus, the bus had reared at him and he had lost the picture in trying to save his own life. Des’s excuses, as well as his pictures, were rapidly getting worse, Snort thought. But the story could still be used as leverage with Hippolyte.
‘So we’ll run it,’ he said casually, ‘if you haven’t got any better suggestions.’
Hippolyte racked his brains. ‘Er, there’s tomorrow night,’ he gabbled eventually. ‘Prince Maxim’s going to a party . . .’
‘Prince goes to party! Hold the front page!’ sneered Snort.
‘. . . on a yacht. Bigski’s yacht.’
Bigski. Jason raised an eyebrow. He had heard the tycoon was in town; or in harbour.
‘Bigski always has lots of girls at his parties,’ Hippolyte added, veering off into the realms of the wildest speculation. ‘It’s not impossible that the Crown Prince might meet someone there.’
Snort considered this. ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘But this is your last chance, Hippo. If I don’t get a shot of Max and some totty, you’re toast.’
Chapter 47
Alexa was sucking the last of the gin off the ice cubes in her glass and thinking about leaving. Her equilibrium was quite restored. It now seemed a pleasantly long time since the near miss with Lady Annabel.
She paid the bill, stood up swayingly on her heels and picked up her bag. Then, suddenly, someone was shooting into the bar and running across the carpet towards her.
‘Lexie! Omigod! Lexie!’
Alexa stared at the tangle of blond hair and long limbs.
‘Florrie!’
Alexa felt near blinded by the blaze of Florrie’s teeth and the dazzle of her eyes. In her simple short white dress with wide, gold-trimmed leather belt, she looked like a goddess; an effect reinforced by silver gladiator sandals. Alexa felt hideously conscious of the leopardskin print dress. Would Florrie recognise it?
Florrie’s priorities were elsewhere, however. A long finger flew to the plump, bow-shaped lips. ‘Sssh!’ Her grin was wide and naughty and her violet-blue eyes twinkled with excitement. ‘I’m in major trouble. Mummy’s furious with me.’
A burly waiter, bringing up a chair for Florrie, now looked at her closely. Was he remembering Lady Annabel’s instructions? Alexa tried to throw him off the scent. ‘A glass of tap water for my friend, um, Celia,’ she rapped out.
‘I’m not called Celia,’ Florrie began indignantly, before being dug hard in the ribs by Alexa. Only then did the penny seem to drop. ‘Oh, yah, sorry.’
The waiter was still staring at Florrie. ‘Tap water!’ Alexa commanded. There was to be no repeat of the Ritz disaster.
Florrie looked peevish. ‘I want champagne.’
‘A glass of champagne, then,’ said Alexa wearily. Because Florrie just had to pay this time. Even by her feckless standards, anything else was unthinkable.
Florrie waved a long, imperious arm. ‘Actually, we may as well have a bottle. Bring us your best, waiter.’
Alexa swallowed. The Hotel des Bains’ best champagne would be in the Igor category, pricewise. Florrie must be picking up the tab.
Florrie was rummaging in her bag and producing from it an iPhone and a packet of cigarettes.
Tapping at the iPhone and frowning at its screen, she lit up and took a deep drag. The waiters were all staring moonily from across the room and seemed in no hurry to remind her about the smoking ban.
‘Omigod, I’m in so much trouble, you wouldn’t believe it,’ Florrie exclaimed to Alexa, glancing up from the gadget.
The burly waiter appeared with a champagne bottle in a chilled bucket, and sashayed towards them, lowering it ceremonially in a fug of cigarette smoke. Florrie, blowing a lungful right into his face, ignored his advent. The waiter stood there as if surrounded by the scents of heaven. ‘Shall I pour, mademoiselle?’
‘Yah, great,’ Florrie said absently.
‘Why are you in trouble?’ Alexa asked when the waiter had gone. ‘What have you done?’
Florrie looked up from laboriously tapping in a message. ‘It’s what I’ve not done.’ She grabbed a glass and sprawled back in the chair. ‘Did I mention that prince guy that Mummy wanted
me to meet?’
Alexa confined herself to a short nod.
‘Well the meeting was this morning, in his royal palace or whatever, and I sort of forgot.’ Florrie exhaled a plume of smoke and jiggled the long legs stretched in front of her.
Alexa remembered the appearance of Lady Annabel in the bar. Her spectacular outfit now made sense, as did her spectacular fury. About to set off to meet the royal family, Lady Annabel was unable to find her daughter. A smile tugged at the edge of Alexa’s mouth; she tried hastily to suppress it.
She need not have put herself to the trouble; Florrie was as oblivious as ever to anyone else’s reactions. Her attention was once more on her phone; she drained her champagne glass absently. Immediately, three waiters came rushing across simultaneously. ‘Allow me,’ said one, grasping the bottle in the ice bucket and refilling the glass. ‘Permettez-moi,’ said another, straightening Florrie’s glass on its white paper coaster printed with the swirly hotel logo. A third proffered a small silver bowl of nuts. Florrie ignored these attentions completely. She was laughing at a message she had received.
Alexa, however, wanted details. ‘You mean,’ she said, ‘that these royals were waiting for you and you didn’t turn up?’
‘Yah, basically,’ Florrie said, not looking up. ‘They were all there waiting in the throne room, apparently. Crowns and robes, the lot. Can you believe it?’ She grinned and drew on her cigarette.
‘But why didn’t you turn up? Where were you?’
Florrie ground her cigarette into the nuts. ‘Omigod, you sound just like Mummy! I’d had a bit of a hard night, OK? Went to this great club. There was this really cool guy there called Jack.’ She looked, for a second, smitten. ‘Omigod, he’s gorgeous. Here he is.’ She tapped the screen of her iPhone and held it up.
Alexa stared into a blurred close-up face. She could see up both nostrils.