“Whatever you want.” He sounded suddenly tired and sad. The moment had passed, but he had wanted to ask her if she loved him. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. Maybe she was right. They were married. She was his. He owned her. But he knew that in her case, thinking that he owned her was a delusion. “The men wear white tie. I guess you should wear something pretty formal.”
She knew that in that case the raspberry and black satin outfit wouldn't do, and as they wandered back to their cabin on the sun deck, she mentally meandered over what she had brought in her trunks and settled on a delicate mauve satin gown.
When they reached the Deauville suite, Nick glanced into their son's room, but he still hadn't returned from his tour around the ship with his nurse, and Nick was suddenly sorry that he hadn't taken him himself. But as he returned from Johnny's room, he saw Hillary looking at him. She had taken off the white crepe de chine dress and was standing there in a white satin slip and stocking feet, looking more beautiful than ever. She was the kind of woman one wanted to ravage until she screamed. He hadn't thought of her that way when she was eighteen. But he thought of her that way now. Often.
“Good God, you should see the look on your face!” Hillary began to laugh her deep, throaty laugh as Nick approached her. “You look positively wicked, Nick Burnham!” But she didn't seem to mind it. She stood there, the strap of her slip falling off her shoulder, and he saw that she wore no bra, and every inch of her seemed to taunt him.
“Then don't stand around looking like that, Hil, unless you want to get into serious trouble.”
“And what kind of trouble is that?” He stood directly in front of her, and could feel the warmth from her tantalizing body. But this time he didn't play with words with her, he crushed his lips down on hers, never wondering if she would reject him. You never knew with Hil, it depended on the importance of her lover at the current moment. But there was no lover now. She was on a ship, miles from shore, lost between two worlds, and she stretched her arms up to her husband, and without further ado he swept her up in his arms, walked into their bedroom, and slammed the door with one foot before depositing her on the bed and tearing the white satin slip from her body. What it revealed was a white satin of a different kind, and his mouth drank in the cream of her flesh, like a man dying of hunger. She gave herself with a passion dimly remembered from the past, spiced now with the knowledge of years she had acquired since he met her. But he asked no questions now, he thought of nothing but his rampant desire for her, which seemed to know no bounds as their bodies plunged on the peaceful ship and his body covered hers and at last they lay spent. He watched her afterward as she slept, and knew the truth of her words of an hour before. She was his wife. There was no doubt about that. But he would never own her. No man would. Hillary owned herself, always had, always would. She was always just out of reach, and as he watched her lying peacefully in his arms, he knew with a bittersweet sorrow that he had always wanted the impossible. She was like a rare jungle beast one longed to tame. And the truth was, she was right, secretly he did want to own her.
o a woman, the ladies who entered the Grande Salle à Manger that night, sauntering slowly down the stairs as people watched, would have made any man proud. Their hair and makeup were done to perfection, they were impeccably turned out by the maids they had brought along, and most of their gowns had been designed in Paris. The jewels competed only with the brilliant lights in the room, equal to the brilliance of one hundred and thirty-five thousand candles and reflected in the endless walls of hammered glass sixty feet longer than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. The room, three decks high, seemed filled to the rafters with ruby taffetas and sapphire velvets and emerald satins, and here and there a gown of gold. Liane herself looked exquisite in a black strapless taffeta dress she had bought at Balenciaga. It cascaded behind her in a sea of ruffles. But it was when Hillary Burnham came down the stairs that everyone seemed to stare at her clinging Grecian gown of the palest mauve satin. It molded to her exquisite form in a way that made everyone hold their breath, including the captain. Around her neck she was wearing pearls the size of very large marbles. But it wasn't the rope of pearls that caught the eye, but the raven-black hair, the creamy skin, the brilliant black eyes, and her body as it swayed slowly down the stairs to the captain's table.
The captain's table was just in front of the enormous bronze statue representing peace, which stood tall among the diners, her head held high, though not as high as Hillary's as she reached the table, with Nick just behind her, impeccable in white tie and tails, with mother-of-pearl studs in his starched shirtfront, diamonds circling them and at their center. But it was the diamonds at Hillary's ears, peeking from behind the shaft of black satin hair, which set off the dancing lights in her eyes.
“Good evening, Captain.” Her voice was deep and husky, and in spite of their best efforts, everyone lost the thread of their conversations at the table. Captain Thoreux stood up, bowed in well-executed, almost military fashion, and bent to kiss her hand.
“Madame … bonsoir.” He stood to face her again and introduced her to the group. “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” and then he introduced Nick. The group at the captain's table was considerably older than were they, except for Liane. But most were of the captain and Armand's generation. Their wives were elegant and well dressed but slightly overstuffed, and heavily bejeweled, as though if they counterbalanced their portly shapes with an equal quantity of jewels, one might not notice their excess weight. But no one looked at them once Hillary arrived. The men's eyes were riveted to Hillary and her gown, which seemed to flow over her like water, straight across her shoulders in the front, and then down to a point just below her waist in back, revealing the delicious flesh every man who saw her longed to touch.
“Good evening, everyone.” She made no effort to remember their names, and awarded a second glance only to Armand, looking extremely handsome tonight, wearing his decorations with his white tie. She made no effort to talk to Liane, although they sat across the table from each other, but Nick seemed to make a special effort to make up for her, chatting pleasantly with two older women on either side, and an elderly man who turned out to be an English lord. Liane noticed that Nick glanced frequently at his wife, not so much as an affectionate sign, as Armand had done two or three times since the dinner began, but rather as though he were checking up on her. She saw him appearing not to strain to hear what Hillary said, but she had the feeling that Nick Burnham did not trust his wife, and between the plateau de fromages and the soufflé Grand Marnier, she began to suspect why. Hillary was speaking to the elderly Italian prince on her left, and had just told him that she always found Rome extremely dull. But as though to keep him intrigued, she smiled pleasantly as she made the slight, and then looked past him again to cast an eye at Armand. “I understand you're an ambassador.” She glanced then at Liane, and it was obvious that she was wondering if Liane was his daughter or his wife. “You're traveling with your family?”
“I am. My wife and daughters. Your husband tells me that you have a son on board. Perhaps we can get the children together sometime to play.” Hillary nodded, but she seemed annoyed. It looked somehow as though children's games were not precisely what she had in mind. There was a predatory quality about her tonight, a woman looking for easy prey, and with a face and body like that, Liane thought to herself, it couldn't be very hard to find. She was amused at Armand's polite rebuff. She never worried about him, the only one she ever lost him to was Jacques Perrier. As it turned out, they had worked all afternoon, and he had come back to the Trouville suite just in time to bathe and get dressed, a circumstance Liane was accustomed to, although she had hoped to see more of him on the ship.
“Perhaps,” she had threatened him as she ran his bath and handed him a kir, “I shall have to throw Jacques overboard.” Armand had laughed, grateful for an understanding wife. But he had not seen her earlier on their private deck, staring out to sea, with a look of sorrow on her face. She longed for the da
ys of long ago, when he was a less important man, and there hadn't been a constant flow of memos and cables and reports to occupy his mind, and he had had more time for her. He so seldom did now.
She wondered then what Nick Burnham was like. He seemed a pleasant man, but he offered very little of himself. He was polite, well-bred, he seemed to take in the entire scene with quiet eyes, but one knew him no better when dessert was served than one had known him when he had first sat down. She wondered if perhaps he adopted such a bland facade to counteract his more than startling wife. Liane had a feeling that she was out to shock. It was not that her dress was inappropriate, but it was designed obviously to catch the eye and keep it there. One thing was certain, Hillary Burnham was not shy.
Nicholas was observing his wife through new eyes tonight. He had watched her from the moment they introduced her as his wife, to see how she would react, following her confessions to him that afternoon in the bar. Insanely he hoped that something in her would soften, but she was no different than before. The moment the captain said the fateful words “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” she was out to prove something to them all. It almost made Nick sorry for her to see her chafe at the bonds she so ardently resented. But there was nothing he could do to help her. Even a kindly look from him annoyed her and she rapidly turned her attention to Armand, with a come-hither look in her eyes. But the ambassador appeared not to notice.
“This isn't Boston or New York, Hil,” Nick whispered later as the entire group headed toward the Grand Salon. “If you give yourself a bad name here, it'll stick with you for the next five days.” He was referring to her unsuccessful attempt at flirtation with Armand, the captain, and two of the other diners.
“Who gives a damn? They're a bunch of old bores.”
“Are they? I rather thought you liked the ambassador.” It was his first truly cutting remark of the trip, but he was tired suddenly of her games. Even when he tried to understand her, inevitably she angered him or hurt him. And she was also straining obviously at the bit, and it worried him. He was never quite sure what she would do or say. “Do yourself a big favor while you're on board.”
“What's that?”
“Behave yourself.”
She turned to face him then, stopping dead in her tracks with a wicked smile. “But why? Because I'm your wife?”
“Don't start that crap again. As it so happens, that's exactly who you are. There are almost a thousand important, influential people on this ship, and if you don't watch your ass, my dear, every one of them is going to know just what you are.” His anger was full-blown now. He could do nothing to stop it and no longer cared to.
“And what's that?” She was almost laughing at him now, totally oblivious of his concern. And he had been about to answer her with two simple words: “A whore,” but the captain was at their sides again in the magnificent room, and Hillary turned to him with a charming smile. “Will there be dancing tonight?”
“Of course, my dear.” The captain, like the other officers aboard the ship, had seen droves of Hillarys over the years, some older than she, some not. Lovely, spoiled, bored with their lives ashore, tired of marriages and husbands who had faded from their lives long years before, but they had seen few quite as beautiful as this. She stood beside their table in the Grand Salon now, and even in the splendor of the room, she was aware of every pair of male eyes on her. There were glowing crystal fountains filled with light, windows twenty-two feet high, and murals etched in glass, covered with ships, and an orchestra had already begun to play, but Hillary was the finest attraction of all. She had wilted not one bit from the feast in the dining room. If anything, she seemed more effervescent than the endless flow of French champagne. “In fact”—the captain smiled at Nick—“may I have your permission, sir, to ask Madame for the first dance?”
“Of course.” Nick smiled pleasantly his assent and watched them as they walked away. The orchestra was playing a low French waltz, and Hillary's body moved with extraordinary grace as the captain guided her expertly around the floor, and other couples joined them, among them Armand and Liane.
“Well, my love, have you fallen head over heels for the siren from New York?” Liane smiled at him as they danced.
“I have not. I am far more impressed by the beauty from the West Coast. Do you suppose I have a chance with her?” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them, keeping his eyes on hers. “Are you having fun, chérie?”
“I am.” She smiled happily as she looked around the room. She was never happier than when she was in Armand's arms. “She's quite something, though, isn't she?” She was still intrigued with Hillary, and Armand looked over his wife's head with a peaceful glance.
“The Normandie? Ah, yes, she is.”
“Now, stop it.” Liane laughed. “I know you hate to gossip, but I can't resist. You know exactly who I mean. I mean the Burnham woman. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
“Indeed.” He nodded, a smiling sage. “Beauty and the Beast are rolled into one. I don't envy him. But I think he knows exactly what he's got on his hands. He watches her every move.”
“And she knows it, and she doesn't give a damn.”
“I wouldn't say that.” Armand shook his head. “I think she does it to annoy him. One could murder a woman like that.”
“Maybe he's madly in love with her.” Liane enjoyed the thought of a passionate romance.
“I think not. If one looks deep into his eyes, he's not a happy man. Do you know who he is, Liane?”
“More or less. I've heard his name. He's in steel, isn't he?”
Armand laughed. “He isn't ‘in’ steel. He is steel. A few years ago he was the youngest, most important industrialist in the States. His father died when he was quite young, and left him not only a fortune that almost defies the imagination, but an empire to run as well. He has proven himself admirably. I believe he's crossing over now because he has some very important steel contracts with France. And today, he is truly the master of his industry.”
“At least he's on our side.”
“Not all the time.” Liane's eyes raised to Armand's. “He has contracts with the Germans too. And that, my love, is how an empire is run. Without a heart at times, but always with a firm hand and quick mind. It's too bad he can't exercise the same power over his wife.”
Liane slowly digested this as the dance came to an end. She was more than a little shocked to realize that Burnham was selling steel to Hitler as well as to France. To her that seemed a betrayal of all that she believed in, and she was surprised at Armand's easy acceptance that business was business, but he was more familiar than she with the world of international politics, and dealings and compromises were the norm for him.
“Does that shock you about Burnham, Liane?” He looked down at her pensive expression and she nodded.
“It does.”
“Those are the ways of the world, my love.”
“That's not how you do business, Armand.” She was so idealistic that it touched him. She had so much faith in him and his integrity, and that meant a great deal to him.
“I don't sell steel, my little love. I deal in the honor and well-being of France on foreign shores. That is by no means the same thing.”
“The principles should be the same. What's right is right.”
“It's not always as simple as that. And according to what they say, he's a very decent man.” It was the impression Liane had of him, but now she was not as sure. For a moment she wondered if that was the problem with his wife, perhaps she didn't respect him. But she realized almost as soon as the thought came that that had nothing to do with the way Hillary behaved. She was selfish and unpleasant and spoiled, and she probably always had been. There was a sharp edge to her that nothing veiled, and her beauty was outweighed by the evil that lurked within her. “I wouldn't, however, say that his wife is a decent girl.”
“Hardly that.” Liane smiled.
“There are very few men as lucky as I.” He bent
to whisper in her ear and then escorted her off the floor. She danced with the captain then, the Italian prince, and her husband again, and then they excused themselves and returned to the Trouville suite, and she was happy to be alone with Armand at last. She yawned as she took off the lovely black dress. Armand was in his dressing room, and when he returned, he found her already in bed and waiting for him, and his own words echoed in his own head again. There were few men in the world as lucky as he, and when he came to bed, Liane proved it to him again, and they fell asleep in each other's arms.
It was a very different scene from the one in the Deauville suite, where Hillary was, as usual, making trouble. Nick had forced her to come back to the suite. She had found someone more interesting to dance with at last, from another group, and Nick had accused her of being rude. And in the end, after watching her cavort for too long, he thanked the captain for a lovely time and excused himself with his wife, to return to their suite.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“The person you hate most, my dear. Your husband, the man who holds the end of the gilded chain you wear.” He had smiled at her to quell the fury he felt, but she had gone into their room and slammed the door, and tonight it was Nick who sought refuge’ in the bottle of Scotch. And as he drank he found himself thinking of Armand and Liane. He thought they made a handsome pair, and he admired the grace and poise with which Liane moved and behaved. She was an impressive woman in her quiet way, and her subtle glow hadn't gone unnoticed, even in the shadow of Hillary's far more gaudy light. He was tired of her games, he decided with his fourth glass of straight Scotch. More tired than she knew. More tired than he himself was willing to admit most of the time. If he would have allowed himself to feel the pain, it would have been too much to bear. In the end he put the bottle away, and at three o'clock that morning he went to bed, grateful that Hillary had taken a sleeping pill and was already asleep.
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