Jason was both repulsed by and inescapably drawn to Cameron, his monumental ambitions, his rapacious desires, his insatiable body, and he knew that he would do whatever Cameron asked of him, even if it meant alienating the best friend he'd ever had. He knew Allegra would never forgive him once she found out that he copied her designs.
'I'd better get going,' he said, getting to his feet.
'Good boy,' Cameron said, playfully patting his ass. 'I'll be here when you get back, and we'll have a little celebration. So put a smile on your face.'
'Okay.'
Thirty minutes later, he was in the atelier, rapidly stuffing drawing pads and notebooks into his backpack and a large duffel bag he'd brought with him for the purpose. He'd taken several drawings out of their frames and would have to replace them after he'd finished. This was going to take longer than he'd thought.
It seemed Allegra saved every design she ever came up with. Many of them he recognized, of course, but he was surprised to discover that there were dozens and dozens she'd never shown him.
Jason quickly filled the backpack and then stuffed the duffel bag as fast as possible. He was going to Brooklyn to photocopy everything. He didn't want to risk the possibility that any of the places in the neighborhood would know that he was copying Allegra's work.
When he was finished, he went to the safe and opened it. From various pouches, he took a small handful of precious and semiprecious stones. Only three or four from each suede pouch. He knew that the only way she could substantiate the theft would be to go through all of her invoices, then count stones, subtracting those that had been used in pieces they'd created since the purchases had been made. It would be an arduous task, enormously time-consuming and tedious.
His cell phone rang, and he quickly grabbed it from its holder on his belt. But as he always did nowadays, he checked caller ID before answering. Jason felt a sudden prickle of heat about his neck and face when he saw the number. It was the same overseas one that he'd seen displayed innumerable times in the last two or three days. Allegra. He stared down at the number for a moment, then slipped the cell phone back in its holder.
He began to work faster, shoving the stones in the left-hand pocket of his Levi's. It had been empty, and the stones wouldn't get mixed up with the cash in his right-hand pocket. He closed and locked the safe, then shouldered his backpack and picked up the duffel bag.
Thank God Cameron had given him the cash to take a taxi to the wilds of Brooklyn. Now if he'd just get lucky catching one back without having to wait forever. Oh, well, he thought, Cameron had taken care of that, too. If taxis were scarce, all he had to do was call a limo service and give them Cameron's account number, and he'd be picked up and delivered back to Manhattan in a matter of minutes.
Jason considered himself one lucky guy as he let himself out of the loft. He hurried, anxious to get to Brooklyn and back. Back to the lover who was beyond his wildest dreams.
'Excuse me, Marcus,' Princess Karima said, 'but I must take this call.'
Marcus nodded, but he didn't fail to notice the gravity in Karima's voice as she got up from the table and left the dining room. Like everyone who knew her, he was fascinated by the press releases concerning her selling off assets and the new spiritual path she claimed to be following, and like those who knew her best, he hadn't believed a word of them. Gossip had been rife, of course, and speculation among the international set had reached epidemic proportions.
When she'd asked him to accompany her to the auction and to the country afterward, he'd been thrilled. Anybody who was anybody would be asking him out. The invitations would pour in because, of course, everyone would want to pump him for information. If Princess Margaret were still alive, he thought, she'd already have been burning up my phone line.
But as he lit a cigarette and took a sip of the extremely fine wine they were having with lunch, he was more puzzled than ever over the whole affair. Karima, who had always seemed easy to read as far as he was concerned, had suddenly become something of an enigma. She was more high strung than usual, and a bit less forthcoming. When he'd broached the subject of her charitable foundation last evening, she'd given him the brush-off. Merely told him that her 'men in Geneva' were taking care of everything. Then when he'd asked about this new spiritual path, she'd replied in a most mysterious fashion. 'I've reached an age,' she'd said, 'at which inner peace is important to me, Marcus, darling, and I'm consulting various advisers, testing the waters, seeing what's best for me.'
Had she not stared directly into his eyes with such fiery intensity, he would've laughed aloud. But he hadn't dared. Karima had seemed deadly serious, and the last thing he wanted to do was incur her wrath, for her tantrums were legendary.
He got to his feet and wandered into the salon, cigarette and wineglass in hand. And all these phone calls that she had to take in private, he thought, taking a drag off his cigarette. She'd never been like this before.
He took the last sip of wine in his glass, put his cigarette out in an ashtray, then went back to the dining table to pour another splash into his glass. The crystal carafe was empty. He pushed past the swinging doors that led into the butler's pantry and looked on the shelves and in the cabinets there. Nothing. He shoved on the door that led into the kitchen to look for Mimi, but she was nowhere about.
Then he heard Karima's voice, raised in anger, and saw that the door leading out to a porch was ajar. He stood still and listened, wondering what she was upset about. After a moment, he could hardly believe his ears. Princess Karima was speaking Arabic! He knew for certain because he'd known princes from various Arab states while he was a student at Eton and then at Oxford. But he had never in the thirty-odd years he'd known Karima ever heard her speak in her native tongue.
He continued to listen, not understanding what she was saying, but hearing her repeat 'Yamal' any number of times. Marcus abruptly felt very uncomfortable, and he turned and went back through the door as quietly as possible. Eavesdropping was one thing, but this was another, he decided. Something very odd indeed was going on, and he didn't want to be caught overhearing whatever it was.
In the dining room he set his wineglass on the table, then went out into the entrance foyer and took his quilted Barbour jacket off its hook. He put it on and slipped quietly out the front door. He strode across the stone terrace, down the steps, and out onto the pea gravel drive, then headed around the right-hand side of the house toward the service entrance. The gardens in the rear of the estate were a closer walk that way, and although it was too early for much activity in the way of blooms, he could admire their beautiful layout, the statuary and pool, and the well-kept forests that surrounded them.
He stopped to light a cigarette, then followed the drive, gazing at the magnificent conifers that lined it. Rounding the end of the house, he thought he heard voices, and saw the tail end of an unfamiliar car parked at the end of the drive. As he got closer, he saw that the car was a Ferrari. On he walked, smoking, enjoying the cool outdoor air despite the overcast skies.
As he approached the car, he heard the voices again, and he saw a tall, muscular young man with pitch-black hair and a dark complexion. Marcus stopped in his tracks. As the young man spoke, he turned and drew on a cigarette, so that Marcus could see his profile, his high, prominent cheekbones and aquiline nose, his square jaw and sensuous lips. Marcus marveled over the best-looking man he'd ever seen. Then it dawned on him that he must be the young man Karima had told him about. The extraordinarily expensive hustler. Who was obviously doing well for himself considering he was driving a Ferrari.
He and Princess Karima were engrossed in conversation, but Marcus couldn't hear what they were saying. She stood at the door to the enclosed porch as the young man stood in front of the car. Realizing that once again he was intruding upon the princess's privacy, Marcus slowly backed up, willing the gravel not to crunch beneath his shoes—an impossibility, of course. However, they were so preoccupied that they didn't hear him, and as luck would have it
, neither of them had seen him. When he was safely out of earshot and sight, he sped up his pace and returned to the terrace at the front entry.
Christ! he thought for the hundredth time. What is she up to? She wasn't on the telephone at all, but talking to this staggeringly handsome young man.
He let himself into the foyer, took his jacket off and put it on its peg, then went back to the dining room and sat down. He almost jumped when Mimi came into the room.
She stared at him with her wrinkled up little eyes, then said, 'You have been out, monsieur?'
'Out?' Marcus echoed. Then he forced a laugh. 'Oh, just smoking a cigarette on the terrace.'
'Do you need anything, monsieur?' she asked, her eyes still trained on him harshly.
'I would like some more of that divine wine we were having with luncheon,' Marcus said.
'Very well,' Mimi said, coming to the table and picking up the carafe.
'Will Princess Karima be returning to table?' he asked. 'I hope nothing is . . . amiss?'
'My mistress will be back shortly,' the old woman said. 'I will bring your wine.'
'Merci, Mimi.'
Marcus wished he felt at liberty to ask Karima what was going on. But that was out of the question. He would have to discover an answer to this mystery another way. Of one thing he was certain. The young man he saw talking to her was anything but a spiritual adviser, although he had to admit that he would gladly worship what he'd seen of him.
He mustn't let on that he had seen or heard anything. The better to hear and see more. And he hoped that Mimi hadn't seen him out near the service entrance.
What a coup it would be to be able to go back to Paris, then on to London and New York, with his tales of the latest in the princess's life. The world was dying to know—the world that counted, at any rate—and if he played his cards right, he'd be able to dine out on this weekend with the princess for years to come.
'What was his name, Jacqueline?' Ram demanded.
The older woman's forehead, though practically incapable of wrinkling from the Botox injections, did so now. 'I've told you,' she replied in exasperation. 'I do not know.' She wondered how many times he was going to ask her and of what possible importance it could be. The stranger was a very handsome young man in love, looking for an emerald ring. Harmless, very polite, too—a rarity for an American.
'Tell me everything again,' Ram said, pointing a finger at her. He was in a furious state, like nothing Madame de la Montarron had ever seen before.
She slowly repeated everything, and when she was finished, she could swear that she saw smoke pouring out of Ramtane Tadjer's nostrils. He had been in a rage ever since he'd come into the shop. He'd made several cell phone calls in his office, then come charging after her as if she were some sort of common thief.
'You will never, ever again show anyone the document books without my explicit permission,' he shouted at her. 'Never! Do you understand that?'
'What am I to do when our prize customers ask to see them?' she asked, regaining a bit of her composure. 'One of the Saudi or Kuwaiti princes, a Niarchos or Goulandris? One of the royals? Tell me that, please.'
'In cases such as that,' he replied in a calmer voice, 'you will do as you have always done, Jacqueline.' His voice began to rise, and his face began reddening again. 'But with a stupid young American nobody like the one today, you will not give him the time of day.' He slammed a hand down on the bureau plat.
The roses in the heavy crystal vase on the corner of the desk quivered, but Jacqueline de la Montarron merely glanced up at him with an imperturbable expression. What an uncivilized heathen, she thought. Showing his true stripes.
'I should think,' she said at last, 'that if a young man came in and told you he had been bidding for Princess Karima's emerald at Dufour you would pay more than a little attention to him. Would you not?'
He glared at her. He wanted nothing more than to slap her patrician face. But he wouldn't allow his emotions to rule the day. He needed Jacqueline de la Montarron, almost as much as she needed him. Women like her weren't necessarily rare, but she had made herself indispensable over the years at Jules Levant. Some of the most valued customers would deal with no one but her. She came from their world, after all. She not only knew many of them, knew their likes and dislikes, their families, and their idiosyncrasies, but she knew a great deal about jewelry, too. She was one of them, he reminded himself, except that she had been left penniless by her philandering husband.
He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and sat down at the bureau plat across from her. 'You say he was staying at the Ritz?'
'Yes,' she said with a nod.
'And he was definitely the young man you pointed out to me? The one leaving Le Grand Vefour with the young lady?'
She nodded again. 'I expected him to bring the young lady into the shop after lunch,' she said, 'but perhaps they had other plans.' She smiled, imagining what those plans might have been, hoping that the young lady was worthy of such an attractive, attentive, and altogether charming young man.
'I am going to leave now,' Ram said. 'I have a great deal of business to take care of. I trust you will do as I've said. If the young man returns— or the young lady—you will call me immediately.'
'Of course,' she replied.
'And you will keep the document books here in this office unless a customer known to us comes in and wants to see them?'
'Yes,' she said, patting the side of her cement hairdo.
'Good. See to it that you do.' He turned and left the office and went down the hallway to the front of the shop. Jacqueline de la Montarron rose to her feet, as regal as a swan, and followed along behind him at her customary pace, mentally calling him a slew of filthy epithets a lady of her position would never say aloud.
Kitty stood at the closet in nothing but a short silk kimono, riffling through the clothes neatly hanging inside. Her movements were quick and angry, and she didn't try to go quietly about her search for something to wear, even though Hilton still slept in the big bed. Wooden hangers clacked against one another, and plastic rippled and swished loudly, and his continued snoozing only fed her fury all the more.
There was nothing in the goddamned closet for her to wear. Anything she would want to put on was at her apartment. She was sick and tired of running back and forth between her place and Hilton's. The waiting game was beginning to wear thin. Waiting for him to ask her to move in.
She continued angrily slamming one hanger against the next as her eyes quickly scanned one garment after another. She was sick and tired of her wardrobe, too. Today, she planned on doing something about that. In a major way. She would start at Dior, picking up every John Galliano creation she could get into. From there she would probably go to Roberto Cavalli, and if there was anything in the store that she didn't own, she would buy it. Versace, ditto. Then go downtown to Alexander McQueen's place in the meatpacking district and make a raid on his stock.
She would steer clear of the jewelers. That was a man's territory as far as she was concerned, and the principal reason for her anger this morning. She had called Dufour in Paris yesterday and discovered that Princess Karima's ring had been purchased by a young woman the auction house refused to identify. The mere thought that another woman was in possession of the ring was like an insidious disease in her mind. It would suddenly creep up on her, this horrible thought, and make rational thinking or behavior utterly impossible. She had never wanted anything so much in all her life, and now someone else owned it. Another woman.
Bang! Clack! She slammed the hangers with increasing speed, so intent upon her search for the outfit that would suit her mood today that she didn't notice Hilton had sat up on his elbows and was staring at her with a frown.
'What the hell are you doing?' he finally asked.
She didn't respond to him, but kept rummaging through the clothes as if she hadn't heard him.
Hilton watched her for a moment, annoyed by her childish fit of pique, then threw off the bedc
overs and got to his feet. He padded across the room to her, put his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck with his chin before kissing it.
'Don't!' she exclaimed, stiffening. 'Just. . . just leave me alone!'
He continued lavishing kisses upon her neck, disregarding her outburst.
Kitty gave up looking through her clothes and stood still and mute, trying to calm herself. She didn't want to upset Hilton, not at this stage of the game, and he wouldn't appreciate her anger the first thing in the morning. Finally, she turned in his arms and faced him.
'Good morning,' he said with a smile.
'I. . . good morning,' she replied.
'What's got your goat the first thing this morning?' he asked, looking into her eyes.
Kitty looked away, carrying on a debate about what to say. Perhaps she should level with him. It was a unique tactic, but Hilton would appreciate her honesty. He was old-fashioned that way.
Kitty looked up into his eyes and put on her best lost-little-girl look. 'I—I'm sorry, Hilton,' she said. 'I'm acting like a spoiled brat.'
You always do, he thought. 'Tell me what it is,' he said, kissing her lips.
'I—I. . . oh, it's . . . silly and useless and not important,' she said, her voice quavering.
'Come on,' he cajoled, kissing her again. 'Tell me what it is. Anything that upsets you is important to me, Kitty. You should know that.'
'I . . . oh, I just can't get Princess Karima's ring out of my mind,' she replied. She felt his arms loosen about her and saw the look of—what? disappointment?—that came into his face. 'I know it sounds ridiculous,' she quickly went on, 'but you know how she was always my idol.'
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