One Step to Danger

by John Gubert

  Her father interrupted me. “You should trust me. I am on your side. Look I explained what happened.”

  I looked at Jacqui. “What do you think? It’s your choice.”

  Jacqui looked at her father. She hesitated. “No, we keep the tapes. There’s no harm. I believe you, Daddy. But I want to be sure that you don’t change your mind. And I can’t be certain. Too much has happened. I no longer know whom to trust. Other than Charles, and that’s because I know what he has done for me. After all he did not need to help me. He did not need to save Uncle Aldo. He could have walked out. And I love him.”

  Di Maglio nodded. “Do it your way. I understand. Perhaps you are right. You should get proof. If you need anything, call me. You can always get my help if you are in trouble.”

  I went up to him and shook his hand. “I think I am going to trust you. It may take time. But it will be easier when I am more your equal. And then we can see if we can work together. If we do, we would make a superb team. The De Roches and the Di Maglios.”

  “What are you doing now?” he asked.

  “We have to pack and head off to France. I need to be in Cannes tomorrow morning.”

  He smiled. He seemed so different from the man I knew before. I thought I was seeing the genuine man. But still I wasn’t sure. “I’ll book you into the Carlton, if you want.”

  Jacqui smiled and kissed him. “Book us together. No separate rooms. I love you.”

  He looked pleased. Even Giovanni was smiling although that hardly improved his features.

  “It’s been too short,” he said. “Let’s have lunch together. I need to talk to you about one or two things. I need to warn you about Rastinov.”

  Jacqui looked pleadingly. I nodded. “But we must leave by two for we need to drive down to Cannes. Tomorrow we have to start the scam and, as you said, Friday night is a good night.”

  Di Maglio said he knew a good restaurant. “We can have pasta. It is the real stuff.”

  The lunch was strange. Di Maglio was courteous. Giovanni turned out to be a good table companion. It was less of a lunch than a briefing. And the briefing was all about the family and their enemies. Jacqui was quiet. It was as if she knew what I had let myself in for. They needed me to know. They wanted me to be alert to the dangers. Jacqui could be vulnerable. They wanted me to protect her. And I realised, as the lunch progressed, that I was getting deep into dangerous territory. And there was nothing I could do about it. For the danger came with Jacqui.

  I think they saw through my silence. They saw me look at Jacqui. They saw Jacqui look at me. She knew I had come on board. They knew they could trust me. I wasn’t a member of the family. But I was now one of them.

  A NIGHT IN CANNES

  Our journey to Cannes was uneventful. We left later than we had planned. But, out of season, the roads in that area are quite fast. There was no disturbance.

  We talked happily all the way. At times we played the radio. There was no news about the shooting. That didn’t really surprise me.

  We were soon on the motorway, heading towards Cannes. It was early evening as we left the motorway at Juan Les Pins. I liked coming into Cannes on the old coast road. It skirted the harbour, took us past the Martinez and onto the Carlton. I swept into the drive in front of the hotel and handed the keys to the doorman.

  “We have a room booked for tonight. Our luggage is in the boot.”

  He took my name and we headed into the hotel. The Carlton is one of my favourites.

  In summer it has a wonderful terrace overlooking the sea. Most people go there for dinner and enjoy the looks of jealousy from their poorer relations on the road outside. Even within the terrace, there is a three tier grading system. First of all, in the best seats are the hotel guests. Then one gets the great and the good from the surrounding area. And finally the carpetbaggers who have saved religiously for a holiday treat. Although not universal, they often dressed in reverse order to their grade. The hotel guests were the most casual and the poorest of the carpetbaggers the most laundered. The male variety sported their well pressed slacks, ironed socks, gleaming white shoes and starched summer shirts. The women washed and ironed their summer dresses to perfection, with the bright colours highlighting the fact that many are already past their prime; indeed a classical case of mutton dressed as lamb.

  I was not a fan of dinner on the terrace. I preferred to drive up to Mougins, a small hill village above Cannes. Its collective restaurants have more Michelin stars than almost any other town. Or alternatively, I would wonder over to the port and head to one of the small bistros in the old town. The terrace, though, was a splendid place for breakfast. It served a delightful buffet. If one got up early, there was hardly anyone around. And the sea always looked calm in the morning. The occasional yacht would be setting out along the bay towards the Lerins. But the seafront was empty, and even a passing car rarely disturbed the view.

  I used very few of the facilities at the hotel. I felt there though. There was a health club and Jacqui and I decided to go there. Quite simply, the pasta had been enormous at lunchtime and we could not face another meal.

  I wanted to get ready for my planned bodybuilding. The entrance hall to the Carlton is large, airy and resplendent in marble. The furniture is plush. And the service is prompt. Di Maglio had booked and obviously also requested VIP treatment. I discovered we were to be his guests for the duration of our stay. The only question posed was whether we had an idea of its length. I suggested it could be through to the end of the following weekend, but offered to confirm during the course of the next week. I was assured that was no bother. I wanted to see how much money we could launder in a week. I was no expert and was surprised that Jacqui felt she could handle around the twenty million-dollar level over a weekend. That seemed a lot to me. She assured me though that she could do even more if there were high rollers about. The key was that you have to bet in line with the others at the table. Otherwise it really looked phoney. And, more importantly, she was keen to get in contact with what she called off table clients. I was to appreciate what she meant by that later.

  Our room, or rooms, was superb. An enormous bed dominated a large bedroom. A dozen full-budded red roses decorated a table in one corner. A balcony looked over the sea, giving views of the yacht marina to the left and the old port to the right. A lounge led off the bedroom. The sofas and tables were nineteenth century as was a delightful bureau in one corner of the room. A giant television seemed totally out of place. It reminded me of an office I had once seen somewhere in Europe. Then beautiful Louis XV furnishings co-existed with neon lighting and a bank of screens flashing up to the minute data on world markets.

  I looked into the bathroom and saw a circular bath with jacuzzi. I thought that could be quite exciting. I felt enthused and relaxed. I thought back to earlier in the week when we were faced with the two killers in the house. Since then, I was sure that we had sorted out Jacqui’s father. As time went by, I was actually quite getting to like him. I had sorted out Fucquet. My father had already brought on board United Bank. We had opened the accounts at Bankhaus Hochzeit some months ago. In fact, all was ready to roll. Tomorrow we would head for the bank vault and take out the first suitcase of cash. Once that was laundered we would proceed to the next one. Until we had done the entire hundred million. Then we still needed to organise the money we had wired all over the world. But once we had a history of receiving large sums for our account that would be easier through the classical banking routes.

  The initial laundering had looked a daunting task. Jacqui was an expert at that and so I felt my fears had disappeared. After all we had easily transferred several hundred million through a myriad of banks. And we had agreed, with Fucquet of all people, to get a hundred million into legal accounts. I had to admit that was mainly on the back of her name and a cock and bull story about a fund management company.

  The luggage arrived and I tipped the boy well. I always find that a carefully placed tip at the start of a stay is
a good investment. Word quickly gets around and staff immediately treats one with care. Breakfast appears when ordered. Laundry is done instantly, and the room service staff jump promptly to attention. The hotel is in fact a microcosm of the corrupt state. Paying one’s dues does not get one the service required; it merely entitles one to it. It is the backhander that oils the wheels.

  We unpacked. Jacqui’s wardrobe was now quite large. I had a modest four or five outfits, although several changes of shirt. As she handed me her clothes and I hung them up, I realised she had eight short dresses, four skirts, two evening dresses and three pairs of slacks as well as a couple of drawers full of miscellaneous other things. We had had a fair bit of luggage. She had always had one quite large case of clothes from the time we picked her things up from her aunt’s house. She had since bought another. And, while I was with her father, she had popped into a shop and stocked up on make up. That had all been stored in a small case she had acquired alongside the large one we had got for her and the smaller suit carrier for my own newly acquired outfits. She looked critically at our luggage and commented that we should dump it in favour of matching luggage during the stay. I had a horrible thought that we might also need to buy an extra case or two if we passed too many shops.

  I commented on this to Jacqui, “You are not a serial shopper are you?”

  “No, but I hate wearing the same outfit too often. Look, I’m not in the league of the Royal Eurotrash. But I like clothes. Most of mine are off the rack. I have the right figure for a load of the labels. In any case I hate hanging around for clothes.”

  “I know you have the figure, but let’s change and head to the gym. Otherwise you’ll pop out of those evening dresses. That could be fun, as long as we are alone. I mean,” I joked “it would be rather embarrassing if that happened in public. I don’t know if I could restrain myself.”

  “Well keep your hands to yourself,” she responded. Then provocatively, she calmly unzipped her dress and stepped out of it a single movement.

  “Hey that’s unfair,” I said. “That’s harassment!”

  “Take off your clothes,” came the cool reply. “And get ready for the gym. They’ve got a mat there for press ups.”

  “That’s hardly compensation.”

  “But it’s all that is on offer for the moment.” With that she stripped off her bra and pulled on her leotard.

  “That was unfair,” I protested. “You’re teasing. In any event that leotard is too tight for you. And you know it. You got it on on purpose.”

  Wide innocent eyes looked at me. “In what way do you mean?” She grinned broadly. “Come on there’s nothing a five mile run on a treadmill won’t cure. You were telling me you did that regularly.”

  I pulled on my shorts and a T-shirt, and donned a sweatshirt over it. I followed her as we headed to the lift. Long slim legs at ease in a leotard, over which she had casually flung a shirt. I swore as she walked ahead of me, that she swayed her hips that bit more provocatively than usual. I found myself reacting again. And then in the lift, as we headed briefly to the basement gym, she snuggled up and kissed me. That gave quite a shock to one of the other guests, when we did not notice the lift stopping temporarily on the first floor. His surprised face and his embarrassed “bonjour” had Jacqui laughing quietly to herself.

  “Impossible woman,” I said to her as we discharged one red-faced companion at ground level. “You are going to get us a bad reputation. They’ll all know we are not married. I mean, we were enjoying ourselves.”

  The gym was quite empty. It was getting to early evening. In a hotel like the Carlton at that time, most guests will be thinking of putting on the calories rather than removing them. Jacqui headed to the cycling machine and I headed to the treadmill.

  “I’ll show you that I can run five miles,” I said. “But it will take me about forty minutes. I don’t want to push myself. I have hardly been leading the healthiest of existences over the past week.”

  “Excuses. Excuses” came the reply. “I will be here in forty minutes in any case. She had increased the resistance on her bike and was now starting to puff slightly as she pedalled away.

  I started running and soon was working up a sweat. Two or three kilometres later, I was finding the going much easier and increased my speed. I looked over at Jacqui. The back of her leotard was darkening with perspiration as she pedalled ever more furiously. Her neck and shoulders were glistening with moisture. She gave a gasp and stopped. “Not bad,” she said “I did ten miles in that time.”

  “Don’t push yourself too far. Or you’ll fall asleep before you get back to the room. Or perhaps I will have to carry you back if you are too exhausted.”

  I was panting slightly as I exerted myself that bit more with the increased speed. Jacqui moved in front of the machine and I looked down at her. I blinked as sweat ran in my eyes. Suddenly I noticed the treadmill seemed to be going faster. I was finding it difficult to keep up. Glancing down, I saw she had quietly advanced the speed to over fourteen kilometres an hour. I slowed it down quickly.

  “Bitch,” I said with a growl. “Just wait till I have done my session. I’ll spank you to complete the exercise.”

  “You’ll have to catch me first and by the look of things, you won’t be getting about too well. I think I will be able to keep you at bay. I guess preferably by moving fast or alternatively by unarmed combat.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “You better not tempt me. You don’t know everything about me. I’ve got skills you have not even thought of.”

  “Really. That might be interesting. I must admit I thought I had seen quite a few of your skills.”

  “Don’t be too sure. I could still surprise you. Finish your run. I am going to do some press ups.”

  With that she went over to a mat in the corner and started to do a variety of exercises. She had obviously had a personal trainer at some time. Nobody automatically works out that sequence.

  I realised that the treadmill was slowing down. I had reached my goal. My T-shirt was now clinging to me. I took a drink of water. Then I wiped my forehead and eyes. Jacqui was still hard at her exercises. I decided I had enough and walked over to her. I noticed we were now except for an attendant sitting at the desk.

  “There’s a steam room. How about a session in it?”

  “Good idea. Have you cooled off? Did the alternative therapy work? Are the hormones quietening down? Can the hands keep to themselves?”

  “It’ll be an effort,” I responded. “But I’ll try hard.”

  We went over to the attendant and told him we would be using the steam room. He reminded us to remove any metal. “Take out your ear rings” he said to Jacqui as he handed her a towel. “They’ll hurt you if they heat up. Will you want it for half an hour? I think you will find that enough.”

  “I would think so,” said Jacqui. “Do we have it to ourselves?”

  “Oh yes” said the attendant. “We only have the one. One has to pre-book in the daytime. We had a bit of trouble when we allowed free entry. You can imagine what happened. Or perhaps you better not. We don’t allow it any more.”

  We headed to the changing rooms and I noted to Jacqui that I was not the only one aroused by a gym and the female body.

  “Careful,” came the response, “Or I will be locking you out as well.” I joined her again in the steam room. The heat was intense. The air was thick with steam. I felt the welcome warmth penetrate and relax at the same time. I was sitting with the towel tied around my waist. Jacqui had tied her’s toga style.

  I felt a hand slide up and down my wet leg. It felt rather pleasant. Then it stopped. One finger started drawing a circle just at the top of my leg. It went round and round. Then it moved up further and further.

  At that point I turned and pulled Jacqui towards me. The toga knot undid. The towel fell to her waist. It settled loosely on her lap. I kissed a breast. It was warm and wet. A pearl of moisture glistened at the end of one of the breasts and the
n dropped down onto the towel. Another was forming and I waited for it to follow the same route. Jacqui shifted and the towel around her waist fell apart. She left it there and took my hand. She ran it along her moist stomach. She was shifting backwards and forwards. Her lips parted in a gentle moan. Was it pleasure? Or was it pain?

  I turned more towards her and at the same time shook off my own towel. We were sitting in the steam, just able to make out our bodies in the humid heat. The steam surrounded Jacqui and she drew closer to me. One passionate kiss led to another. My arms seemed to glide up and down her back. My hands went round her waist.

  Her hands seemed to dance over my body as I gently put my hands beneath her elbows and pulled her to her feet as I also got to mine. We kissed and felt the warmth of our bodies together. They seemed to slip against each other. I felt myself drop into a reverie and heard myself gasp,

  “I must, please, I must".

  “Not here,” she said. “Not here.” Let’s get upstairs. I don’t know if the attendant might come.”

  I don’t know what he thought for we both grabbed our towels around us again and half dressed to leave the gym. Jacqui had just pulled on her leotard. She was hugging her shirt around her for she was conscious that the wet material was somewhat see through. I had pulled on my shorts and sweatshirt. The laces of my shoes were open. I carried my other clothes. Possibly the attendant did not notice. But he seemed to be perplexed by the speed of our exit.