Moj signed it in a flourish. “Aren’t you a little old for this?”
The guy’s face turned quizzical. His voice came out with the lilt of a South African accent. Not a local.
“Music doesn’t have an age, right? I love Seventh Generation. 7G forever. But only what you produce. Their first album was a waste.”
“Yeah, man, I was being a dick,” Moj said. “Sorry.” He gestured over at Bronwyn. “Give this guy one of the promos for 7G, Bronwyn. Please and thank you. I have to go say hi to Lindsay and Alton.”
And find that woman, Moj thought. I have to see her again.
Moj started to walk away along the side of the stage, to get to the VIP section, but again, Bronwyn was in his face.
“Yes, sir, you got it, no problem. But you can’t walk out there alone. You know this is not…you know…this isn’t…” she mouthed the word A-mer-ic-a. All four syllables.
Moj grabbed one of his own personal security guards, Jeffrey something, who was chatting with Val Kendrick, supermodel and ubiquitous celebrity. Val's long dark hair reminded him of the woman he'd seen in the crowd, and though Val had a face created to break hearts, the other woman had been prettier in a rougher, tougher sort of way.
Val applied her dazzling smile to him, and he couldn't help but smile back. He and Val went way back.
"Cloude sounds good, Moj," Val said. "You should double her vocal coach's salary."
Moj rolled his eyes. "Come on, Val, the kid has heart. Besides, you dissing her makes me think you're jealous."
Val matched his eye roll with her own. She was younger. It came off better.
"Please. Word on the street says Cloude likes girls. And we both know you aren't over Fiona yet."
"Maybe, maybe not," Moj said easily. "Regardless, Cloude and I are together. So stop with the flirting."
Val gave him a long look, kissed Jeffrey on the cheek, then strutted to her superstar tent. She turned to give him a smoldering look. "See you later, Moj. Bronwyn booked me for the Seychelles photo shoot, and you better bring your 'A' game."
"'A,' 'B,' and 'C,'" Moj pursed his lips and nodded. "You know me. I can play all the games."
Val ducked through the silken flaps and was gone.
Jeffrey cleared his throat. "About the kiss, sir, nothing is going on there."
That made Moj laugh.
"Don't worry. I know about Val and what she does with her kisses. Not that I've experienced it firsthand, but I know it don't mean a thing, not to her and not to me."
Jeffrey let out a sigh of relief.
Moj slapped his bodyguard on the back and then followed him through the secret passage under the stage and out a side door.
More fans crowded forward, as did Lindsay and Alton.
But the green-eyed girl? The gorgeous woman with the raven hair?
She was gone.
Moj laughed at his disappointment. And yet, that disappointment also brought on the guilt. That guilt, every time, no matter how far he traveled and no matter how happy he made the world with music.
He hoped his month sailing around the Indian Ocean on the Bonnie Blue would help him with all the memories, so sharp, that cut so deep, no matter how many of these publicity tours he did, no matter how many platinum records hung on the walls of his mansion in L.A., no matter how many music critics called him the new Berry Gordy.
It just didn’t matter, not after what had happened with Fiona.
CHAPTER TWO
Arjuna Beach in Goa, India
Rania found a walkway back to the harbor away from the concert, but the white line of breaking surf cutting the dark ocean away from the brighter sands called to her.
The Bonnie Blue could wait; it wasn't like anyone was expecting her until after the concert. She left the walkway onto the beach and into the smell of the Indian Ocean.
Couples, families, loners, all had escaped the crowds to wander the beach where lights from the spectacle behind them threw light onto the water. A cow wandered past. While the Indian government had tried to keep livestock off city streets, the sacred animals were still everywhere, some painted, but all revered.
Rania still couldn’t believe how different India was from any place she’d ever been. Growing up in Egypt, she’d thought she’d seen it all. Until she traveled in India.
She took in a deep breath. The beach smelled so good, seeing the couples made her consider her single life.
Moj had put a knot in her stomach. She’d been close to powerful men before, had worked long hours both on and off the ocean with some amazingly rich people. Moj, though, seemed different.
And, she noticed, no ring on his left hand. She’d heard he’d been married; gossip about his tragic marriage had bubbled around on the Internet, but she didn’t pay much attention to celebrity drama.
At the microphone, he had seemed so calm and at ease, and yet he hadn’t seemed to enjoy it all that much. And the look he’d given her, that long stare, that bare hunger, had sent a shiver down her spine.
Such feelings were rare for her. The whole dating, romance, sex thing had seemed like a chore for a long time. Although she did enjoy clicking with a man, things could get complicated quickly. Rania didn't like complications. She wanted her life to run like a well-oiled engine, and men, too often, gummed up the gears.
A thatched-roof bar stood on the sands, surrounded by little plastic chairs. Everywhere she went in Asia, they had those little plastic chairs. An Australian flag fluttered above the thatch. Tiki torches burned at the borders. One thing Aussies liked more than shrimp on the barbie was drinking. She hesitated at the thought of going over to get a mango lassi.
Two men at the bar who were doing their best to get her attention made her reconsider. One was black, the other white, and both huge. The lighter-skinned man had a thick beard and partially shaved head. Tattoos painted every inch of skin. The darker-skinned man wore a straw hat and black eyeglasses. Both were in cut-offs and polo shirts. Well-worn sandals covered their feet.
She could handle them, no doubt. However, she wasn't in the mood to get hit on again.
She walked away from the bar, along the beach, until she came to the harbor. She walked down the familiar slips until she found the best boat she’d ever been on, the Bonnie Blue. She wasn’t the most expensive yacht, hardly, or the fanciest, but she had a certain spirit.
How lucky Rania felt, working with Alton Maura and Lindsay Fisher.
Tommy, the first mate and Lindsay’s uncle, lounged on the top deck, strumming a guitar. His long, silver hair was tied back in a pony tail. A grizzled beard scratched his cheeks, and he wore an ugly Hawaiian shirt with frayed denim cut-offs.
Rania sat down onto soft cushions next to him.
“You here for some good music?” Tommy asked.
Rania had to smile. “As long as it’s from the last century.”
Tommy played a Johnny Cash lick, “Folsom Prison Blues.”
“Yes,” Rania said, “that is good, right there. Real music.”
Tommy sang along, playing the guitar, until Chewy, the steward and general helper, came up from below. He was a nice Dutch man, quick to smile, and with a softness about him. At one point, she thought he might be coming on to her, and she had kept her distance. It soon was apparent he wasn't interested in her romantically, and she was glad. She'd seen before how shipboard romances could turn daydreams into nightmares, and she wasn't about to lose her job on the Bonnie Blue or spoil her reputation. True, she could always return to Global Security, but she preferred engineering.
And being a superyacht engineer was far more anonymous.
Chewy’s real name was Chiel Cruyskens. Tommy soon gave up trying to say it right and started referring to the Dutch guy as Chewy.
“I love Johnny Money,” Chewy said in accented English. He tried to sing a little “Ring of Fire” but failed miserably.
Tommy winced. “Johnny Cash, Chewy. Close enough, though.”
“Hello, Rainy,” Chewy said, mangling her n
ame again.
“Hello, Chewy,” Rania answered. “And it’s pronounced ‘ray-knee-ah’. Just an FYI.”
“FYI!” Chewy nodded. “It means for your information. My English is only getting better.” He gave her a smile and left with Tommy’s empty beer bottle.
“I love a man who cleans up after me,” Tommy said. “But I could use one more beer. You want to get me one?”
Rania gave him a long, cool look.
“Didn’t think so.” Tommy stood, crossed the deck to the cooler hidden under a cushion, and came back with a sweating Kingfisher. He cracked it open and took a sip.
“Ahh, much better. Now, Rania, what do you want to hear?”
“Something Moj might’ve produced?” she asked. She couldn’t get the man out of her head.
“Old Mojjy? He’s good people,” Tommy said. “The problem is, all his music is from this century, and you said…”
Rania raised a hand. “You’re right. What kind of a man is he?”
Tommy thought for a minute, sipping and strumming, until he finally said, “He’s a man who will do anything for the people he loves. Maybe sometimes too much. I don’t want to say mother hen, but I’m going to say it. Mother hen. That’s good and bad.”
“Him?” Rania asked. “I can’t believe that. He seems so mellow.”
“Still waters and all that,” Tommy said.
Rania didn’t understand. “All of what?”
“You damn foreigners need to learn English,” Tommy said with a little tease in his voice. “You know — still waters run deep, like a river running slow. Moj is deep, all right. If you’re so curious, why aren’t you at the concert talking to him?”
“Too many people for me and not my type of music,” Rania said.
“You saw him.” Tommy hid his grin with his bottle.
Rania colored.
“I saw him. And I’m just curious. He’s going to be coming aboard, along with his girlfriend, and I—”
Tommy interrupted by loudly playing the first chords of what clearly was a pop song.
“Cloude! I know a Cloude song.” He played and sang “Love Isn’t Love” until Rania laughed so hard he was forced to stop.
“What?” Tommy feigned hurt. “Moj produced the song.”
She shook her head. “See? It wasn’t from the 1950s, so I don’t care. Isn’t Cloude a little young for him?”
“For Moj? Don’t get me started on older men with younger women. I have my opinions, but it’s none of my business. I will say he’s coming out of a bad situation. She might just be a rebound thing.” Tommy leaned forward. “Did you talk to Moj or only look at him? You have a thing going?”
Rania stuttered. “No…thing… nothing. It’s not like that. I’ll be fine. He’ll come aboard with his daughter, er, girlfriend, and it will all be okay.”
“Sure it will,” Tommy said. “Besides, you’re not Moj’s type at all whatsoever.”
Rania felt herself get a little huffy at the thought, though it was stupid to feel that way.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you are one of the most badass, independent, capable women I have ever met in my life,” Tommy said. “And I’ve met sixty-years worth of women. Coming from where you did, making yourself what you are, no, you’d eat Moj for breakfast.”
“Another American idiom, I guess,” Rania said, somewhat embarrassed by Tommy’s praise. Yet, the thought of eating Moj, well, it wasn’t such a bad idea.
“If he is a mother hen,” Rania said softly, “who mothers the mother?”
Fireworks exploded above the ocean.
“Seventh Generation is on stage,” Tommy said. “Alton and Lindsay said they were going to do a big fireworks show.”
“I hate that band,” Rania said.
“Amen to that,” Tommy replied.
Despite 7G, Rania enjoyed the color in the sky, the explosions, the smell of the gunpowder, the flowering celebration of light and life. She felt the glow inside.
It wasn't the fireworks show, no. What made her giddy was the memory of Moj in his purple shirt, unbuttoned to show his strong, smooth chest, his easy smile on stage and his presence. It was the connection they had, their eyes meeting without wavering. He'd gazed on her with such intensity; she'd returned a stare full of her own passion.
Love at first sight? No such thing. Lust at first sight? Maybe.
Didn't matter. She sighed and enjoyed the buzz.
* * *
Vikram Kori found his partners on the deck of a little thatched-roof bar on the beach where they were earnestly discussing the benefits of rugby and beef jerky, which in South Africa was called biltong.
Before his fall from grace, he would’ve had both men killed and rather easily. But now? He needed them.
Vikram bustled over and stared up at them.
Wally's real name was Wandile Musa, the son of Zulu parents who owned a convenience store in Durban, South Africa. Running a store was never going to satisfy Wally's longing for adventure, so he'd teamed up with Bert and used Bert's boat to run a profitable cigarette smuggling business.
The boat came from Bert's father, a successful South African rugby player turned complete criminal. It was how Vikram had met Bert, though Mr. Haarthoff had been dead for years. Some people should never try to steal anything.
Vikram removed his sunglasses and hung them in the V-neck of his shirt. He raised the Seventh Generation CD signed by Moj.
“Gentleman, I have our futures in my hand.”
Bert squinted and then let a hoot out of his huge beard.
“I love 7G! ‘Blue-eyes and Broken Hearts’ is my favorite. So we’re going to be pop stars? I can dig it.”
Vikram sighed.
Wally, though, took off his ever-present straw hat and frowned, adjusting his black-rimmed eyeglasses. “Bert, I don’t think he means we start singing. I think he means the signature.”
Bert bent closer. His beard brushed Vikram’s hand. Vikram let out a disgusted grunt.
“Who is Nog?” Bert asked.
“Moj,” Vikram said.
Wally snapped his fingers. “I know. We can sell it on eBay, but it’s not really that good of money, Vik.”
“No, we don’t sell it,” Vikram said. He motioned for both the bruisers to lower their heads. Then he said in a muffled voice, “We kidnap Moj. He transfers ten million dollars to our accounts, and we are set for life.”
Or until Vikram could return to Durban and rebuild his criminal empire.
Wally and Bert had no idea who they'd partnered with.
Wally nodded and smiled.
Bert, though, looked dubious.
“I don’t know. The thing about what we’re doing with the cigarettes, it doesn’t involve violence. It’s breaking the law, but not like violently. For this, I might not be comfortable, you know, pointing guns at anyone.”
“I could give you an unloaded gun,” Wally offered. “How’s that? You’ll only have to pretend.”
Bert’s grin split his beard. “Now we’re talking. And if he needs a thump, I can thump him. I don’t mind hitting people. That’s not real violence. It’s just like rugby... without the ball.”
“Rugby!” Wally yelled.
Wally and Bert fell into the Springbok theme song, all in Afrikaans.
A group of Australians then sang their own song, like they were cheering on the Cronulla-Sutherland Sharks.
Vikram ground his teeth and tried to keep from snarling.
“The sharks can suck our balls!” Bert yelled.
Then he and Wally sang the Springbok song again.
When they finished, Bert shot Vikram a grin.
“Who says we can’t sing? We could totally be pop stars! Then we could get tons of women!”
Wally grinned along with him. “We won’t need to sing. The money from the ransom will bring them into our beds by the thousands.”
“Boys,” Vikram said sharply, “let’s keep our voices down. We don’t want to draw any atte
ntion to ourselves, okay?”
As always, Vikram was ignored.
“Don’t need ’em by the thousands,” Bert said. “One at a time is fine. I’m a gentle, attentive lover, and I’d start with that one woman we saw. Dark hair? Face like an angel. Man, she was beautiful. I got half-wood just standing here.”
“Oh yeah, her,” Wally said, and he made his “O” face. “She’d be all, ‘Wally, you’re so big,’ and I’d be like, ‘All men of South Africa are hung like rhinoceroses’.”
He reached out and slapped Vikram. “Even the Indians. Right, Vik? Hung like a Delhi elephant.”
Vikram gave them both a glare. But what could he do? They had the boat, and so far, they hadn’t figured out who he really was. Which was good for all of them.
However, they were absolutely the most inept criminals Vikram had ever met, and he had met most of them from all over Africa.
“Come on, boys,” Vikram said, “I’ll tell you the plan.”
Wally and Bert drained their Windhoek Lagers and bent close while Vikram did what he loved best, planning a crime, every detail. Too bad he had to work with cronies like Wally and Bert.
CHAPTER THREE
04º10’31”N, 73º30’32”E
April 15, Aboard the Bonnie Blue
Malé, Maldives Anchorage
Rania scooted next to the Bonnie Blue’s heart and soul in the engine room, the Scania DI13. She ached with the need to put on her Bose earphones and lose herself in Patsy Cline, but she knew she’d need clear hearing to finish the Scania’s one-thousand-hour maintenance punch list. Sound was everything when you had to troubleshoot a diesel engine.
Sound could also be a pain in the ass when a passenger like Moj was onboard. He’d been shouting into his satellite phone all day. He’d no more than verbally beat one music distributor into submission than he’d speed-dial another. His side of loud arguments floated down to the engine room until she wanted to scream.
After a four-day sail from Goa, she was taking advantage of their time in port at Malé in the Maldives to update as many systems as she could.
She wiped some oil drips from the surface beneath the engine and then rolled back toward the light. Rania jerked in surprise at the mischievous face framed in unruly blond curls staring back at her.
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