Krok was drinking straight whisky with his dinner, growing dangerously drunk, his small red-rimmed eyes glittering with malice as he glanced around the table, looking for a victim. Clémence, at the opposite end, eyed him nervously, hands fidgeting with her hairpiece. Marlena sat next to Aristo, who smouldered like a hot coal. He darted glances at his father, thunderbolts, while Marlena herself appeared utterly unfazed and as cool as marble.
Stevie was rather fascinated by the magnetism of the couple. Then she sensed eyes on her and turned: Iris was watching her from across the table. She felt uncomfortable, but smiled, hoping it didn’t show. She also hoped Iris wouldn’t make some comment about her and Henning—he was just to Stevie’s right and dangerously within hearing. When Skorpios—seated on Stevie’s left—excused himself to take a phone call, Iris inclined her head a little and said softly, ‘Apparently Skorpios threatened to dispose of Marlena, unless Aristo did so himself.’ She took a small sip of her champagne. ‘But Aristo won’t do that. He’s madly in love with her.’
‘Do you think Skorpios would really hurt Marlena?’ Stevie asked in a low voice.
‘It’s a credible threat,’ replied Iris, raising an eyebrow. ‘It was never going to make for harmonious relations between father and son.’
When Skorpios returned he ignored his son and lavished attention on Angelina, who had surfaced resplendent with fury from her chrysalis. She had caught her lover trying to lure Princess Loli into an empty stateroom that afternoon and the injury had still not been redressed. Fortunately they spoke in French, not Greek—a language that Angelina said made her feel passionless. Stevie could hear Skorpios’s chocolate tones saying, ‘Angelina, I am an animal. Only you can tame me. What is a flirtation compared to what we have together? A pebble before Vesuvius. Rien!’
Angelina flicked her head imperiously but Stevie knew her well enough to see she had been conquered. She rose from the table—ostensibly to powder her nose.
Skorpios turned his attention to Stevie. He must have known she had been listening.
‘Men and women can only ever be making love, or making war. There is nothing in between.’
‘That’s a rather exhausting idea.’
‘It is the truth. Beautiful women cannot bear moderation; they must have an inexhaustible excess of everything.’ He drank his whisky. ‘And Angelina is very beautiful. She has a very passionate soul. She has already forgiven me. Tout passe.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Stevie softly, ‘but it leaves scars on the heart. How much can one organ bear?’
Skorpios leant back and pulled out a cigar, eyes still on Stevie. ‘You have been wounded and now you are afraid to love.’ He lit the cigar and puffed with satisfaction. ‘Only because you have not met the right lover,’ he continued. ‘The right man will make you forget everything, all the past, all the tears. And what is pain for? It tells us we are truly alive. How can we be truly happy if we have never truly suffered?’
Stevie glanced over at Henning—she couldn’t help herself. Was he listening? She hoped not. She turned back to Skorpios. ‘Have you ever truly suffered—I mean, for love?’ Stevie doubted it. The man was a tiger.
He looked at her for a long moment. ‘I am a great romantic.’ He smiled. ‘You pine for Iris’ son.’ He had noticed the glance. ‘He’s not for you. He has looks and charm, but he will break your heart. He will not make a good husband. I think—’ he gave her a trader’s appraising look ‘—that you can do better. You are elegant and frail. Many men like that—the delicate quality. I myself have had occasion to fall for its charms. You could go far.’
Stevie swallowed the first two replies that came to mind and settled for a milder, ‘I’m happy where I am, Mr Skorpios, and I don’t pine for anyone.’ But the man with the toffee-lenses had guessed too much already.
‘Everyone pines for someone. The heart abhors a vacuum.’
‘I thought it was power . . .’
‘Love is power, is it not? Make someone love you and you have power over them.’
Stevie struggled to keep her voice even. ‘That’s rather a horrible way to look at it.’
‘Miss Duveen, you live in a fairytale. Can you really believe the things you are telling me? Is this a faux naivety for my benefit, or have you really not seen enough of life to know?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I could teach you many things.’
Skorpios poured Stevie a fresh glass of champagne, his fingers unexpectedly gentle around the crystal stem, the golden scorpion gleaming on his signet ring.
‘I prefer my women experienced,’ he continued, ‘with that faint tinge of scandal about them. Women like that understand men like me.’
‘Women like Angelina?’ Stevie stared right at the dark lenses, hoping she had found his eyes. ‘Why do you torture her? You seem to do it on purpose. Why not let her go if you don’t love her. Leave her to the man who does.’
‘Zorfanelli?’ Skorpios laughed. ‘He is nothing.’
‘And what are you, that you are so proud of yourself? Are you any better than these other men?’ Stevie couldn’t stop the words coming out of her mouth.
Skorpios’ face darkened and she braced herself for a tempest. ‘Yes, I’m a disgrace. I’m a murderer. I’m a thief . . . But I am also a billionaire, and powerful. I will never give up Angelina, and I will use whatever means necessary to keep her. Everything else can go to hell.’
Suddenly it was as if the air had been sucked out of the space around them. Stevie was afraid to move. Had she made a terrible enemy?
I’m a murderer.
Angelina’s lacquered nails landed lightly on Skorpios’ shoulder, breaking the spell. Stevie looked away in relief and caught Marlena staring at her. She gave the woman a small smile that Marlena did not return.
Aristo was smoking a cigarette and as he turned, the profile of his proud nose and heavy brows stark against his white shirt, Stevie was struck by the resemblance to his father. There was no doubt that Aristo had a charisma all his own, quite aside from the draw of his father’s money. Although few would call him handsome, he was strong and graceful and proud—if a little arrogant. She could see what attracted Marlena to him, even though he was twenty years younger, only just out of his teens.
Skorpios was also now watching Aristo, and Stevie felt his silent regard flow like poison. Angelina noticed it too.
‘Is it because you want her too?’ she asked him, her eyes glittering dangerously.
Skorpios dismissed her provocation with a wave of his hand. ‘Women like Marlena are a necessary education.’
‘You are jealous of Aristo, of your own son. I would have thought he would make you proud by taking a lover like Marlena.’
‘She is a whore.’
Angelina laughed. ‘Because she won’t sleep with you?’ The diva leant across the table seductively, her pale skin reflecting the candlelight, the dancing shadows accentuating every curve. The woman was a phenomenon. ‘Aristo, tell your father he must marry me.’
‘Angelina, I can’t do that.’ Skorpios’ voice was sharp. ‘This is a user pays arrangement.’
The diva jerked back as if she had been slapped. She stared at her lover with her huge eyes. ‘Skorpios . . .’ Her incredible voice trembled. ‘You are a monster.’
Slowly she stood, as if unable to trust her legs to hold her, and left the table.
Stevie struggled between the impulse to go after her, and her desire not to get involved in the love affairs of others. She realised she felt very tired. For now, she would wait.
Stevie looked to one side and saw Skorpios, a man who refused to stay with one woman; at the other end of the spectrum was Krok, a man who refused to let one go. Did these two men represent the choices in love? Did love exist in a straight line, with two opposite points—Krok and Skorpios—between which some accommodation had to be found?
The thought depressed her and she turned her gaze up to the few stars that were visible beyond the lights; darkness forever. The suggestion of eternity comforted her
, she didn’t know why. Actually, she did know why—it was that the very word ‘eternity’ was filled with the breath of freedom. It was the opposite of being trapped, confined, locked up, owned and beholden. It was a state of complete and perfect liberty.
Would she one day meet a person who made her want to change that—take the gloss off her utter independence? Unlikely.
She hoped any man she fell in love with wouldn’t demand that of her . . . or was surrender a pre-condition to true love?
Did people simply attract what they themselves put out to the universe, like to like? Clémence had learnt how to trap a man and keep him—now she was kept in a vice of iron; Angelina thrived on the drama of passion and she had met a man who would keep her swinging from ecstasy to despair. Stevie couldn’t live like either of them. And then there was Henning: what might he demand of her if she let him get too close? The thought frightened her. A winter love affair was one thing; one that stretched to two—even three—seasons, quite another. Stevie did not feel ready for what that might lead to.
Henning caught her gaze and smiled; he was dangerously charming, Stevie thought, and too real to sustain her fantasy of him. Best exit. If she let him have her heart, she would be at his mercy. She would end up like Angelina.
The diva was weeping hysterically in her cabin.
‘Angelina . . .’ Stevie stood by the door for a moment, waiting for the sobs to lessen. When finally she raised her head from the pillow, the woman’s face was swollen and contorted with pain.
‘Angelina, why do you stay with him?’
Angelina gulped. ‘Will you pour me a drink, Stevie, darling?’
Stevie handed her an inch of vodka from the room’s bar.
The diva swallowed it and it seemed to calm her. She shook her head. ‘When slur follows slur, and insults pile upon insults, the love that is left makes no sense, but it is also indestructible.’ She turned to look at Stevie. ‘It is a madness of sorts, and nobody chooses to be mad.’
Her false eyelashes had come unglued and fallen in front of her eyes like drunken spiders—she did indeed look a little demented. Stevie reached into Angelina’s purse, pulled out her compact and held the mirror up to her.
‘Tell me, Angelina,’ she said softly. ‘Is any man—any love— worth this?’
Angelina took the mirror, stared at her deformed face, and began weeping afresh. Stevie closed the cabin door quietly and left her to her tears.
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard voices in the main saloon. ‘Damn that bitch, I could—’ The end of the sentence was swallowed by a burst of collective laughter from the deck. Stevie recognised the voice of Skorpios. Then another voice spoke—Dado Falcone?
‘You tried, but you did not succeed.’
‘Who says I won’t try again?’
‘It’s an unnecessary risk. You don’t—’
Their conversation was interrupted by a woman’s scream, high, loud and as clear as crystal.
Angelina!
When Stevie reached the cabin door, she found the diva attempting to commit suicide with a letter opener. Fortunately, the letter opener was not as sharp as it looked and, as anyone who has tried knows, it is actually quite difficult to stab oneself with enough conviction to cause a serious injury. Angelina had managed a small—though no doubt painful—flesh wound that would not do any lasting damage. She refused to let Stevie touch her.
When Skorpios and Falcone appeared in the cabin door a moment later, they were treated to a dramatic tableau: the diva was sitting on the edge of her bed; her black dress had slipped off the shoulder exposing her milky left breast. Her head was thrown back, exposing her long and famous throat, and a trickle of bright blood crept towards her cleavage. In her fist she clutched the letter opener like Cleopatra’s asp. She gave a small moan.
Skorpios bellowed, ‘Leave us,’ and ran to his lover.
Stevie was only too glad to close the cabin door on the scene.
She smiled politely at Falcone as he stepped back to let her pass in the narrow passageway, wondering if she was the irritant the two men had been talking about. Was there murderous intent disguised as chivalry and bon ton in the man behind her? Her shoulder blades burnt in anticipation of the sharp sting of a knife.
None came and Stevie felt both relieved and a little foolish as the hubbub of the after-dinner conversation came through the open door. The guests had left the table and were mingling on the deck.
Henning was whispering to Princess Loli, making her laugh, her eyes bright; Iris was deep in conversation with Lamia. Stevie saw Clémence glide over to where her husband stood talking to Al-Nassar and his right hand and watched as she tried to join the conversation— but Krok just turned his shoulder and blocked her, pushing her away with the back of his arm. He didn’t even pause his words.
Clémence looked momentarily lost and Stevie slipped over to her side, taking her elbow.
‘Darling,’ Stevie said gaily, ‘I haven’t seen you all evening! Come and sit by me.’ She led Mrs Krok to some empty chairs a little to the side of the party. As they passed, Stéphane, the aristocrat from Liechtenstein, handed them two glasses of champagne with a little bow, his eyes fixed on Clémence.
‘He seems very interested in you,’ Stevie remarked, glancing at the dark-haired European.
‘He’s interested in my money—in Vaughan’s money I should say.’ She drank from her glass. ‘I’m not being cynical, Stevie. It’s hard for Stéphane. Behind his world-weary gestures and disdainful laugh is the insecurity of an aristocrat without a country, clinging to a meaningless title that gets him invited to the right parties. Trouble is, Stéph’s tastes are very expensive—sports cars, travel, gambling, fine art, the life of le jet-set. He needs a fortune to finance his aspirations.’
Clémence looked around. ‘I’m the richest woman here, apart from Lamia. And even Stéphane is not that stupid. Why not? I’m still attractive—if Vaughan and I divorced I would be entitled to a huge chunk of his wealth.’ She finished her champagne in one long swallow. Her voice was low and hoarse when she spoke again. ‘Sometimes it’s as if he can’t stand me, can’t stand the sight of me.’
‘Would you ever leave him, Clémence? Surely his fortune isn’t worth your health—not to mention Emile’s life. And as you said, it’s not as if you would be left with nothing.’
‘My dear Stevie, you don’t understand, do you? A divorce would be far too expensive—even for my husband—and too dangerous. I know too much about Vaughan, his business . . . You don’t get to be as powerful as he is without doing some very bad things. After sleeping with Vaughan for nine years, I’d have to be pretty stupid not to know at least one secret that could destroy him. He will never let me go.’ Clémence glanced down at her nails, her rich perfume hanging about her like a protective cloud.
‘He will never let me go,’ she repeated, ‘and if I tried to leave . . . he would kill me. I’d be found on the floor of one of my bedrooms in a pool of my own vomit—a drug overdose, a tragic suicide. I’ve heard him talk to people about my barbiturate addiction.’
Stevie stared at her. She didn’t seem to be—
‘No, Stevie, I don’t have an addiction. That’s the point. He is laying out the groundwork for my murder like a game of solitaire, card by card. And he knows I see it. It’s one of his more delightful forms of bullying—to remind me of how lightly I tread on this earth, to remind me that I breathe because he allows me to.’
Stevie shivered and stared down at the oil-black sea where the lights of the Hercules were dancing to the tune of Al-Nassar’s musicians. The ship was full of bullies and thieves and Stevie could feel the desperation—Clémence, Angelina, Stéphane, how many others?— creep along her spine.
A steward appeared with a tray of cognac and announced to the party: ‘The games in the saloon are about to begin.’
12
Stevie did not like games. Nor was she very good at them. Even ones that people might have supposed she would be quite suit
ed to were somehow beyond her. Generally she was able to avoid them, though children’s birthday parties could be problematic, and English country house parties were perilous. In that situation, a well-timed urge to take the dogs for a long walk usually did the trick.
However, shipboard with a sociopathic weapons dealer and mercenary definitely classified as a situation where games would be difficult to avoid. Stevie gathered her skirts and wondered whether she could convincingly fake a faint, considering her condition . . .
The guests were assembled in the saloon and the round central table had been transformed for the games with a green baize top. Piles of striped chips and stacks of playing cards were collected to one side, under the protection of the chief steward-cum-croupier. Chairs had been set out around the perimeter of the room and a large screen in the corner hinted ominously at the possibility of electronic games—something equally dread-inspiring to Stevie.
She crouched quietly on a banquette, taking care to sandwich herself between two deflectors: Henning (tall and broad) and Clémence (attention-swervingly glamorous). She concentrated on making herself invisible—a rare talent she had that most of the time worked very nicely.
Once all the guests were seated, Krok appeared, cigar in one hand, the other hanging heavily in his jacket pocket. Stevie noticed the outline of a snub-nosed revolver straining at the white linen of the pocket.
‘Games. Mark of a man—how he plays a game.’ His voice was loud and hoarse from the whisky, the smoke and the goblins within—a bark. ‘Can’t trust a man who doesn’t play games.’ He turned his boiled eyes to his wife and Stevie felt the skin on Clémence’s arm, resting lightly against her own, chill a few degrees. ‘Or a woman for that matter.’
He stared around the room, his eyes aggressive, as if daring someone to give him an excuse to explode. Then he suddenly smiled and gave another bark. ‘Russian roulette?’
He removed his hand from his pocket and drew with it a small white gun, like those carried by his crew. He raised it and fired at the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The sound was furiously loud, even in the carpeted and cushioned room. Someone let out a squeal, quickly stifled.
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