Forever (44 page)

'Nice,' she said admiringly.

'It is a 1962 Ferrari GTO. It is the single
most valuable of all the cars.'

'Can I ask what it's worth?'

He grinned. 'You are not sitting down.'

She met his eyes. 'I promise I won't
faint.'

'All right. Try five million dollars.'

'Now I think I'm going to faint!' she said
half jokingly.

'In that case,' he said softly, 'I will just
have to catch you, won't I?' And before she knew what was
happening, his hands were on her arms and he was suddenly drawing
her close to his chest. Head tilted back, she stared up at him: he
was bending his face down, and then his mouth covered hers.

It was like receiving an electric shock. She
could feel the scorch of his thighs pressing against her; could
feel his hardness and her own engulfing, dizzying heat.

Her eyes widened and she clutched his arms.
But I hardly even know him!

And yet, it didn't matter. Her entire body
longed to succumb. She wanted - needed - his kisses on her lips,
neck, throat, breasts --

With an almost superhuman effort, she pushed
him away and took a staggering step backwards. She could scarcely
breathe, and her face was flushed. Everything inside her pounded
rapidly.

Swiftly she turned away. She felt betrayed
by her physical reaction to him, by the torrent of passion his
touch had released within her.

How she wanted him! But she could not allow
it. Succumbing to him was wrong. Whatever she did, she must do
nothing to lead him on. She was a fraud; there was no Monica
Williams. If she allowed him to seduce her, sooner or later they
would both get hurt by the shaky facade of lies she had
constructed.

'Why did you pull away, Monica?' he enquired
softly. 'Did you not like it? Or are you afraid of me?'

He touched her on the arm, but she quickly
took another step away. Everything inside her was in a sudden
turmoil. How could she explain to him that she wanted him - but
that she was here for an ulterior motive - in order to sleuth and
spy and perhaps even destroy?

No. Any possible relationship between them
was out of the question. She had to be strong and fight it . . .
for both their sakes!

'Is there someone else?' he asked in a
wounded voice.

He had come up quietly beside her and turned
her around to face him. She let out a sharp little cry as he took
her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the tips of her
fingers.

'Don't!' she whispered.

'Monica,' he said softly.

She was trembling. 'Eduardo, please: She
looked at him imploringly.

'Why not?' His eyes held hers and reached
down, down, down into that deep secret spot inside her where they
had reached earlier, in the corridor.

'I am not naive,' he continued quietly. 'I
know that a special young woman like yourself must already share a
relationship with some very lucky man. But I respect that, Monica.
I really do.'

She drew a deep breath. Oh, God! she thought
in anguish.
Why can't he just stop? Why does he have to go on
tempting me? Why can't I get the point across that I can't let
anything happen!

He said: 'I know we have only just met. . .
but you do see, do you not? All I am asking is that you give the
two of us a chance. Only a chance . . .'

Her knees were wobbly, and she found the
chemically tainted air suddenly stifling. She had to get out of
this cocooned garage at this very instant, or they were likely to
end up grappling in the back seat of one of those priceless cars
like two horny teenagers.

'Is it asking for too much?' he repeated
quietly.

'N-no . . . it's just . . .' She frowned,
struggling for an adequate excuse, and then she saved by the noise:
from somewhere outside came the distraction of a thundering engine
starting up. She glanced around at the vibrating deck and bulkheads
and ceiling, as though the source of the muffled clatter could be
pinpointed there, somewhere.

'It is only the helicopter,' he said.

'Twelve o'clock high . . .'she murmured.

'Why, yes,' he said in surprise. 'How did
you know?'

'Oh, just by my stomach,' she lied quickly,
'it always starts to growl at twelve noon on the dot. You could set
your clock by it.'

And she thought:
Damn! How stupid can I
be? If I'm not careful, he'll know I've been watching the yacht and
am familiar with the helicopter's daily flights!

'If your stomach says it is time to eat,' he
laughed, 'then who are we to deprive it?'

'Good. I'm starving!'

'But first . . .'he said softly, and
surprised her by drawing her into his arms and kissing her
again.

At first she tried to push him away, but his
arms tightened around her and she found her resolve weakening.
Another shock went through her as his tongue darted into her mouth
to probe and explore. Her initial reluctance gave way to eager
response.

She stifled a cry as he gently pulled
himself back and held her at arm's length. His eyes were wide and
luminous.

'We'd best go and have lunch,' he whispered,
'before we do something neither of us will regret.'

'Yes,' she whispered shakily and nodded.
'We'd best go and have lunch.'

At Sea • Capri

Lunch was al fresco, served at a round,
silk-draped table inside one of the silken tents. Off
butterfly-shaped plates. While they sat on antique carved Venetian
grotto chairs.

Zarah. All in silver: loose, low-cut
crocheted sweater of silver rayon, short silver ankle boots with
spiky heels, silver turban with a feather sticking straight up the
front
a la
Theda Bara. Plus metallic silver tights that made
her legs look as if they were liquid mercury. She had barely
nibbled at a few artful crudites and a scant teaspoon of caviar,
and had fished a Sterling Silver rose out of its vase. Now she was
holding it by its long, thornless stem, stroking the bud
languorously across her cheeks, into her bosom, and against her
nose and mouth.

Head tilted sideways, Zaza was slumped in
her wheelchair, where she had contentedly nodded off in the midst
of eating. She was snoring quietly.

Eduardo, seated opposite Stephanie, was
devouring a stuffed lobster - while surreptitiously playing footsie
with her under the table.

And Stephanie, struggling to maintain a
straight face, feigned interest listening to Ernesto de Veiga as he
fastidiously ate caviar with a teaspoon and no garnishings, and
kept up a steady stream of conversation.

'We do not entertain much any more,' he was
saying, smiling charmingly at her and ignoring Zarah's sharp eyes
flashing in his direction as he added, 'especially such a beautiful
young guest as yourself. We have become quite reclusive, too busy
with our own interests. Of course, we do attend the occasional
opera or philharmonic. But, all in all, our social lives are not
what they used to be, no not at all . . .'

He paused to eat a spoonful of caviar,
biting delicately into it to release the flavour slowly upon his
palate.

After he swallowed, he gestured with his
spoon and said, 'Why don't you tell us something about
yourself?'

'Oh, but there's really very little to
tell.'

'On the contrary!' Ernesto smiled at her.
'I'm sure there is very much to tell! For instance, do you like the
opera? Or do you prefer the music of your own ... ah ... more
youthful generation?'

Stephanie nibbled at a bit of lobster. 'To
tell you the truth,' she lied, 'I hardly know the first thing about
classical music.' She tilted her head and arranged her features
into a thoughtful expression. 'You don't suppose it's because one
develops a taste for it as one gets older?'

Ernesto looked at her from under his hooded
eyes and nodded. 'You are quite right. Opera, like fine wine,
requires a connoisseur. Both improve with one's maturity and
experience.'

He reached for his glass, swirled the wine
around in it, and inhaled its bouquet.

'I still find a fragrant, full-bodied
vintage quite impossible to pass up,' he said, taking a sip, and
setting the glass down. 'Much as I find it impossible to pass up
any of Richard Wagner's operas, I suppose.'

'I've always found Wagner ponderous and
rather depressing,' Stephanie said.

'Really?' Ernesto looked surprised. 'Wagner?
Depressing?' He frowned. 'To me he has always been extremely
rousing and uplifting, much in the way a church service can
be.'

'I'm afraid I'm not very religious,'
Stephanie admitted.

'Tomorrow,' Ernesto continued, 'we are
flying to Milan. Mirella Freni is singing Madama Butterfly at La
Scala. We have a permanent box there. Would you like to join
us?'

Stephanie's pulse had sped up and she could
feel her face flush. 'Milan . . .?' she murmured, suddenly
remembering her all-too- recent visit to Boris Guberoff.

'A family box at La Scala,' Eduardo
explained, 'is the ultimate status symbol in Milan. Especially if
it is on the first tier.'

'Really?'

He nodded. 'Mother loves La Scala,' he went
on. 'Perhaps it is because she has an old friend in Milan. They
always go to see the performances together.'

'Oh?' It was all Stephanie could think of to
say.

'Yes. He's a former pianist.'

Stephanie's heart stopped beating
altogether, as if the timer on a bomb had ceased ticking. And then,
when her heartbeat continued, it was rapid and arrhythmic.

Oh, God, she thought silently, Guberoff!

'Who is he?' she forced herself to ask,
although in her heart she already knew.

Ernesto smiled. 'He is quite well known
really. His name is Boris Guberoff. Surely you have heard of
him?'

'Only by name.' Stephanie quickly dipped her
nose into her wine. It was far too late to wish she'd put off
visiting Boris Guberoff: that was water under the bridge. Still,
what she wouldn't give for the opportunity to see Zarah, Ernesto
and Guberoff together! God only knew what she might learn! However,
of one thing she was absolutely certain - she didn't dare let the
old pianist see her in present company. He had been too traumatised
by her visit to ever forget her, and could be too sharp-eyed not to
make the connection between 'Monica Williams' and 'Virginia
Wesson'. No. A new hairdo and a name change might not be enough of
a disguise. The possibility existed that he'd see through it right
away. She also knew, intuitively and positively, that he would have
no compunction about trumpeting the fact that she was a fraud. On
the contrary: he'd delight in getting back at her. She thought, I
must under no circumstances permit him to blow my cover.

Eduardo said to his father, 'Of course, if
Monica prefers, she and I could always explore Capri together while
you and mother are in Milan.' He turned to Stephanie with
questioningly raised eyebrows. 'The choice is yours.'

Stephanie felt giddy with relief. A life
preserver! she thought gratefully. Eduardo has thrown me a life
preserver!

'I've never been to Capri,' she said
quickly, her eyes glowing. 'Do you think I'll like it?'

Ernesto said: 'Everyone loves Capri.'

'Mmm . . .' Stephanie tried not to appear
too eager. 'Capri does sound rather enticing. But then, so does La
Scala.' Pretending to have to think it over, she dipped her
forefinger into her wine and ran it slowly around the rim of the
glass, making it vibrate and chime. Finally she sighed and sat
back. 'Well. The weather is perfect. . . and with the promise of
sea and sun . . .'

'We'll take the Magnum!' Eduardo was
delighted. 'Good. Then that is settled!'

From the distance came the sound of the
approaching helicopter. Ernesto took it as a signal to push back
his chair and get to his feet. He held out his hand to Zarah.

'Yes, yes. I hear it.' Sighing, she plucked
the last petal off the rose and let it flutter to the table. Then
she took his hand and rose to her feet. She stood there looking
down at her son. 'Will we see you at dinner?' she asked.

Eduardo nodded. 'Yes.'

'Good.' Zarah turned to Stephanie and
inclined her head slightly. 'Miss Williams,' she said
expressionlessly.

'Goodbye,' Stephanie said politely. 'And
thank you so much for the lunch. It was lovely.'

Zarah nodded abstractedly, and Stephanie
watched as the two of them, still holding hands, walked aft to the
helipad. When they reached it, Colonel Valerio joined them, and she
saw all three of them making sun visors of their hands while they
scanned the sky.

What are they waiting for? Stephanie asked
herself as Colonel Valerio pointed. Who - or what? - can the
helicopter be bringing?

And then the Bell Jet Ranger roared in
overhead, blotting out the sun and casting a huge shadow. Stephanie
ducked her head out of the tent and looked up. The metal mosquito
was a hundred feet in the air, hovering and turning on its
axis.

To her left, Zaza awoke with a start and let
out a little cry, and blinked. 'Oh!' she said, disconcerted, and
looked around. 'Why, I must have been dreaming -'

But it was impossible to hear anything more.
Swooping down on its underbelly, the helicopter descended like a
hawk, creating great warm gusts of wind which tore any conversation
to shreds. The tent flapped furiously, the water in the pool
churned, and the Plexiglas wind screens quivered in their tracks.
Stephanie had to squint against the blast of air, and back by the
helipad, she saw Zarah bending over, clutching her turban to her
head.

It was a masterful landing, executed on the
proverbial dime. As soon as the skids touched down in the centre of
the big letter H on the deck, the whup-whup-whup of the rotors
decreased and the engine noise began to fade into a dying
whine.