Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (3 page)

* * *

The staircase to the guest rooms is situated in the spacious, colonnaded
inner courtyard of the hotel. Rock music pulsates up from the bar at the
far side. People dance on the oval marble space between the fountain in
the middle of the courtyard and the umbrella-covered tables in front of
the bar. André pauses at the white stone balustrade and looks down to the
dancers going through their contortions. With one or two exceptions, all
seem to be in their early twenties, women outnumbering men. He catches
an occasional word, punctuated by laughter. It sounds Italian.

    
The smiling face of a young woman, partnered by another girl, catches
his eyes. Short, dark curly hair; her eyes black in the subdued light shed
by the lamps around the oval; white teeth between full red lips. Her black
top reveals an enticing cleavage and leaves a tanned midriff bare. She has
the generous hips he associates with his image of the perfect female
figure. Hip-hugging white slacks emphasize her round buttocks. She
moves like a feline, sinuous, suggestive. He becomes aware of a
tightening in his loins. She laughs, throwing her head back, and their eyes
meet. For once, he resists the temptation to tag her with a nickname. She
waves a hand, inviting him to join, laughing again. He slowly shakes his
head. She contradicts him with exaggerated nodding, folding her hands
in prayer. It is now his turn to laugh. "OK" he signals.

    
He quickly goes to his room, refreshes his face, splashes some Dolce
& Gabbana aftershave on his face, changes into a wine-colored silk shirt,
and hurries down the stairs. The band is playing a salsa. He spies her
dancing with an immaculately groomed man in his mid to late thirties; a
sprinkle of gray in his sideburns; a receding hairline above a high
forehead; large gold-rimmed glasses that give him the air of an intellectual. His movements are stiff and lack rhythm. Occasionally he falls out-of-step with the music. It is painful to watch him paired with that young
woman whose body flows gracefully with the dance. At one point, he
steps on her toes and apologizes profusely. ‘
Monsieur maladroit
’ enters
André’s mind, rather too long for a nickname, he muses.

    
Taking advantage of that lapse, he goes over to them, lightly touches
the man’s shoulder, and says in Spanish: "Excuse me,
señor
, may I have
this dance with your partner?"

    
"Oh, by all means," the man replies, "Bianca will be grateful to you,
and salsa is not my strength." He turns brusquely and strides away to the
bar.

    
"May I?" André asks, as he engages the girl in the rhythm of the
dance. He knows that he is an accomplished dancer and gets it confirmed
when her whole face lights up with a smile of pleasure.

    
After a minute or so of silent dancing he says softly: "
Salud
… Bianca,
that name fits you well. I’m André."

    
"Hello André … Your accent tells me that you are not Colombian. Are
you French?"

    
He loves her fresh, melodious voice, but notices that her pronunciation
of ‘accent’ is Italian, not Spanish.

    
"No, Swiss," he answers, switching to Italian, "and yours tells me that
you’re Italian, as seems to be the case for most of the young people
around."

    
"Ah, that’s easier. My Spanish isn’t up to scratch yet. Yes, we’re all
on an archaeological tour as part of our last University year. Last week
we tramped to
La Ciudad Perdida
."

    
"The lost city in the Sierra Nevada along the Caribbean coast?"

    
"Yes, you’ve been there?" Her tone of voice is a mixture of excitement and hopeful expectation.

    
"No, not yet."

    
"Oh, you must. It’s fascinating, so different from any archaeological
sites I’ve seen in Europe, and its setting in the lush jungle is unbelievably
beautiful."

    
Her enthusiasm makes him smile, and she responds, blushing slightly.

    
"If you say so, I will visit it, but you must promise to be my guide."

    
"You’re teasing me."

    
He winks. "I wouldn’t dare."

    
She laughs. They continue dancing in silence, occasionally exchanging a smile.

    
When the tune ends, she looks up to him and exclaims: "Thank you,
André. I love salsa."

    
"Then maybe you’re willing to share the next one with me too. You
do it like a local."

    
"Oh, I wish I did."

    
"You do." The band launches into its next tune. "Here we go again."
After a pause he adds: "And the rather … clumsy gentleman from whom
I stole you, is he part of your group too?" He stops himself just in time
before calling the man ‘
Monsieur maladroit’.

    
"Yes, Professor Visconti is our tour leader and guide." She sounds
proud.

    
"And is his archaeology better than his dancing?"

    
A brief frown chases away the smile, as if she disliked his mocking
tone, and then she replies primly: "He is a renowned international expert
in South American archaeological sites."

    
"No offence intended, Bianca. It just pained me to watch him dance
with you. I had the urge to come to your rescue."

    
Now she laughs. "I didn’t need rescuing, but yes, he basically hates
dancing and only did it because I begged him. I still hope that in time
he’ll get better at it."

    
"But why do you want him to improve?"

    
"He’s my fiancé. We will be married by the end of university examinations." Her tone of voice sounds proud.

    
"Oh." He experiences a vague sense of dismay. They seem such an
unlikely pair, she bursting with life, he rather staid. "I guess I should
congratulate you for marrying such an internationally renowned expert,
but to tell the truth, I’m shattered."

    
"You’re mocking me again." She purses her lips, looking to the
ground.

    
"Sorry. That wasn’t my intention. In fact, when I saw you wave up to
the balcony, I thought that this was my lucky day, that I had found my
dream girl. I was willing to do anything to make you mine."

    
"You’re still mocking me, and I don’t believe a word you say." But
this time she is smiling. "But you may dance with me."

    
He engages her more vigorously in the salsa movements. At the end
of the dance, she is breathing hard, but her eyes shine with pure pleasure.

    
"I think a need a short rest to catch my breath," she says. "Thank you
again."

    
"Oh, the thanks are mine. You’re a joy to dance with, but I think I
should apologize to your fiancé for so rudely snatching you away."

    
"There’s no need for that, really."

    
"Still …," he murmurs, leaving the sentence hanging.

    
He follows her to the bar where Visconti is engaged in a conversation
with a young man, one of his students, he figures, although he gets the
distinct impression that it is a rather one-sided conversation, more like
a lecture.

    
Visconti briefly turns to Bianca, saying: "Ah Bianca, here you are."

    
"Franco, André …," she turns to him, "I don’t even know your last
name."

    
"Villier."

    
"André Villier would like to apologize to you."

    
"Yes,
Professore
, please accept my apology for having so rudely
interrupted your dance and taking your fiancée away from you."

    
A fleeting frown flits across Visconti’s face, replaced by a condescending smile. "No need to apologize, young man," he answers. "As I
said, Bianca was surely grateful to you."

    
His haughty tone and mien toward both his fiancée and him provoke
an almost instant dislike for the man.

    
"Oh, Franco, you know that isn’t true," she exclaims, sounding hurt.
"I love dancing with you."

    
"Dear girl, it is all right. I do not have to be an expert in everything."
With that he turns back to his student and resumes his lecture.

    
"Good night,
Professore
, thank you again, Bianca," André murmurs.
"It was nice meeting you."

    
She still looks hurt and fails to acknowledge him.

    
This young woman is wasted on the professor, André muses, as he
makes for his room. On the writing desk is a note from the concierge
with the details for tomorrow’s excursion and his share of the cost.

* * *

Sleep is hard to find. The moment he is horizontal, fragments of that
overheard conversation surface in his mind. He dissects the separate parts
he recalls, trying to fill in the missing words. Some are obvious, like ‘
I
have received
advice from my bank this morning
that 200,000 Euros
have
been credited with your
agent
in Antigua.’ What makes him uneasy
is the part about keeping her alive. The people blackmailed would want
proof that the woman is still alive before paying the ransom. That part is
obvious. But the exchange that followed sounded ominous. It could
imply that ‘
le richard
’, the person arranging the kidnapping, would prefer
that the woman be killed or maybe worse, forced into sex slavery. His
laugh sounded hellish.

    
The fact that they also may have made a drug deal at the same time has
slipped from his mind.

    
He berates himself for not having done something right away. He
should have tried to get a good look at ‘
le richard
’, even followed him,
and then maybe notified the police anonymously. But he felt impotent at
that moment, frustrated by the lack of an obvious course of action —
reporting it to the police — as he would have chosen in Europe without
much deliberation. He curses the pimp, if that was his trade, for
interfering right at the crucial moment.

    
Finally, he makes a concerted effort to forget about the whole thing,
reminding himself again that it really is none of his business. He
deliberately brings up the vision of Bianca, as he first saw her from the
balcony, her laughing eyes, her impish plea with folded hands enticing
him down, her sensuous movements in the rhythm of the music. He
cannot help smiling. It was the highlight of his day.

2

Bianca watches André walk away. Franco’s unjust accusation that she
prefers dancing with somebody else has soured her joy of doing the salsa
with the Swiss. On the dance floor, she had seen her fiancé’s remark as
a joke, maybe a shade cynical. But repeating it in front of a fellow
student and a stranger can only imply that he really meant it. And it
wouldn’t have happened if the Swiss hadn’t insisted on apologizing. She
suddenly resents having fallen for his smooth charm.

    
Sure, it would please her if Franco were a better dancer. But she likes
dancing with him, particularly the more traditional ones, like waltzing,
or even just rock. She admires his distinguished face with its aristocratic
features, like a Roman statue. It was that and the way he could enthuse
her with his knowledge that made her fall in love with him. His erudite
and articulate way of explaining archaeological matters and theory
enthralls her. She is even willing to admit that she is attracted by the fact
that he is the titular heir to a count. It may have played a small part. Her
father, she remembers, was honored when the eminent Professor Franco
Visconti requested an interview on a highly personal and private matter.
He was thrilled when the latter asked for the hand of his oldest daughter.
Afterward, he boasted that the size of the dowry would be befitting to
such a prestigious marriage.

    
Her family’s admission into those exclusive aristocratic circles
imparts undeniable prestige. She will no more be simply the daughter of
an upstart industrialist, but the wife of a count, a countess, even if the
title isn’t used formally anymore. It pleases the romantic side of her
nature.