Read Last Call For Caviar Online
Authors: Melissa Roen
Last Call For Caviar (10 page)
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Flame swallowers and Thai dancers wove among the tables, waiters balancing trays filled with exotic delicacies following in their wake. A four-meter-high bronze statue of Buddha, flanked by smoking torches, held pride of place. The serpent Naga, ruby eyes gleaming, reared like a canopy over his head. The walls were black granite slabs, and sheets of water slicked down their surface.
Bottles of Belvedere and magnums of Cristal nestled in crushed ice adorned each table; Sheik Sakr bin Zayed from Abu Dhabi had spared no expense, and it hadn’t taken any arm-twisting to rent this crowd.
I glanced over at the head table where Sheik Sakr bin Zayed, surrounded by his entourage of ten associates, held court. Most of the men wore snow-white kandura, and their heads were covered with white-or red- checked guthras held in place by twists of black rope, a nod to their Bedouin past. No women sat with them, since wives had been left at home tonight, though, from the parade of females of all ages who made a deliberate detour by the Sheik’s table en route to the restrooms, these men probably wouldn’t stay unaccompanied for much longer.
Tall and athletic, the Sheik wore his sixty summers with ease. The pristine drapes of his guthra framed a face sculpted by native winds, and he kept his silver beard neatly trimmed. Though his hospitality tonight included the finest vintages and spirits for his guests, he touched no alcohol, content with long, slow pulls of shisha from the ornate silver and lapis nargillah in front of him. He radiated a quiet sort of power, but in his dark eyes, there shone the contentment of a man in submission to his god and at peace with his place in the universe.
Monaco and the Emirates had ties of friendship going back many years. Both the Sheik and Prince were alumni of Andover, and Abu Dhabi was a major shareholder of Societe Bains de Mer, the money-making machine that owned and operated most of Monaco, yet tonight’s party didn’t seem like the Sheik’s kind of scene. Maybe his presence here tonight was an attempt to dispel the intrigue and innuendo that swirled around Monaco with reference to Slava. Perhaps our host was sending a not-so-subtle message that the Principality had long-standing partners who were in a position to protect its and their own financial interests.
In Monaco at present, Russian thugs, symbolized by the bear, squared off against the Servants of Allah, represented by the desert falcon. It seemed ironic that this chunk of rock, whose reigning house was descended from Genovese pirates, should be the treasure to be fought over by these rival factions. I suppose it made sense for a man of ambition to want to control territory on the European continent, all the more so if it were easy to defend and well-situated for a base of operations.
Meanwhile, the music was pounding; lights were pulsing to the beat; bodies were grinding on the dance floor, alcohol flowing and inhibitions checked at the door. I pressed a rose-water-scented cloth to my face, my cheeks flushed from the combo of vodka and dancing the past hour with Abdul, who waited for me in the alcove outside the ladies’ room door.
He’d joined our table after dinner, another friend of Giovanni, and from what I gathered, a fine hand at Texas hold ‘em. Though his white robes and tribal headdress lent him an air of a desert warrior from exotic lands, he was equally at home in Miami or L.A. Educated at Caltech, he held degrees in both engineering and economics. Abdul was part of the new generation master-planning the high-tech societies rising from the sands of the Arabian Peninsula.
I was entranced to hear his California accent emerging from between those perfect lips and white teeth. I never thought I’d be attracted to a man in a dress, but Abdul’s long, slow glances from melting long-lashed eyes were capable of changing a girl’s mind. This wasn’t a man who lounged about smoking shisha all day; I’d felt his muscled torso against my breasts when he had held me in his arms, slow dancing across the floor.
Clean-shaven, the color of his skin reminded me of a luscious caramel and cream frappucino. I stole glances at him while he spoke with Giovanni, and I was distracted by the most inappropriate thought. I wonder what it would taste like to lick his skin—slowly—all over. I was pretty sure the answer would be, delicious.
I sensed there were depths to this man, no matter that tonight he played the gallant—a scent of danger, something I couldn’t yet put my finger on.
Military-trained, I guessed—perhaps the Sheik’s spy here in Monaco, disguised as yet another wealthy playboy and gambling man. Everyone tonight seemed to be wearing masks.
“You’re a sexy man with secrets, Abdul,” I thought. “I’m definitely intrigued.”
I was leaving the ladies’ room, when I ran smack into Tasha. It must have been six months since I’d last seen her. Those months hadn’t been kind; she looked haunted. Plum-colored bruises—stark against the paleness of her complexion—shadowed her eyes. Faint blue marks, as if made by finger, tattooed her upper arm.
Tasha was putting a brave face on it, as she brushed her long, dark hair in front of the mirror and put on lipstick to match her flame-colored dress. “Hon, I’m so happy to see you. Why haven’t you called? Let’s catch a drink at the bar later.”
“That would be great. I’ll come and look for you in half an hour”—thinking I’d kept Abdul waiting long enough. “Where’s your table? I didn’t see you come in.
“I just got here. I’ll come find you. That would be better. I have to do something first.”
Something moved in the depths of her eyes. Tasha was one of the most fearless women I knew and yet something spooked her. I could smell the alcohol strong on her breath as she kissed my cheek in parting.
Abdul was leaning against the wall in the alcove—six-feet of broad shoulders, lean muscles and smoldering, dark eyes. He placed his hand in the curve of my lower back as guided me to our table. I could feel the heat of it burning through the silk of my dress. Butterflies somersaulted in my belly; my legs felt weak. I understood what Giovanni was up to by inviting me here tonight. It was a reminder that life was for living, even—or especially—in these times.
At that moment, I was in full agreement. For tonight, with this intriguing, sexy man escorting me back to our table, I didn’t want any ghosts hanging around.
It must have been going on 2:30 a.m. when I went looking for Tasha in the club. People still swayed on the dance floor, but this was the hour when couples had moved off to more secluded corners in the shadows and silken whispers lingered. The opening moves of the dance of seduction had begun.
I couldn’t see Tasha in the press of bodies surrounding the bar. I stood a moment, scanning the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of her dark hair and a flash of the red dress she wore. I was turning to go when I saw her. She hadn’t seen me yet and was sitting with a large group of men and women who had taken over several tables by the dance floor. Bodyguards were moving the people who’d been sitting there out of the way. Waiters brought fresh bottles and glasses; champagne corks popped.
It was only as I got closer that I saw she was sitting next to Slava. His head was shaved smooth, and he wore dark glasses. He’d removed his suit jacket, and his arm lay draped along the couch at her back. In his other hand he held a cigar, puffing contentedly as he leaned back against the cushions and surveyed the crowd.
I hadn’t seen him or his entourage earlier at the party. I didn’t know if they had been invited, and his presence here was probably a provocation. Of course, no one would have challenged him at the door. Apart from his bodyguards, his presence alone was intimidating.
I caught Tasha’s eye, and she gave an imperceptible shake of her head, warning me off. I sensed she didn’t want to be there at his side. He pulled her closer, whispered something in her ear, and I saw the hunted look in her eye, as though she were caught in a snare.
Tasha, what are you mixed up in? I knew we wouldn’t have that drink tonight. There was nothing I could do to help her. Anything I tried to do would only make it worse for her. I remembered the party on the yacht a few summers before. The sound of fists meeting flesh and the voice pleading for mercy that followed us across the water. I remembered the bruises I’d seen on her arm.
As I turned away, I felt something evil brush against my back, making me shiver. I knew inside Slava was something cold, like a ravenous hunger that could gnaw through muscles and tendons and crack bones.
The party was winding down as Abdul and I walked hand in hand among the gardens that overlooked the seawall. The ghost ship swung at anchor. Occasionally, lights flickered behind portholes, and you could almost imagine phantoms wafting between decks and waltzing across the ballroom floors. Most likely, the lights belonged to flesh-and-blood beings looking to strip the boat of any residual value.
The moonlight left trails on the sea, and the perfume of jasmine hung heavy in the air. Litha, as the pagans called the summer solstice, is one of the times of year when the membrane that separates the spirit world from our mortal one is at its thinnest, and beings can pass back and forth between the two realms. As in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, it’s a time of romance and magic, with fairies making mischief for unwary lovers.
Abdul would be leaving tomorrow on business for Sheik Sakr bin Zayed. He’d be back in two weeks, before returning to Abu Dhabi for Ramadan. We made plans to see each other then.
“So it’s a date? I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Giovanni told me a little about your dilemma. We’ll talk and see if maybe I can do something to help.”
“Oh, Abdul, it’s complicated. I wouldn’t even know where to start…,” I trailed off, not sure if I trusted him enough to confide.
“We’ll talk when I’m back. Then, we’ll see.” He cut me off, saving me from the awkwardness of spilling my worries to this relative stranger. “Tonight, don’t worry about what you are going to do. Let’s just enjoy this moment.
“Come. Let’s walk more, just to the end of the wall, and then I’ll see you safely home.”
At the end of the garden, we stopped under a tree. Abdul had removed his guthra during our stroll, and his black hair, thick and straight, brushed his collar. Alone in this secluded corner of the garden with a tall, dark, handsome stranger, feeling the heat of his body pressed against mine, I wondered why Victoria hadn’t mentioned anything about such an intriguing and sizzling hot man in my stars.