The Beautiful and the Wicked (11 page)

She froze in place, watching Liss. He was a hulking bear of a man, six five and around 350 pounds, with a bloodless complexion peppered with rosacea on his jowly cheeks. His small mouth seemed permanently downturned and he was seriously balding, which he tried to conceal by brushing his reddish hair up from the bottom into one of the shoddiest comb-­overs Lila had ever seen. He was the complete opposite of all the beautiful, well-­groomed, charming ­people who were feting his business partner just down the hall.

After a few minutes, he got off the phone. Without acknowledging Lila, he sat down at his desk and began shoveling the hamburger into his mouth. Lila wasn't sure what to do. “Does this asshole realize I'm still standing here?” she said to herself silently.

“I haven't forgotten about you,” Liss said, as if he could read her mind. He kept his eyes on his food as he talked to her. “Just give me one goddamned second. Or is your time more valuable than mine?” As he was barking at her, a piece of hamburger bun dropped from his open mouth. He quickly picked it up and popped it back in.

“No, sir,” Lila said, averting her eyes. She stood in the middle of the room listening to the smacking, scarfing, and swallowing as one of America's richest men inhaled his dinner. She'd been a patrol cop and a homicide detective. She'd gone undercover, assuming identifies that ran the gamut from socialite heiress to down-­and-­out junkie, but never had she been so relentlessly bossed around and shat upon as she had in this job.

“See that over there?” the CFO asked, brushing crumbs off his pants then pointing to a large pile of clothes by the closet. “All that needs to be pressed and laundered, then hung in the closet. And, see all of these?” He gestured to the many empty cans of diet chocolate fudge soda strewn about his room. “Remove them. And make sure the fridge is restocked.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I shouldn't be the one telling you what to do, should I? You should just see these things and do them, shouldn't you?”

“Yes, sir.” She bent down to retrieve the two cans that were closest to her.

“Don't do it now!” he barked, causing Lila to jump back up and drop one of the cans.

“Sir?”

“Do it when I'm not in the room.”

“Will you be joining the party?”

“Honestly, I'd rather chew glass,” he said. “This is Jack's boondoggle, not mine. I'm only on this fucking boat to remind His Lordship that we've got a company to run, which is something he likes to forget. Though tonight I finally figured it out. It's simple. Jack just got into the wrong business. Considering how much he loves spending time with all these assholes, I'd say his real calling should've been proctology.” He smirked at Lila, taking great pleasure in his joke, which was so stiffly delivered that Lila figured he'd told it hundreds of times before. Her forced smile drained the delight from his pale, waxy face. He turned his back to her, picking up his cell. “Remove this tray and get out of here. The day is only starting in Beijing and I've got work to do.”

And the night was only getting started on the main deck. The guests had progressed from champagne and
toro nigiri
to shots of Patrón and undulating on the dance floor to the bass-­heavy, auto-­tuned, lip-­synching pop star Allegra Opal, who had just stumbled onto the stage, happy to toss herself around to the beat in order to collect a million-­dollar payday. As the young wives, girlfriends, and mistresses danced, their older companions stayed on the sidelines, happy to watch the parade of young flesh while chomping on their Montecristo cigars and sipping their cognacs.

While Lila, Sam, and the army of cater waiters made sure everyone's drinks were refreshed and the tables were cleared, Lila kept an eye out for her sister. But there was no sign of Ava. Lila was both disappointed and thankful. She really wanted to see her, but she didn't want to think of her sister associating with these jackals.

As Lila walked around the party handing out shots of high-­end tequila, she saw, smack in the middle of the dance floor, the biggest jackal of them all. The man of the hour, Jack Warren. He was impossible to miss. With his shirt undone down to his belly button, his suit jacket off, and a gloss of sweat covering his beaming face, he looked like he was having the absolute time of his life. He had a bottle of Cristal in one hand and the ass of a sumptuous brunette in the other.

Watching Jack murmur something into the girl's ear as she giggled and squirmed in his arms, Lila was shocked at his lack of discretion. But she wasn't at all surprised to see, across the deck, Elise Warren staring directly at her husband, her hands balled up into tight little fists, with an unmistakable glare of hatred burning in her eyes.

 

CHAPTER 9

I
N
THE DUSTY-­ROSE-­COL
ORED
light of early morning, a few party stragglers stumbled down the walkway of
The Rising Tide
just as the sun was beginning to peek its golden head from beneath the ocean's blue horizon. The party hadn't completely wound down until 5:00
A.M
. Lila and Sam had been on hand until the wee hours of the morning and then cleaned up after the guests had left, so when their 6:30
A.M.
wake-­up call rang out, they'd been able to squeeze in only about five minutes of rest.

“You shower first,” Sam groaned from the top bunk. “If I have to get up right now, I'm pretty sure I'll die.”

Through a haze of exhaustion, Lila showered, dressed, grabbed some coffee from the mess, and headed up to the main deck. There was a pretty good chance that Mrs. Slaughter had complained about her to the captain sometime yesterday, so she had to be on her very best behavior today. She'd start by being the first of the crew up and ready to work.

The yacht, which had been party central just two hours prior, was now as quiet as a church. Lila was sure that profound and debilitating hangovers were blooming in the heads of most of the sleeping guests at that very moment.

She was on her way to the dining room, careful not to disturb anyone who was slumbering. As she walked along the side deck, she saw a lone figure descend the staircase from the master suite level. It was Elise Warren with an Hermès head scarf tied under her chin and enormous sunglasses obscuring most of her face. Lila ducked out of sight, waited a few seconds, and then turned around to see Elise exit the yacht and climb into a chauffeured Cadillac Escalade that was waiting for her at the foot of the dock.

“Where are you off to so early?” Lila whispered, wishing she could hop off the yacht to tail the woman. But she knew it would cost her her job, and thus cost her everything. So, she did what she had to do, which was set the table for breakfast.

According to a rigid protocol, meals on
The Rising Tide
were served in the dining room at precisely 9:00
A.M
.
, 1:00
P.M.
, and 8:00
P.M.
, and each meal required silver table ser­vice. Jack Warren made it clear that all guests on board were expected to eat with him if he was going to be in attendance.

Lila smoothed a French linen tablecloth over the large table. She set ten plates down, saying everybody's name silently to herself, “The birthday boy, Jack Warren. The spoiled brat, Josie. Mr. Charm himself, Seth Liss. The best-­looking-­­couple-­of-­the-­year award to Thiago and Esperanza Campos. Moneybags Paul Mason. The Right Dishonorable Clarence and Charity Baines. The not-­so-­
enfant
(but very)
terrible
Daniel Poe. And, last but not least, the murderess, Elise Warren.” Had there, she wondered as she set each plate down, ever been such a despicable bunch of scoundrels all joined together at sea?

Next went the crystal water glasses, then the fragile and fussy porcelain coffee cups, with their tiny little handles that had to be pointed in the same direction, which then had to be set upon fine, gold-­rimmed saucers. She removed the Gucci flatware from its black-­lacquered chest and laid the forks, knives, and spoons out on the table, careful that everything was in the proper spot.

Just as she was struggling to fold the white linen napkins into shapes that seemed one hundred times more complicated than an origami swan, Ben walked by the dining room wearing his sailor whites and, upon seeing Lila, headed in to say hello.

“Wow, look at you in your officer's uniform,” Lila said with a smile.

“I'm not soaked to the bone like last time you saw me.”

“Big improvement,” Lila said, stepping back to take him all in.

He playfully struck a pose. “My mom always told me I clean up nicely. Listen,” he said, his face turning serious, “I hope you didn't catch too much shit from Edna last night.”

“There was too much shit coming my way to catch.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“You can say that again. Now I'm bracing myself for round two.”

“Round two?”

“She said she was going to talk to the captain about what a mess I've been. I'm preparing myself for the worst.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” he said distractedly. He kept glancing at the table.

“Is something wrong?” Lila asked, scanning the table herself to try to see what he was seeing.

“It's nothing really,” Ben said as he went over to the flatware chest. “But it'll cost you your job, trust me on that one.”

“Oh, God. What did I do now?”

“It's just that, to be quite honest, I've never seen a table this poorly set in my life.” He let out a sweet, astonished laugh. “It's like you were
intentionally
trying to do it all wrong.”

“Do you know how to fix it?” Lila asked frantically.

“Of course.”

In a flash, Ben set to work. Putting one spoon above the plate and the other down next to the knives. He grabbed a ruler from the top drawer of the dining room's sideboard and used it to make sure the flatware was precisely aligned and spaced. Lila cringed each and every time Ben corrected her many mistakes, but despite her humiliation, she was impressed by his grace, know-­how, and swiftness.

After ten minutes, he had transformed the table into a piece of perfection. “There,” he said as he closed up the flatware chest and returned the ruler to its rightful place, “that's better.”

“How on earth did you learn that?” Lila asked. “I thought the rule of the ship was the women did the inside jobs and the men did the outside jobs.”

“Yeah, usually that's the way it goes, as absurdly out-­of-­date as it sounds. But not in my case. You're looking at the very well trained son of a former chief stewardess.”

“Really?”

Ben nodded proudly. “My dad was the chief engineer and my mom was the chief stew on a bunch of different charter yachts. When I was a kid I'd help my mom set tables, clean up, do laundry, and help my dad with all the maintenance of the engine, the plumbing, the a/c. You name it and I've done it.”

“So, you must know these boats inside and out.”

“I wish! But every year there's always some new mind-­blowing innovation. I feel like I'm constantly scrambling to keep up.” Ben sighed, “And, to be honest, that's kind of why yachts aren't my favorite thing. It's too much about the latest trend or whose is bigger or better. I mean, just look around. This boat is
crazy
.”

“Totally,” Lila said, happy that she'd found someone on the ship who wasn't totally mesmerized by Jack's ostentatiousness.

“Don't get me wrong. I love that I make my living on a boat. It's just sailing's
my
thing. It's so much better. It's about being out in the ocean, working with the elements, enjoying the silence. On a yacht, I feel like I'm on a floating luxury hotel.”

“Absolutely,” Lila said, immediately becoming aware that she was agreeing
just a little too emphatically
and staring
just a little too hard
at the handsome first officer. She switched her gaze to the floor.

“But it pays the bills. And it's mostly great. Although I'm pretty sure that half the ­people who own yachts don't even like being out on the water.”

He was handsome, humble, and funny. Lila had to be careful with this one. “What about the Warrens?” she asked, trying not to look at his perfect lips.

“They're the opposite. Well, at least Jack is. I think Elise would rather be anywhere else, but Jack lives for the water. It's the only reason I work for him, actually. But he and I've got bigger plans than just this.” His eyes suddenly brightened.

“Plans?”

“The America's Cup. We're going to win it in 2010, I'm totally convinced. Jack is, too. Actually, we're working on some incredible new designs for a boat that I think just might give us the edge we need against the Australian team.” Suddenly Ben stopped speaking and shook his head. “Christ, I'm sorry, Nicky. Once I get started about it, I ramble on until I've bored absolutely everybody to tears. Forgive me.” He leaned in close to Lila, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What I really want to know is how
you
managed to get a job on one of the most exclusive yachts in the world with, as far as I can tell, almost no experience. What's your secret? Sleeping with the boss?”

Lila's brief moment of relaxation instantly evaporated.

Ben must have seen her tense up. “Relax,” he said as he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Sleeping your way to the top is an age-­old secret to success. I wouldn't be anywhere without it.”

When Lila shot him a bewildered look, he broke out into uproarious laughter. “Oh, please forgive me, Nicky. I have a bad habit of teasing pretty girls. I just can't help it.”

“The truth is . . . I do have experience. It's just my last boat did things differently.”

“Of course,” Ben said sweetly, trying to reassure her that he meant no harm. “I was only kidding.”

He was a good guy, Lila knew that. But it was worrisome that he'd spotted her lack of experience instantly. She felt like he had something on her, which made her vulnerable. And being vulnerable to anyone, even a nice guy like Ben, wasn't an option. Just then, Mrs. Slaughter walked by, shaking her head at both Lila and Ben, for what infringement Lila was not sure.

Mrs. Slaughter entered the dining room, looked at the table, and gave Lila a curt nod of approval. “Ben, please leave Miss Collins to her duties. Breakfast will commence at nine
A.M.
and there is much to do before then. I'm sure you have your own business to attend to?”

“Always a pleasure, Edna. Nicky,” Ben said, before retreating to the yacht's bridge.

Mrs. Slaughter straightened her already stick-­straight back and haughtily stuck her chin out, the way she always did when she found someone or something annoying. Then she turned back to Lila. “And where is Miss Bennett?”

“She's in the laundry room, pressing some of Mr. Liss's shirts,” Lila lied. For all she knew, Sam might still be in bed.

“But I was just in the laundry room and Miss Bennett was not there.”

“Then maybe she's . . .” As Lila was trying to come up with some excuse, Sam herself, as bright as the morning sun, came running down the hall, carrying an antique milk-­glass vase dripping with gorgeous pale pastel flowers.

“Morning, Mrs. Slaughter,” she said cheerily. “Just grabbing flowers for the breakfast table.”

“Fine,” Mrs. Slaughter said quietly. She seemed almost disappointed to have nothing to complain about. Then she came alive again. She had spotted a mistake. “There are ten settings on the table. It should be only nine, as Mrs. Warren will not be joining us for breakfast. Now, I trust I can leave you ladies to serve breakfast.”

Both Lila and Sam nodded. And with a stern look, Mrs. Slaughter went belowdeck.

“Did old Slaughterhouse notice I was late?” Sam asked.

“Not really. You arrived a minute or so after she did.”

“Thank goodness,” Sam sighed in relief. “The last thing I need is her up my ass. But I couldn't drag myself out of bed this morning for the life of me. It's all Asher's fault. Next time, remind me to stay away from him. That boy is nothing but trouble. A really
hot
slice of trouble.”

B
Y
9:15, THE
guests of
The Rising Tide
were quietly sitting down to breakfast. Most were shaking off the excesses of the previous night, barely able to touch the food that sat before them. Esperanza Campos, looking perfect in white linen pants and a slim-­cut white tank top, quietly sipped hot lemon water. Her dapper husband read the
New York Times
business section while picking at an egg-­white omelet. Josie, wearing a string bikini top and an Indian skirt, sucked down a carrot-­and-­beet juice while looking like she was so bored that she just might die in that very spot. Daniel Poe was standing on the deck off the dining room, chain-­smoking hand-­rolled cigarettes while drinking black coffee. Paul Mason was letting his eggs Florentine go cold as he checked his stocks on his iPhone. At the head of the table was Jack Warren, who was eating his typical Japanese-­style breakfast of gyokuro tea, miso soup, rice, and steamed fish. At the opposite end of the table was Seth Liss, bent over his meal of scrambled eggs, extra-­crispy bacon, and white bread lightly toasted and covered in a thin layer of margarine.

When Lila was forced to go down to the galley to ask Chef Vatel for the ketchup Liss wanted for his eggs, she momentarily thought the apoplectic cook was going to gouge her eyes out. But she didn't know what was worse, not giving Liss what he wanted or pissing off Chef Vatel. She opted for the latter. Next time, she'd find the ketchup herself.

As she circled the table, refreshing everyone's juice and coffee, she carefully listened to the small talk.

After slurping down his miso soup, Jack leaned back in his chair and surveyed his guests. “Who's up for a sail today?” he asked. “The folks at Perini Navi have given me a day with one of their newest boats. They want me to take it for a test drive. Give them some notes.”

Liss, who had been crouched over his breakfast plate, sat straight up with a bewildered look on his face. “Jack,” he said sternly, as if warning him to be careful, “what's this about a sail?”

“I just told you,” Jack said in a belittling tone. “I'm testing out a new boat. Depending on how the winds are, we're going to aim for the Keys. You're welcome to come with us, Seth. There's always room for you no matter how many Tater Tots you shove in your face.”