The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (41 page)

“Would you rather have drunk from the can?”

“We have in the past.
 
Why stop now?”

“Good point,” Jack said.
 
“Next time, I’ll ask for a six-pack.”

“You do that,” Celina said and, acting on impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
 
“You know what I’d like to do right now?”

Jack shook his head.

“I’d like to dance with you before this floating palace casts off.
 
What do you say?”

They danced slowly at first, Jack’s hand gently embracing hers, Celina’s cheek touching his, each aware of the other’s body.
 
Couples Anastassios had flown in from around the world were twirling around them, some laughing, others talking—all enjoying the orchestra.

Celina was aware of people looking at them from the surrounding tables, but she made an effort to ignore them.
 
She was happy to be here with Jack.
 
She was glad to have him in her life.

“Isn’t that Harold Baines over there?” Jack asked.

Celina followed Jack’s gaze with her own.
 
Standing with his back to the railing, drink in hand, was Harold.
 
He was talking with Louis Ryan.
 
She nodded, surprised to see the two men together.

“I wonder what he and Ryan are arguing about?”

“What makes you think they’re arguing?”

“Harold raised his voice a moment ago,” Jack said.
 
“I heard him.
 
And look at Ryan’s face—it’s as red as that woman’s dress.
 
They’re arguing.”

The music became softer, slower and Jack held her closer.
 
Celina looked away from Harold at the same moment Harold stormed away from Louis Ryan.
 
She brushed her cheek against Jack’s, smelled his cologne and felt the warmth of his body through the thin material of her dress.
 
She wondered if he was as aware of these things as she was.
 
She wondered if she was on his mind as often as he was on hers.
 
She wondered if he was as attracted to her as she was to him.

Gradually, she began to lose herself in him and the dance.
 
He was speaking to her.
 
His voice was a low rumble above the lapping of the waves and the faint roar of the engines as the ship cast off.
 
She heard him mention something about the yacht and the guests, about the thickening storm clouds and the threat of rain, but she was unable to follow what he was saying. As far as Celina was concerned, they could be anywhere in the world.

“Am I boring you?” Jack asked after awhile.
 
They had been dancing for nearly twenty minutes.
 
“Is something wrong?”

Celina pulled back and knew he had asked her a question she hadn’t heard.
 
She felt embarrassed. “No.
 
I—my mind was elsewhere.
 
Sorry.”

Jack was no fool.
 
He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth.
 
Celina kissed him back, only dimly aware of the murmurs rippling through the crowd.
 
There was no question what would happen next.

“Come with me,” he said, taking her hand.

They found a staircase that went below ship and followed a narrow passage to its end. As they turned onto a wider passage and began looking for one of the staterooms, Celina thought that she never wanted a man more than she wanted this man.
 

It came to her then that this would be only the second man she had ever been with, and the thought exhilarated her.
 
She sensed that it would be different with Jack than it had been with Eric.
  
She sensed it would be better.

They stopped in front of a door that was at the end of the hall.
 
Jack opened it and stepped inside.
 
Across the room, seated naked at the foot of a large four-poster bed, was Harold Baines, a rubber tube tied to the sunken flesh of his upper left arm, the needle of a syringe buried in the fold.

Seated behind him was a young man, his legs wrapped around the shadow of Harold’s thinning waist, his waiter’s uniform cast carelessly to the floor.

There was a moment when Harold’s eyes met Jack’s, when shock registered on each man’s face, then Jack quickly closed the door before Celina could see.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

She went for the door.
 
Jack reached for her hand and pulled her toward him.
 
He kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth.
 
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he said.
 
“Anyone could walk in on us here and we’d regret it.
 
Here isn’t the place.
 
Let’s wait.”

*
  
*
  
*

“This must be some sort of joke,” Elizabeth Redman said in a whisper to her husband.
 
“He can’t be seated here.
 
He can’t be seated at our table.
 
Anastassios knows better.
 
He never would have allowed it.”

“Don’t be so sure,” George said, looking away from Louis Ryan, who was seated opposite them.
 
“Anastassios knows I’m trying to buy WestTex.
 
He knows I’m going to be competition.
 
This is exactly something he would do.”

“Well, I can’t believe it.
  
The man doesn’t even belong here.
 
What does Louis Ryan care about the discovery of twelve Monet paintings?
 
What does he care about HIV and AIDS?
  
Just look at him,” she said in a low voice.
 
“Sitting there, smiling, as if he doesn’t know that we’re here.
 
As if he doesn’t remember what he put us through all those years ago.
 
You murdering his wife.
 
Ridiculous.”

George squeezed her hand.
 
It was a moment before he could dispel the image of Anne Ryan that flashed before his eyes.
 
“Look,” he said quietly.
 
“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him.
 
This was bound to happen someday.
 
Why don’t we just ignore him and enjoy ourselves?”

“I’ve got a better idea.
 
Why don’t we just leave?”

“Because we’re on a boat in the middle of the Hudson.
 
We can’t leave.”

“Oh, please, George.
 
Somewhere on this floating island there’s a helicopter.
 
We can tell Anastassios that there has been an emergency.”
 
She looked around her.
 
Everyone was either sitting down to dinner, or preparing to.
 
The air was a hum of voices.
 
“Where is Celina sitting?
 
Maybe she and Jack wouldn’t mind switching tables with us.”

“I haven’t seen Celina.”

“And I haven’t seen Harold.
 
Look at poor Helen over there, sitting by herself, having to talk to that awful Mamie Fitzbergen and listen to one of her dull conversations about how splashes of Holy water are restoring her youth.
 
You’d think Harold would be more considerate of her.”

“Something isn’t right with Harold,” he said.
 
“He seems distracted lately.
 
Not himself.
 
I’m going to talk to him soon and see if anything is wrong.”

“And when you do,” Louis Ryan said from across the table.
 
“Make sure you give him my thanks.”

His voice cut across the table like a blade.
 
Silence lingered as those seated at the Redman table—and those seated at the tables surrounding it—stopped talking and started listening.

Elizabeth and George turned to Ryan.
 
It was clear by his amused expression that he had been listening to them.

“What do you mean by that, Louis?” George asked.

Louis lowered his chin and peered over his eyeglasses.
 
“I wish I could put it in simpler terms, George, but I can’t.
 
It means that I’d like you to give Harold my thanks.”

George ignored the sarcasm and kept his tone light.
 
“What for?”

“For finding someone to run my new hotel for me.”

George hadn’t become successful in this crowd without possessing the ability to act.
 
He remained calm, even though denial was rising up in him that his best friend would talk to this man.
 
“It’s good that you and Harold have been chatting.”

“Actually, we had a meeting,” Louis said.
 
“And I have to hand it to him—I couldn’t be happier with his choice.”
 
He smiled.
 
“Of course, I should probably be thanking you and Elizabeth, as well.
 
Without your efforts, the young woman Harold brought to my attention wouldn’t be alive today.”

George was slipping, beginning not to care.
 
“Maybe we should talk about this later?” he said.
 
“Another time?”
 
He held up his glass of champagne, lifted it to Louis and drank.
 
“For me, talking business ended a few hours ago.”

It was as if the suggestion went unheard.

Louis eased back in his chair and said, “What strikes me about this young woman is how closely she resembles my dead wife.
 
Do you remember Anne, George?
 
Do you remember how long and dark her hair was?
 
How tan she would get in the summer?
 
How beautiful and stubborn and strong she was?
 
How alive she was?”
 
He paused.
 
“Probably not.
 
I would imagine that killing someone and getting away with it must force a person to stuff down any memory of it.
  
I, on the other hand, have never forgotten.”

At the same instant a reporter stepped forward to take their picture, Louis leaned forward and locked eyes with George.
 
The camera flashed.
 

Elizabeth Redman looked at the reporter with such hatred and stood so quickly that her chair toppled over and crashed to the hardwood deck.

Excitement rippled through the crowd.

The reporter took another picture.
 
And another.

Elizabeth reached down, grabbed her glass of water and threw it in Ryan’s face.
 
It caught him by surprise, but his initial reaction was to laugh at her.

And now everyone was watching.
  
George reached out and gripped Elizabeth’s arm before she did something else she would regret.
 
All around them, cameras were popping.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Ryan,” he said.

“You don’t even know just how much nerve,” Louis said, wiping his face with a silk napkin.
 
“The person I’m talking about is your daughter, Leana.
 
I’ve hired her to run my new hotel for me.
 
She starts next week.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX