The Siren's Sting (18 page)

The twins broke off their bickering to watch a small commotion on the dock. Two women in their early thirties had roared up in a silver convertible Porsche Boxster—one blonde, one dark, both in the enormous oval sunglasses so popular that summer. They parked across two spaces then got out. Both wore platform stiletto heels and babydoll dresses, one blue, one yellow, and carried enormous designer handbags. Their jewellery flashed in the morning light like sun on the sea.

They looked vaguely familiar . . .

Suddenly Stevie remembered where she had seen the girls before: Tara and Tatiana—Stevie couldn't remember which was which—had been hanging off the arms of Alexander Yudorov, oligarch and husband, at his chalet in the Swiss Alps.

Clémence had lowered her sunglasses ‘Do you know those girls?'

‘Vaguely . . . Tara and Tatiana, St Moritz last winter, the polo on ice.'

Clémence slipped her glasses back over her eyes. ‘I saw them in Cannes, at the festival, attached to the enormous son of a Hollywood studio head. He was so big the director's chairs couldn't be trusted to support him and the organisers had a special one secretly reinforced, just for him.'

‘Goodness.' Stevie's mind boggled at the thought.

Clémence was still watching them. ‘Their husband hunt was obviously unsuccessful and they've moved hunting grounds for the summer.'

‘Clémence, dear,' said Marlena, ‘don't you think it's a little
de
trop
, all this coming from you? These girls are just following in your footsteps.' Marlena was losing interest in the sideshow on the dock. ‘I only hope they don't plan to wear those shoes aboard a yacht. The owner will crucify them for ruining the deck.'

Clémence reapplied her lipstick, then poured herself a Pimms from a jug on the table before answering. ‘Those girls will never get the husband they think they deserve. They've got it all wrong. They think if they act like princesses, their prince will come. Let me tell you, that is not the way of the smart fortune huntress. These two, they go after the good-looking, flashy men. They're often the ones looking for a rich wife!'

Marlena cackled with delight. ‘Our parents made that mistake. Both thought the other had money—what a disappointment. Clémence is absolutely right.'

‘The really successful fortune huntress will do anything to please the object of her attentions.' Clémence grew energised as she spoke. ‘She cooks, she flatters, she's always happy and fun. Those girls pout and complain and demand. Why wouldn't the men just take the eighteen-year-old from Brazil with the incredible arse who only wants to have a good time and land a few trinkets?' Clémence shook her head in dismay. ‘Big mistake.'

Marlena nodded in amused agreement. ‘Even real princesses don't behave like that—look at Loli and Ludi-Brigitte. They're tremendous fun, even if they are a bit dim. That's why the airline hostesses have more success marrying big money than the
nouveau
riches
. Watch Clémence—she is a master.'

Her sister took the comment as a compliment and warmed to her theme.

‘One of the most important things is to know when to mind, and when not to. If I minded every phone call from his ex-wives, every mention of his other children, every Christmas spent with the ghosts of his past at his disapproving mother's house, well . . .' Clémence lowered her glass. ‘Well I wouldn't be in this position. No,' she continued, ‘I'm afraid the only person who will marry either of those two girls is someone looking to please their father, or someone who doesn't know better and mistakes their petulance for class.'

‘Well now—' Marlena smiled wickedly and raised her glass ‘—they'll deserve each other, then, won't they?'

The engines of the massive ship started and she began to shift slowly out of her berth. Two Zodiac cowboys nosed the port bow, outboard motors churning, keeping the
Hercules
from colliding with her neighbour. The behemoth turned in a tight circle and was soon steaming out to sea, leaving the old port to shrink in the distance.

It wasn't until the guests
were getting ready for pre-lunch drinks that Stevie got Clémence alone.

‘Is Emile on board?'

Clémence nodded. ‘Of course. He's in his playroom with the tutor and the bodyguard. They're watching
The Little Mermaid
.'

The irony was unmissable—the little boy with the world at his fingertips, exploring the wonders of the sea via a cartoon on television while floating above the real thing.

‘There was another call last night.' Clémence kept her voice low. ‘I was asleep. I think it was around eleven thirty. This time the caller said nothing—but it was him.'

‘Does anyone know, apart from your husband?'

Clémence shook her head. ‘Probably Vaughan's head of security— Megrahi. You haven't met him yet, have you?'

Stevie shook her head. She would remember a name like that.

‘He's doggedly loyal, a Libyan, missing a thumb.' Clémence glanced quickly over her shoulder. ‘Gives me shivers.'

‘Clémence, did you invite the guests or were they your husband's idea?'

It seemed strange to Stevie that a man as security-aware as Vaughan Krok would have invited guests aboard if he suspected kidnappers were prowling. Surely every extra friend and crew member was an added security risk? They would all have to be carefully vetted.

‘It was my idea. Vaughan decided that from now on, we would only be safe aboard the
Hercules
. I'm not sure I could handle weeks at sea alone with him and his moods. I insisted we bring friends to . . . dilute.' After a pause, she added, ‘I even invited the princesses, to keep him happy.'

‘And does Marlena know about the threats?'

Clémence paused before answering. ‘I met my husband through my sister. They used to work together, once upon a time.' She stopped again. ‘I prefer not to discuss him with her at all. I love her deeply but I'm not always sure I can trust her—if you can understand that.' Clémence noticed the interest in Stevie's eyes and clammed up. ‘If you want to know about Marlena, you'll have to ask her yourself.'

Their bond was strong, thought Stevie, despite the things that Clémence had said about her sister. They were twins, after all. She would do well to remember that.

Lunch was served as they steamed towards La Maddalena. Stevie marvelled at how perfectly contained the superyachts were from their surroundings. They were floating on a swelling sea, shimmering with summer sunlight, and yet they would have been just as untouched by the environment if they had stayed indoors on land. Perhaps that was the attraction . . .

Stevie preferred to feel the elements on her skin and to know where she stood on the planet.

Lunch revealed the other guests invited along for the cruise. Seated around the table were Vaughan Krok, Clémence and little Emile (who was allowed above deck for lunch), Marlena, Dado and Elisabetta Falcone, the princesses Loli and Ludi-Brigitte in matching jumpsuits, and a young man named Stéphane from Liechtenstein with incredibly soft hands.

Stevie had Stéphane on her right, but there were two chairs empty, one immediately on her left. Suddenly a large figure dressed in a lemon-yellow cardigan appeared in the doorway.

‘Apologies to all—my tardiness is unforgivable, but Indian politicians will keep you on the phone for an eternity.'

Skorpios.

He bowed to the assembled guests, then to Stevie alone, before sitting down, a smile on his bullfrog face. ‘Angelina sends her apologies,' he announced to the table. ‘She is in her cabin with a migraine.'

Stevie smiled, noticing that Marlena's eyes had seemed to blaze at the mention of Angelina . . . or was it just Skorpios's presence that had produced that reaction? Stevie hoped Angelina would remember her promise to say nothing about Stevie's work, to keep her secret safe. She turned back to Stéphane, who was recounting a cycling holiday in Austria. Her mind teemed with Iris' warnings; Skorpios seemed to be everywhere.

She had dealt with many powerful and even dangerous men, but even so, something about Skorpios made her hesitate. She would have to tread very carefully. He was no fool.

So Stevie said very little and left her ears wide open. However, it wasn't long before Skorpios turned his toffee-coloured lenses on her: ‘You perch on your chair like a songbird that has lost its song. Have you?'

‘Lost my song?' Stevie replied lightly. ‘I'm reluctant to shatter your image of me as a songbird, charming as it is, but I'm a terrible singer.'

‘Terrible, eh, Miss Duveen?' He laughed.

Stevie nodded and picked at her roll, studying his face from under lowered lids. Skorpios was not a handsome man—he was not tall enough, was too broad in the chest and arms—but Stevie could feel his magnetism. His eyes were dark and heavily lidded behind the glasses, giving him an air of sensuality and perpetual sleepiness. His mouth was wide and generous, and his nose stood like a monument in the centre of his face, proud and strong.

Beside him, the men at the table could have been made of tissue paper. Stevie wondered how close Iris had been to Skorpios . . .

Stevie felt a gaze on her and turned; Marlena was watching with her harlequin eyes. It was not a friendly gaze and Stevie hoped she hadn't made an enemy of Clémence's twin.

‘Socrates is a man of excess in everything, Stevie,' she drawled in her curious accent, her voice now laced with bitterness. ‘Except the truth.'

Skorpios glared back at her, his sudden silence resting heavily between them. Stevie wondered what their relationship was. Had they once been lovers, perhaps? There seemed to be thunderclouds thickening with every word spoken.
Was Marlena jealous?

To lighten the mood, Stevie raised a pointed eyebrow and said, ‘I've always been rather frugal in my appetites.'

‘What a pity.' Skorpios leant imperceptibly closer. ‘Because I think you have a fire inside of you.'

Stevie froze; she felt like a fly caught in the tacky strands of the spider's web. She had to play this one very carefully. She had her cover—as well as her dignity—to think of.

She waved a world-weary hand. ‘Is all this really necessary? I mean—' and she flashed her tormentor a smile ‘—I'm charmed and all, but it's only lunchtime. Such advances are a little . . . heavy for the daylight, don't you think?'

Skorpios smiled. ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle. It is a habit. Every woman is a potential mistress to me, and that is how I approach her.'

‘And Angelina?' Stevie asked quickly.

Skorpios smiled but said nothing.

‘I just hope you don't make her unhappy,' she added, softening her tone.

A platter of lobsters arrived and the conversation broke up, drifted towards their route through the Mediterranean, gossip from Paris and London and New York, scandals and deaths and third marriages.

Skorpios was not so easily distracted however. He stared at Stevie for a long moment before he spoke. ‘In a woman, unhappiness can be sexy.'

Stevie started. ‘What an amazing thing to say. I can't imagine you really believe that, Mr Skorpios.'

‘Why not?'

‘Well, for one thing,' she replied quietly, ‘it's cruel.'

A waiter, passing with a bottle of wine, stopped to freshen Stevie's glass. Skorpios took the bottle from him and filled Stevie's glass himself. ‘A woman chooses to be happy or unhappy. It is not men who make her so. Women who think that ascribe too much influence to us.'

‘And men who take that point of view, in my experience, are often the worst misogynists. Why do you think that is?' Stevie put down her fork. ‘Maybe it gives them an excuse to behave badly.'

Skorpios stared at her, then smiled slowly. ‘I think I was right about your passionate nature.'

Stevie flushed and took a sip of her white wine. She had revealed too much. It had been a mistake. Now Skorpios would take an interest in her. The thought made her very uncomfortable.

Fortunately, at that moment Vaughan Krok stood and announced that he had two planes circling O'Hare airport in Chicago and they were running low on fuel. He grabbed his drink and left the table. Emile jumped up and started after his father. Without a backward glance, Krok called out, ‘
Sit
.'

Emile dropped quickly back into his chair, crushed.

Marlena rose a moment later and disappeared through the same doorway.

Stevie turned to Stéphane. ‘What on earth does he mean?'

‘Vaughan is addicted to Flight Simulator—the computer game. He never lets business or pleasure interrupt his obsession.'

Stéphane took a sip of his wine and dabbed his lip with a napkin. ‘I don't understand it myself. The man has several airfields and private planes—why not just fly for real?'

Halfway through lunch, Clémence's phone rang. She glanced at the screen and went pale, stood and took the call by the railing. Even from a distance Stevie could sense the tension in the slim shoulders. Stevie stood and went to her. She turned, her face a ghastly white, her red lipstick jumping out like a gash of fear.

‘The threats?' Stevie whispered.

Clémence nodded. ‘They called my phone this time—it was a man. He just asked me if I loved my little boy and said that if I did I had better be very careful.' Her manicured hands were trembling. Stevie glanced quickly at the table. No one was paying them any attention. Then Marlena reappeared at the door. Her eyes focused on Stevie and her sister, but Stevie couldn't worry about her now.

‘Can you tell me anything about his voice?' she asked gently.

‘There was nothing really unusual—a man's voice.' Clémence was struggling for control. ‘He spoke quite slowly and very softly— not much more than a whisper. Maybe he had a little bit of an accent, but it was very hard to tell.'