Voice of the Heart (85 page)

Jake led Diana to the nearest bar, and with considerable
speed, before she could say a word to Nicholas or Francesca. He knew it was wisest to leave these two alone for a few minutes.

Nicky could not bring himself to look at Francesca. He had no words. His mind floundered. How the hell was he going to explain?

She said, in a voice so low he could hardly hear it, ‘I thought it sounded funny, a business call on Saturday night. Why did you he to me, Nick?’

He turned to face her slowly, his expression pained. He reached out, pulled her closer to him, gazed down into her face. It was glazed with shock. ‘What else could I do? Anyway, it was Vic’s idea… the story about the ’phone call. And I elected to go along with it, because I thought it was the wisest thing, under the circumstances. Arlene landed on him unexpectedly, just as we were leaving. He had to stay and talk to her. But he’ll be here in a minute.’

‘Will he?’

‘Sure he will! I’m expecting to see that ugly mug of his any second. You’ll—’

‘And will he have his
glamorous wife
on his arm?’ Her voice was still virtually inaudible but now it held a hint of acerbity.

‘Of course she won’t be with him. He’s coming alone.’

‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ Her lip trembled. She glanced away, then said in an accusatory tone, ‘You could have told me the truth, Nick. It was ridiculous of Vic to make you fib. I’m not a child.’

‘But sweetheart, he didn’t want you to be unnecessarily upset, and for no real reason. Listen, he’s—’ He paused as Jake and Diana hove in sight, carrying their drinks.

After these had been handed over, Jake stepped backwards, saying, ‘Diana and I are going to find Christian and Belinda. If we can in this mob. Excuse us for a while?’

‘Sure, see ya later, old buddy.’ Nick was suddenly grateful
for Jake’s presence, his wonderful tact, and his ability to think fast.

Alone again, Francesca whispered miserably, ‘I don’t understand, Nicky. Why is
she
here?’

‘I honestly don’t know, kid, and that’s the God’s truth. Vic was baffled as well. But there’s nothing to worry about. He asked me to assure you of that. Leave it to Vic. He’ll—’

‘Everything’s going wrong,’ Francesca wailed. ‘First the accident with the dress, now this. The dress—that was a bad omen, and I have a terrible presentiment it’s going to turn into a horrid evening.’

He saw the tears sparkling in her eyes, heard the unhappiness and disappointment in her young voice. He gripped her arm so tightly she winced. Nick bent closer, peered into her glum face. ‘Now listen to me, kid. Stop being so negative!’ he cried firmly. ‘The dress is fabulous, you’re gorgeous, and Vic is pretty damned smart. He’ll get here. This unexpected development has merely delayed him. Remember one thing—Victor loves you. Hold that thought, sweetheart.’

When she made no response, Nick said in the softest of voices and with the utmost gentleness. ‘That’s all that counts, Francesca darling.’

Distressed though she was, and reeling from innumerable emotions, Francesca knew Nicholas Latimer spoke the truth. She took a deep breath and brushed her eyes with her hand. A tentative and watery smile appeared, and her voice was brighter as she said, ‘Yes, you’re right, Nick dear. I’d better pull myself together and behave like a big girl. I must also put up a gay front. I can see Daddy coming down the steps with Doris. I mustn’t spoil their special evening, not for anything. That would be so unfair of me.’ She touched his arm and appealed, ‘Can you give Vic a ring to find out if he’s left yet? Please, Nicky?’

‘Sure thing, angel. I’ll go and do it right away.’

He left her standing with her father and Doris, loped the length of the lawn and up the steps onto the terrace. He
dodged between the guests milling around, went through the main salon and out into the entrance hall. He found the telephone, dialled La Réserve.

When the hotel operator answered, he said, ‘Good evening. This is Monsieur Latimer. May I speak to Monsieur Mason, please.’

‘
Ah, bon soir, Monsieur Latimer
. Monsieur Mason is in the restaurant.
Ne quittez pas!
’

What the hell’s he doing in the restaurant? Nick asked himself, gripping the receiver tighter, his nerves jangling. There was only one answer to that. Victor was well and truly stuck with Arlene. Nick took a long swallow of his drink, placed it on the table, pulled out his cigarettes, lit one anxiously.

‘Jesus Christ, Nicky, why didn’t you call me before?’ Victor hissed down the ’phone when he came on the line a minute later. ‘You must have
known
I couldn’t call
you
. I’m crazed with worry. How’s Ches?’

‘Okay, but the situation’s not the greatest. I hate to tell you this, but the cat’s out of the bag. About Arlene. Accidentally released by Hélène Vernaud.’ Nick repeated Hélène’s conversation to the accompaniment of muffled groans at the other end of the wire. When he had finished, Nick asked quietly, ‘What are you going to do, Vic? Francesca knows I’m calling you. I’ll have to tell her something.’

‘Listen, Nicky, I’ve got real problems with Arlene. Goddamn serious problems. Can’t go into them now. We’re just finishing dinner. I’ve already told her I’m going to bunk with you or Jake tonight. This is my plan. After dinner, in about ten minutes, I’ll take her back upstairs, say goodnight and leave, ostensibly for your suite. But I’ll slip out, hightail it to the dance. Whose car did you take? Mine or Jake’s?’

‘Jake’s, and the Citroen is parked where we left it after lunch.’

‘Good. Arlene’s poured a lot of booze down herself,
before dinner and during. She won’t be a problem. Hold the beachhead for me, kid. I’ll be there.’

‘All right, Vic. It sounds like a reasonable enough plan. But for God’s sake get rolling as soon as you can.’

‘Tell Ches I’m about to leave. Okay?’

‘Okay, maestro.’ Nick replaced the receiver with relief. He picked up his drink, turned, saw Jake Watson hurrying through the main salon.

‘Been calling Victor? Is he still at the hotel? Is he going to make it?’ Jake shot the questions at Nick with staccato delivery.

Nick nodded.

‘Well, what’s the scoop, kid?’

‘He’s about to leave.’

‘Thank God for that.’ Jake took out his handkerchief and patted his forehead. ‘Phew! I feel as if I’ve been on a roller coaster for the last hour.’

‘I know exactly what you mean. Is Francesca still with her father and Doris?’

‘No. She’s talking to Hilary Pierce and Terry Ogden.’

Surprise streaked across Nick’s face. ‘They’re here together!’

‘And how they’re together. I guess they finally decided to go public, picked tonight to do it. Hilary told me she’s divorcing Mark to marry Terry. Made no bones about it.’ Jake grinned. ‘Some evening, eh,
bubeleh
?’

‘It’s getting a bit too rich and heady for my blood, Jake.’

‘But you can’t say it’s not interesting. Quite a cast of characters here and present when you make the roll call.’

‘Yeah. And half of ’em stepped right out of the pages of a second-rate screenplay!’

Jake chuckled. ‘Too true. But some of them are pretty nifty. Classy types, and it’s a distinctive mix. High society, show business, big business. Incidentally, Doris informed me we’re sitting at table three. It’s near the bandstand. Numbered. You’ll find it. I’ll meet you back there.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the car. Forgot my cigars earlier.’

Nick saluted and hurried across the terrace and down into the gardens. He soon found Hilary, glowing and glorious in shocking-pink taffeta, flanked by a doting Terry and Jerry Massingham. Greetings were exchanged and Nick told them he was looking for Francesca.

Terry said, ‘She’s over there. On the dance floor. With Beau Stanton.’

Nick scanned the dancers, currently reforming a cha-cha-cha to a Latin American beat, his eyes lighting on Francesca. She appeared to be in good hands with the elegant, debonair Stanton and looked as though she was enjoying herself. He relaxed.

‘I’ve fallen madly in love,’ Terry announced, placing his hand on Nick’s shoulder, beaming at him delightedly.

Nick smiled. ‘My congratulations. She’s a lovely lady.’ He winked at Hilary.

‘Oh, I wasn’t referring to Hilary,’ Terry exclaimed. ‘Although I do love and adore
her
, have for years. Actually, I was talking about Beau Stanton. I just met him for the first time. What a marvellous gent he is, and his easy charm is as irresistible off screen as it is on. I’ve always admired his talent as an actor—his style and grace, and his real flair for sophisticated comedy. He’s a lot like Cary Grant actually. Anyway, he’s going to give a dinner party for us when we get to Hollywood, sort of show us the ropes. Damned sweet of him.’

‘Yes it is,’ Nick agreed. ‘And I’ll tell you this, Terry, you’ll meet only the very best with him. He’s old guard Hollywood, the Establishment, and heads the English contingent. Has for years, since the thirties.’ The music stopped, and Nick, who was facing the floor, saw Francesca and Beau pause to speak to Katharine Tempest. His eyes narrowed.
She
was draped on the arm of Mike Lazarus, had obviously been dancing with him. A well-matched pair. Birds of a feather, he thought sardonically.

Beau Stanton escorted Francesca over to them, shook Nick’s hand, stood chatting for a few moments. He’s got to be fifty, yet he
is
ageless, looks ten years younger, Nick noted, examining Stanton discreetly. Beau held the stage, the famous voice ringing out, its upper class English tones enlivened by the faintest undertone of cockney.

‘What the deuce has happened to my mate Victor?’ Beau suddenly demanded, focusing on Nick. ‘Everybody’s looking for him, misses his shining presence. Why, this little shindig won’t be the same without him. I, for one, was counting on his company tonight.’

‘He’ll be here shortly, Beau,’ Nick replied.

‘Jolly good.’ Beau lifted Francesca’s hand and kissed it, making the old-world gesture seem perfectly natural. ‘Don’t forget, I’ve reserved several more dances, my dear. Not that you’ll escape me so easily, since we’re at the same table.’

Beau made a graceful exit, and Nick said, ‘Can I have a word with you, sweetheart?’

‘Of course, Nicky.’ She grabbed his hand, and they excused themselves, drifted out of earshot. Francesca’s face was radiant. ‘I can tell from your expression that everything’s all right, Nicky. Vic’s on his way! He’s left, hasn’t he?’

‘Just about, kid. I caught him as he was leaving the hotel,’ Nick fibbed, adding quickly, ‘The roads should be clearer at this hour. He’ll shoot up here with no problems, be with us in no time at all.’

‘Oh that’s wonderful, Nicky!’ She flung her arms around him, hugged him tightly, then pulled away from him. ‘You are sure he’s coming, aren’t you?’

‘I’m sure I’m sure, sweetheart. Now let’s get ourselves a drink and start enjoying this bash. It’s long overdue.’ He took her arm, and they strolled up to one of the bars, where Nick ordered a glass of champagne for Francesca, a vodka on the rocks for himself. His eyes roamed about, seeking Diana.

Francesca stood next to him, the radiance unmarred on her lovely face. The feeling of heaviness and the black depression
that had weighed her down for the past hour were lifting. The tension was slipping out of her, was being replaced by the high expectancy and feverish excitement of earlier. The evening had started badly, but everything was going to be all right now. Victor would soon be here, and it would be a romantic and memorable night, just the way she had planned.

But Victor Mason did not come.

The
Artemis
was a 2,000-ton ocean-going yacht that began her life as a British frigate originally christened the
Curlew
. Mike Lazarus bought the vessel for thirty-five thousand pounds from the Royal Navy, then spent over three million dollars transforming her into one of the most luxurious yachts in the world. Sleek of line, she was exquisitely furnished, and embellished with incomparable art treasures culled from all corners of the globe.

Once the frigate was in Lazarus’s possession he had engaged Britain’s most distinguished architect to redesign her, and the ship was converted by a team of the best naval architects at one of the prestigious shipyards in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The
Artemis
was the only thing Lazarus had been known to show any emotion for, and if his conglomerate, Global-Centurion, was the crown that sat atop his greying head, then the
Artemis
was the rare diadem in its centre. She meant more to him than any woman ever had, was his real true love, and none of his mistresses had been able to dislodge or replace her in his affections.

This gleaming jewel had sailed from Marseilles into Monte Carlo harbour early on the Sunday morning following the dance at the Villa Zamir, and she had been moored in the prime berth for the past two days. Now, for the first time since she had dropped anchor, she was about to take on guests, invited to a luncheon in honour of Beau Stanton. Her captain and crew had been informed by Lazarus that he was expecting thirty people and, once they were aboard, the yacht was to sail down the French coastline to San Remo, returning to home port later in the afternoon.

Three of those guests had already arrived at the harbour
and were regarding the yacht with considerable interest—Diana and Christian von Wittingen and Nicholas Latimer.

Diana shaded her eyes with her hand, her excitement growing as she studied the
Artemis
, so brilliantly white and glittering in the intense mid-morning sunlight. ‘You might not like Lazarus, Nicky darling, but you have to admit he has great taste when it comes to yachts!’ she exclaimed.

‘He’s probably got great taste in a lot of things,’ Nick retorted, grinning. ‘Certainly he has enough dough to indulge himself in
taste.
’

Diana laughed. ‘Oh, but she’s so lovely. Look at her marvellous rakish lines and that high streamlined bow. Why she’s perfectly beautiful. I wonder how many knots she can do per hour?’

‘You sound as if you know a lot about boats,’ Nick said, throwing her a surprised look.