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  “One of them is that writer from New York. You know, from Destiny magazine. She’d like to remain anonymous. So she doesn’t spook the other guests, I suppose.” The doctor nodded. “And the other one is the wife of the president of the company who handles our advertising.”

  “Michael Stewart’s wife, eh? Well, maybe comping her will help keep the agency wolves from the door for a few more weeks. As for the writer, if she gives us a good write-up, it can’t hurt, so we’ll go along with her little charade. Destiny is one of the big ones. But keep an eye on her. I don’t want her to find out what’s going on here.”

  He got up and came around the desk. Mariette looked up expectantly. He ran his index finger along the side of her face. “You know, you get more lovely every day.”

  Mariette captured his hand and kissed it. “I’m glad I decided to come with you. You’re the only one who’s ever been nice to me.”

  “I know, baby. I know.” He patted her face and walked over to the window that looked out across the pool area and paused for a moment before continuing. “I have something to tell you.”

  The serious tone of his voice alarmed her. But, before she could say anything, he went back to the desk and, opening the top drawer, fished out a letter and handed it to her. “Read this.”

  Mariette took the envelope. The paper was heavy, expensive-looking. On the cream-coloured flap, just above the water mark, was a coat of arms, embossed in red and gold. Her hand trembled as she slid out the folded sheet of paper. She didn’t even have to read it. She already knew who it was from. Daniella. And that could mean only one thing. Trouble.

  The doctor watched her as she read, eyes lowered, brow knitted. As she neared the end of the letter, he saw the color begin to rise in her cheeks, giving a ruddy glow to the tan. When she had finished she looked up, her blue eyes flashing with furry.

  “That bitch!”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the options.…”

  “Well, why don’t you tell ‘the baroness’ to go fuck herself.”

  He laughed. It was a cold and bitter sound that was completely lacking in humor. “It’s more likely to be the other way around, don’t you think?”

  “How long have we got?”

  “I don’t know. A few weeks. A couple of months. Not long.”

  Mariette shivered and hugged herself. “Do you think she’ll come here herself?”

  “Probably. Daniella always likes to be there for the kill. I remember once in Africa. We were on safari and.…”

  The girl clamped her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “You’re letting your jealousy get the better of you.”

  “I am not. And anyway, why did you have to deal with her in the first place? You know what she’s like. All she ever thinks about is money, money, money.” Her voice was getting higher.

  “I didn’t have much choice. It’s a cold world out there, Mariette. You have to have something to get something, and Daniella was the only one who was buying what I had.”

  The girl gave him a caustic look. “I think you’re disgusting.”

  “I thought you loved me.”

  “I do, but I still think you’re disgusting.”

  “Be that as it may, we are going to have to work quickly if we are going to salvage this situation.” He moved back toward the desk. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I think fate may have handed us a way out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He flipped open the file to the page that held the guest list. “Two of our guests this week are going to be Belle Taylor and her daughter Regina.”

  “So?”

  He turned to face her again. “Well, I think they can be very useful.”

  Mariette was frowning. “I don’t understand. Useful how?” But then suddenly the furrows in her brow disappeared and he could see the knowledge jump into her eyes. “You mean you’re going to …?”

  He nodded slowly. “Exactly. I’ve done a little research on the Ms. Taylors, and I think that the mother will fill the bill very nicely indeed. In fact I might go so far as to say that the timing of their arrival couldn’t be better.”

  He smiled at her now, and she felt a surge of affection for him. He had always managed to take care of both of them and she trusted that he would again. She smiled back.

  “What’s that old saying? It takes one to know one? Well, forgive the paraphrasing, but it takes one to beat one, too. Only this one is going to be on our side.”

  Mariette stood up. “What can I do?”

  “You can keep the daughter busy.”

  “But how?”

  “You’re a resourceful girl, Mariette. You’ll figure something out.” He looked at his watch. “And now you’d better get going. They’ll be arriving at the airport soon.”

  “O.K. But there’s no point taking the bus, just for the six of them. I think I’ll take the Rolls and give them the royal treatment.

  “That’s my girl.” He sat down and opened up another folder and started to scribble some figures in the margin of the page.

  “Am I?”

  He looked up. “What?”

  “Your girl.”

  “Always were. Always will be.”

  Chapter 12

  After about half an hour, Joyce closed the folder and stuffed it back into her bag. Harry had been right; the man was a cipher. But everyone had to have a past, everyone. The arrival of two women in the departure lounge interrupted any further thoughts about the doctor, and she turned her attention to them.

  The older one was the more heavily built of the two. Joyce searched for a word to describe her and came up with “buxom.” She was wearing a brightly coloured magenta sundress splashed with huge orange flowers, the front of which was cut to show off her well-developed chest.

  “Sit over there, baby.” The woman said plonking herself down into a seat at the other end of the row by the window. She let out a grateful sigh. “My feet are killing me.”

  Behind her, her face partly hidden by a large straw sunhat, followed a tall, willowy girl wearing a long-sleeved shirt and long pants of some light cotton material.

  She sat in the direction the woman had indicated, but left one seat in between them. As she removed her hat, a cascade of blue-black hair was released from its confinement, and she bent over and shook it out and then tossed her head back until the hair fell like a heavy veil over her shoulders and down her back. Then she leaned forward, placed her elbows on her knees and her hands under her chin, and sighed loudly.

  Joyce was able to see her face now, and visions of last month’s Vogue cover floated before her eyes. Regina Taylor. There was no mistaking that face, or that hair. And, since everybody knew she never went anywhere without her mother, the other woman must be the redoubtable Belle.

  Joyce perked up a little bit. This could prove interesting. She had been hearing for years all about the Taylor empire that Belle had created. You couldn’t open a copy of Forbes or Entrepreneur without some piece about one of Belle’s latest coups hitting you right in the face. She had even thought of doing a story on the Taylors at one time, but abandoned that idea when the mother let it be known, in no uncertain terms, that she was not interested.

  But maybe now would be a good chance to try again, thought Joyce, taking a good, long, sideways look at Belle. So this was the woman that everybody said had more balls than any two men on Wall Street. From the looks of her, Joyce thought they were probably right. Doing an interview with her wasn’t going to be any picnic.

  Mother and daughter were whispering to each other now, and Joyce leaned a little closer. Eavesdropping was, after all, part of her business.

  “.… I don’t care, Mother. I’m not going to spend the whole week covered up like a piece of precious porcelain. I want to go outside. I want to get a tan. I want.…”

  Then the mother shook her head and said so
mething that Joyce couldn’t quite make out. The girl gave an exaggerated sigh, got up and flounced over to the far corner of the room, where she took up residence in another chair and stretched her seemingly endless legs across the aisle.

  The mother took out a pack of Camels, lit one, and inhaled deeply. Joyce waited for her to cough. But she didn’t. In fact, she didn’t even exhale.

  Evidently, the rumors about a rift between the world’s most famous model and her mother were true. Well, even if she couldn’t get the interview, these two would make an interesting addition to her spa piece. Harry would just love it. He.…

  Visions of Harry were interrupted by the arrival of a rather bulky young woman dressed in a pale mauve pantsuit, who looked nervously around the departure lounge before taking a seat exactly halfway between Joyce and Belle Taylor. She had a dark semi-circle flowering under each arm, and Joyce thought that it was probably attributable to more than just the heat. The new arrival had the look of a mouse who suddenly finds itself in the same room with two cats.

  After she settled herself into the chair, the young woman’s eyes darted briefly around the room as if she could only relax once she had a better look at who else was present. When, for the first time, they landed on the magnificent Regina, Joyce saw a flicker of recognition which was then quickly replaced by something else, something that looked a lot like envy mixed with shame.

  The large woman shifted in her seat. The molded plastic chair was obviously uncomfortable because of her size, and Joyce found herself feeling sorry for the new arrival. Being fat had to be no fun, especially when it was so hot. What was it, she wondered, that kept the mauve mouse from losing the weight? She looked like she could be a very pretty girl, minus fifty or sixty pounds.

  As Joyce was considering this question, the new arrival hefted her bulging straw bag onto what was left of her lap and then rummaged around inside of it for a few seconds before emerging with her prize—a slightly melted Oh Henry bar. She quickly tore off the wrapping and then consumed the candy in two large bites. Licking the sticky remains from her finger tips, she sighed and then settled back to wait.

  Well, that answered the “what” question, thought Joyce. Now, how about the “why”? She decided that this seemed like as good a place as any other to get started on the spa story, and was just about to move over and begin a conversation with the mouse, when she noticed that the man from the bar had just walked in.

  In daylight, he was even better looking. He was, she also realized with a little rush of excitement, none other than Cliff Eastman, romantic idol of millions and hunk extraordinaire.

  Unconsciously, she sat up a little straighter, smoothed her skirt over her knees, glad now that the pantyhose were covering her winter-white legs, and ran the tip of her tongue reassuringly over the last remnants of her coldsore.

  He looked around the room, then, when his eyes landed on her, she found herself giving him her best “I-wore-braces-for-five-years-for-this” smile, and, without thinking, moved her suitcase away from the seat across from her. He smiled back and, sauntering over, lowered himself with casual grace into the seat. He knew that she knew who he was, and she knew that he knew. Nobody else seemed to be bothered.

  Belle Taylor was frantically puffing on her third Camel, having viciously ground the butt of each of its predecessors on the tiled floor with the toe of her shoe before lighting up again. Her daughter was sulking in the corner, crossing and uncrossing her legs in a kind of stationary version of pacing. And the “mouse” was frantically searching in her bag for another chocolate tranquilizer. Joyce was busy deciding that she like the way Eastman’s eyes crinkled up at the corners. It was a room full of activity.

  “Going to St. Christophe?” His voice was deeper than his tan, with a resonance which was proof that years of proper breathing had conspired to produce this moment of perfect intonation.

  A breathless “Yes,” was all she could manage. “Pull yourself together, Redmond,” her professional self demanded silently, but the rest of her selves excused the reaction by pointing out that, just because she was an editor and a journalist and worked for a big New York magazine, didn’t mean she was immune to the same feelings as any other woman when confronted with a man who had the heartthrob of two generations. A man who wore no socks with his loafers!

  And now as she looked at him sitting across from her, all she could think of was the last scene in “Neverending Love,” when he had taken Felicity Fox into his arms and kissed her deeply before sweeping her off her feet, carrying her into their little cottage and kicking the door shut with his foot. Every woman in America had wanted a little of what went on behind that closed door. And at sixteen so had she. But she thought she had managed to grow out of that desire—until now.

  “So am I.” He was speaking again. “Get a little rest. Work on the tan. Eat the right food for a change. Got to keep the old machine in good repair.” He patted himself on his incredibly flat stomach.

  Was he kidding? He was the best-looking man she had ever seen. No spa in the world could improve on what Mother Nature had already done for him. Maybe he looked a little rough around the edges—eyes a little bloodshot—skin perhaps a trifle dull beneath the tan.… She thought back to the way he had sat hunched over his drink in the bar. Perhaps that was his problem. But, even so, he was still the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on.

  She smiled. “Me too.” How was that for great conversation, not to mention stretching the truth? Anybody with half a brain could see that no spa in the world could make any difference to what Mother Nature had done for her, either.

  The next moment, the “mouse” suddenly realized who he was and dropped her straw bag with a thunk on the tiled floor.

  “It’s you!” She wagged a chubby finger at him, all her insecurities for the moment forgotten. He winked at Joyce and looked playfully over his shoulder to see who was behind him. The other two women were also paying attention now.

  “No, you! You’re Cliff Eastman. I saw you on my VHS just last week in … oh what was the movie? I know. ‘Murder in Venice.’ You were just wonderful, Mr. Eastman,” she cooed.

  “Video, you say?” He looked bored. “Well, thank you anyway, Miss.…”

  “Mrs.… Mrs. Cathy Stewart. I just think you are the greatest. Really the greatest! Wait until I tell Michael that I met you. In person.”

  “Michael?”

  “My husband. He’s in advertising.”

  “Advertising. How nice.” Now he sounded bored, too.

  But while he appeared to be giving his attention to his palpitating fan, Joyce noticed that his eyes had just landed and paused on the fabulous Regina for the third time. A look of recognition passed over his face. Did that look mean he recognized her as Regina Taylor, or was it just a case of beauty comprehending the presence of its own kind? In either case, she found herself considering for just a moment what it would be like to be on the receiving end of a look like that. Sometimes she wished she didn’t notice so much. Any minute now he would get up and go over there and.…

  A commotion outside the double doors refocused everybody’s attention. A rather small woman with a lot of luggage and even more jewellery was arguing with the Barbados Air employee who had just arrived to check the tickets.

  “But Ma’am, I told you that only two bags can go. Only two. There is room for no more. You have six. I cannot possibly let you take six bags.”

  “Oh dear! What am I supposed to do with them, then? Leave them here? Leave them to get stolen while I’m gone? I paid for my ticket and I already told you I will pay extra for the luggage if necessary, but I must take them with me. I must.” She looked around as though searching for someone to help her.

  The ticket taker shook his head very slowly from side to side.

  “It is not a question of money for the bags, Ma’am. It is a question of room. It is a very small plane. There is no room for all your luggage. That is why we make the rule of two bags per person. That is all the room we
have.”

  “I see, oh dear. Well, in that case, can’t you send the other bags over on the next plane? That would seem to be a reasonable solution. Surely you should be able to manage that.”

  “I suppose we could do that, Ma’am. I will arrange to send your bags over on the next plane. It will arrive on Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday! Oh, but today is only Saturday. When I said the next plane I meant in an hour or two, not a day or two.” Her voice drifted off and she looked around her once more.

  Again the ticket taker slowly shook his head from side to side.

  “She’s going about it all the wrong way.” Cliff stood up and went to the door.

  “Excuse me, but it seems that we might be ale to sort something out for the lady.” He spoke directly to the ticket taker. “I know that I only have one bag and that one of the ladies on this flight seems to have only one bag, so perhaps we could then accommodate at least two more of this lady’s bags, since we will now have more space.” He smiled his best movie-star smile.”

  I don’t know.” The ticket taker scratched his head. Joyce thought he was stalling. Probably waiting to see something green and folded before making up his mind.

  “Well, let’s just try, shall we?”

  “Alright, then, we can try. When the plane is ready I will have somebody take the lady’s bags out and I will try to fit them in somewhere, but I don’t know.…”

  “Thanks. I am sure the lady will appreciate it.” He turned to the tiny woman beside him. “It’s all in how you put it, really. And I suggest you put it in his hand, if you know what I mean.”

  “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done without your help. I simply don’t handle these things very well. My husband has always been the one to make these kind of arrangements and I.…” She waved her hand as though to indicate that without her husband she was quite helpless. Her diamond ring flashed prisms on the ceiling.

  He inclined his head slightly. Watching from her vantage point inside the departure lounge, Joyce wondered for a moment if he were going to kiss the woman’s hand. It seemed a natural conclusion to this scene of gallantry, but he left it at the nod and came back into the room and resumed his seat.