Juliette's heart thudded madly. She tried to remember everything she had ever learned about swimming and rescue during the brief course at Miss Fayton's, designed less for the ocean than for possible pleasure-boating accidents. Then she was dashing from her room, bounding down the steps and out of the hotel, and racing along the beach toward the stricken man.
Hopelessly far from shore, Brandon Phillips fought for his life. Every few moments the cramps lessened, releasing him from their iron grip long enough to catch a breath. But then his arms and legs were seized again by spasms, and what seemed like invisible hands pulled him underwater to writhe uncontrollably until once more the cramp eased and he rose breathless to the surface.
Each time the cramping lasted longer before release came. And each time he thought his lungs would burst before his head topped the surface again. This time he glanced toward shore, which only moments before had appeared so close and now seemed like an endless chasm, impossible to cross.
In a short time, perhaps only moments, he would drown, and again now the spasms gripped him like a sea monster's tentacles, wrapping around his body and pulling him under. Holding a hastily gasped breath, Brandon fought to unbend the numb curling of his legs while, for what seemed an eternity, they remained knotted and useless.
His chest burned, ready to burst and dizziness crept over him so everything darkened and plunged about. Then he felt a chilling calm, a sudden, inexplicable peace and an acceptance of fate.
From somewhere came the sound of his own mocking laughter and for a brief instant it seemed he understood everything more clearly, more completely, than ever before. Then he was falling, down... down ... into an unknown depth of no return.
PART IV
IN THE BEGINNING
Chapter 20
How much time passed, Brandon couldn't tell. But then, as if by a miracle, light appeared through blackness. His staggering senses registered that he was above water breathing and his heart pounded. The fresh sea air had never seemed so clean, so wonderful. He drank it in, each gulping breath bringing greater consciousness.
To Juliette, it seemed that she struggled forever, swimming with all her strength, her muscles shaking from fatigue and threatening to fail as she held the man's head above water and dragged him slowly toward shore.
Ahead, the breakers foamed in white lines that raised and tumbled onto the beach, and coming near them, Juliette paddled to catch a rising swell to carry them closer. The splashing water rose and pulled them forward before settling again. Juliette's lungs ached out of breath as her strength faded. Then, just when she thought she couldn't swim any further, her toes touched a sandy shelf.
Brandon Phillips touched down, too, planting his feet on solid ground with indescribable relief before standing up on legs that no longer writhed out of control. The moon had ducked behind thick clouds, darkening the figure of his rescuer to only a slender outline clothed in pajamas, a boy of about fifteen, he thought, who struggled with haphazard splashes toward shore, obviously exhausted from the effort of saving him.
Brandon stepped back into the deeper water, putting an arm around his rescuer and helping "him" as they stumbled together onto the shore before falling into the sand on hands and knees and panting loudly.
Heedless of the man beside her, Juliette gasped. It was perhaps three minutes before her heart's wild beating subsided and the air began to pass in and out of her lungs with less effort and pain. Then, finally glancing up, she found the man hunkering down on his heels in the sand. Apparently he had recovered and was now watching her.
He was the first to speak, in fluent French that held a cultured note. "If you had been with Napoleon against the Russians, the outcome might have been different, I think," he said. "You are a remarkably brave young man. I might easily have dragged you under."
Juliette's eyes sparkled in spite of her exhaustion. In the dimness, she must indeed look like a boy, with her hair braided and wrapped close to her head. Mischievously, she said, "It was nothing," in a voice that sounded hoarse and strange even to herself. "I saw you from my hotel room. It's very late, and there was no one to call. I couldn't just let you drown."
He seemed to smile, although she couldn't see clearly. "I'm grateful you didn't. And I certainly would have if not for you. But now you're exhausted. Perhaps a drink of brandy would help revive you. I'll take you back to your room, and we'll ring for some," he finished, getting up and taking her forearm to pull her up also.
"Ring for some?" she questioned, coming to stand tottering in front of this man who was even larger than he first seemed. "At this hour?"
His arm outstretched to steady her shoulder. "Welt, of course."
"But I wouldn't dream of disturbing the servants in the middle of the night."
He laughed shortly. "But I would," he said pulling her along as he started toward the hotel. "What are menials for?"
Juliette flushed with anger as she recalled herself, not so long ago, as one such "menial."
"Well, they're certainly not to be rousted out of bed at three in the morning for anything so trivial as a glass of brandy."
She felt more than saw his amusement. "You are obviously more considerate of servants than I am. But very well. I'll bring you some from my own stock. Say in twenty minutes?"
He was walking beside her with the direct tread of a man who knows what he is about. His profile was as cleanly etched as a Roman coin, and as handsome, though he was too arrogant, and no gentleman could ever seem completely "gentle" with shoulders broad as his.
So he thinks I'm a boy, Juliette mused. He seems so sure of himself, his manner suggests he doesn't err often or expect to. The corners of Juliette's mouth curved slowly upward as a plan occurred to her.
"Good," he said, apparently able to read her change in mood. "I'm glad you're feeling better. Now tell me your room number and I'll bring you the brandy."
"All right," she rasped. "My room is number twelve on the second floor. Don't knock; I'll leave the door open."
The man nodded. "I'll be there in twenty minutes." They parted company, Juliette going up the hotel steps and Brandon disappearing among the garden foliage in the opposite direction.
It was just a minute short of twenty when he appeared again, his swimming clothes changed to a simple white shirt casually buttoned, dark pants, and mirror-polished boots that shone in the starlight as did the jeweled flask in his hand.
Taking the hotel steps two at a time in easy stride, he entered the heavy double doors and proceeded upstairs to the second floor hallway, which was dark except for a narrow width of light extending from a door at the end.
Out of habit, Brandon scanned the hall corners, his eyes probing the door alcoves before noiselessly making his way to the lighted one. As requested then, he pushed the door open wider without a knock. Brandon Phillips was not often taken by surprise, but now his face perceptibly changed as he stared.
The only evidence of the youth he was expecting to see was the pajamas deposited in a sodden heap on the floor. In "his" place was a lovely girl, her hair loose about her face, sitting up in the postured, Spanish-style bed where a light quilt covered her up to the impish grin on her face.
Teasing laughter floated toward him as she saw his features register the anticipated surprise. Then Brandon closed the door behind him and locked it, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright light.
It took only a moment for him to recognize the same girl he had noticed several days before. Then she had been riding a horse with accomplished skill and at breakneck speed along the shore, easily outdistancing a dandified English gentleman pursuing her in vain.
Yes, he remembered her quite well, and now his dark eyes perused her laughing ones, which seemed oddly familiar though he couldn't remember from where-deep blue eyes, and was that a touch of violet?
"I see," he said, "and if I'm not further mistaken," he continued with a slight bow, "you are Miss Juliette Thorpe."
He set the jeweled flask on a near
by table beside a large arrangement of roses. Juliette was aware of a slight scar grazing his forehead, and the firm prominence of his slanting cheekbones as he walked to the edge of her bed and stood, arms crossed, and looked down at her. "But how do you know my name?" she demanded. "We've never been introduced. And what's yours?"
His large black eyes with absurdly long lashes assessed her frank gaze before smiling in amusement. He gave her another bow, and clicking his heels said, "Most people refer to me as Monsieur Phillips, but I would be pleased if you would call me Brandon."
Juliette cocked her head. M. Phillips it was a name often bandied about these resorts of the rich and famous, and was mentioned as one of the wealthiest men in Europe, and a most sought after bachelor.
Certainly he was handsome. But there was a certain wildness about him, too, which made all his good manners seem only a veneer. "Ohhh," she said knowingly. "So you are the French millionaire I've heard about, the one that all the mamas want their daughters to marry."
One side of M. Phillips's mouth turned down, and his eyebrows rose in a quizzical expression. "You surprise me, Miss Thorpe. Are you always so direct? I didn't think it was considered proper for a lady."
Juliette laughed. "No. Sometimes I can be evasive and not direct at all. How about you?"
"Usually I say what I think. But I'm beginning to imagine not nearly as often as you do."
Juliette's rosy lips smiled. "I've learned there are circumstances where you can say what you think. One of them is when you are independent enough not to concern yourself with the opinions of most people, and another is when you run across someone you are doubtful of seeing again. It seems both circumstances prevail at the moment. Now, tell me how you know my name?"
M. Phillips's hands moved to rest on his hips in interplay of the muscles on his bronzed forearms. "I'm not sure I want to tell you now," he said.
"No?" Juliette's blond eyebrows went up. "But I'm interested. I didn't think anyone here in Las Flores del Mar was aware of me particularly, or who I was."
Now he laughed warmly. "A girl like you? I'm certain the staff, and probably every male under eighty, has made a point of knowing who you are. When I saw you riding one day on the beach, I asked. A steward told me your name."
He paused then, his gaze dropping deeply into hers and cutting through that barrier that exists between individuals meeting for the first time. It was a look more intimate than if he had touched her, and Juliette's face heated as he said, "Do you know you are the most exquisitely lovely woman I've ever seen?"
"You are . . . I . . . well . . . you are very kind," she said, knowing she must be red as a lobster and wondering for the first time if her plan to trick him had backfired. What would Millie do now? She asked herself or Mrs. Welwright?
Brandon smiled to himself. How easily she blushed. So enchanting-and so impetuous. He frowned at her then in mock disapproval as he asked, "Do you often invite strange men to your bedroom?"
Juliette swallowed. The teasing note in his voice told her that the dangerous moment had vanished, and her blushes receded as she said, "As I recall, you insisted on coming."
"And now that I'm here," he spread his arms in question, "what am I supposed to do?"
Juliette smiled. "To be very surprised, to give me a drink as you promised, and then to go quietly with a little less confidence in your ability to predict genders," she finished with a giggle.
"I am very surprised," he said. "I always thought I could distinguish a woman anywhere. I suppose I'm not used to seeing them wear pajamas. Why do you?"
Juliette shrugged. "They are more comfortable. But I should tell you that at first the idea shocked my seamstress, too. I never thought I would have occasion to be seen in them in public. But just think how much more difficult it would have been to rescue you wearing a nightgown."
Brandon recalled the wet pants clinging to her gently curving hips when she had knelt on hands and knees in the sand, and wondering now how he hadn't realized before that this creature could only be female. He said, "Indeed pants do have certain advantages, I suppose. But feminine things would suit you better."
"Oh?" Juliette said indignation in her teasing tone. "You seem to have a lot of opinions, Monsieur Phillips ..:'
"Brandon," he corrected her.
"Indeed, Brandon," she yielded. "Do people always do as you say?"
"Usually."
"And if they don't?" Juliette demanded, her chin rising a half inch.
"I have found methods to deal with resistance." His dark eyes sparkled. "Truthfully I can say I never go without something I want."
There was another pause as they faced each other and Juliette wondered suddenly why she was fencing with this man over such matters when she was really exhausted from saving him and should be asleep.
The doors to the balcony were still open and the sea breeze blew through the room, moving the draperies and bringing the fruity fragrance of the blooming vine toward them.
"You must tell me what I can do to repay you for rescuing me," Brandon said after a time.
"It was nothing. Please don't mention it again. You certainly would have done the same for me."
"Yes, but I would ask you for something in return."
"Well, if you insist then, you can give me some brandy and consider your debt paid." She took a glass from the table at her bedside and held it toward him.
"All right," he said after a moment's hesitation.
Then taking the glass he strode across the room to another table where a pitcher of water sat beside the vase of red roses. He filled the glass half full with the water and then added a dose of brandy from the flask. As he poured, the facets of crystal caught the light in a refracting play. Then setting the, flask down, he whirled a silver spoon in the center of the drink as he nodded toward the roses. "From an admirer?"
"Not an admirer exactly, a friend really."
He brought the glass back and handed it to her before sitting down on her bed as casually as if it had been his own, and watching as she drank the pale brownish liquid. "Tell me, Juliette, are you American or English?"
Juliette opened wide eyes to look over the rim of the glass. "Why can't I be French or Austrian or Dutch?"
"Because only an American or English girl would play a trick like this. I'd like to hear that you were American," he added.
"Really? Why? Don't you like the English?"
"Usually I detest them," he said, a cold note creeping into his voice.
"Then you'll have to detest me," she said frankly, "because I'm one of them."
Brandon studied her. "In that case it seems I'll have to make an exception," he said and smiled. "It wouldn't be right to detest the person who has saved your life."
Tipping the glass upward, Juliette finished the last of the brandy. Already a warm numbness was traveling over her, and setting the glass back on the table, she pulled the light quilt higher and snuggled deep into the pillows. "Thank you again for the brandy, Monsieur ... er, Brandon. I don't mean to be rude, but I am very tired. I'm not used to swimming, you see, and you are quite heavy. I really want to go to sleep now."
There was a sense of acute exhaustion about her, and Brandon realized she was not being coquettish, but sincerely cerely wanted him to leave.
"Then I will go," he said rising from her bed. "We will see each other again." He gave her cheek a gentle caress. 'Goodnight for now," he finished and bowed again.
"Goodnight," Juliette returned with a yawn in her voice as he turned and quietly went out, pulling the door shut behind him.
It took Phillips only a few minutes to reach his villa where Rashid hovered at the entrance, silent and watchful for his master's return.
"As-salaam alaykum, Sayyid," the servant greeted him.
"Wu alaykum as-salaam, Rashid."
Then Karim al-Sharif climbed the stairway and passed down the hall, not even glancing at the door next to his left invitingly ajar. Instead he went directly into his own suite, waving out the Ar
ab manservant who silently appeared.
Pulling off his own clothes, he lay down on his back in bed, an arm crossed behind his head, the other hand absently toying with the heart-shaped ruby ring dangling from the gold chain around his neck. For a long time then he stared at the ceiling, his thoughts making him smile slightly to himself.
Chapter 21
Lucille Madeaux was not a prostitute. Rather, she considered herself an actress, and a good one, and most people agreed. It was on a spring night in Paris that Lucille had met M. Brandon Phillips. She had just given the opening performance of a new theatrical in which she played the principal part of Loella, a peasant girl of loose morals, a role that suited her voluptuous figure and flaming red hair.
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