'Whose yacht is that?' Hubert asked.
'The Evangelia,' Jacques replied. 'The Skouri yacht. It's big, isn't it?'
Hubert lifted the binoculars again. As he watched, five Rolls-Royces pulled to a halt behind the Skouri yacht and the chauffeurs got out to hold the rear doors open. He counted twelve people getting out. He focused in on each one of them. Suddenly his face went pale and ashen. He had recognized one of the passengers. A woman wearing cork-soled sandals, a checkered dress, large round sunglasses, and a big straw hat. His eyes narrowed as he lowered the binoculars. He did not notice the way Jacques was looking at him. All he could think of was the woman he'd just seen. It was Hélène.
His hands started to shake. The desperate longing he'd once felt for her had long since curdled into something quite different and more powerful.
Hate.
After the Evangelia was a white speck halfway to Menton, Jacques and Hubert headed to the Ariston Bar. It was cool inside and the place was filled with tourists nursing their drinks.
They got a table in a quiet corner. They didn't speak until after the drinks arrived.
Hubert's face held a hostile expression. 'I know there's no love lost between us,' he said suspiciously. 'Why the sudden interest?'
'Because it's to our mutual benefit to call a truce and join forces,' Jacques replied smoothly. He took a swallow of his Campari. It tasted deliciously bitter and refreshing. 'I know you don't like me, Hubert,' he said. 'You've bad-mouthed me in public once too often. But I've been discreet. I haven't told anyone a thing about you.'
Hubert's florid face reddened even more. It looked like his blood vessels were about to burst. 'What's there to tell?' he asked angrily.
Jacques laughed thinly. 'Come off it, Hubert. You know very well.'
Hubert looked down into his drink. 'I was very drunk at the time,' he said quickly. 'It was a set-up.'
Jacques stared at him steadily. 'Was it?' His voice was flat. 'Sure, you were only a kid of fifteen spending the weekend in Paris with his parents. But you did sneak out of the hotel and come into the pouf bar, didn't you? You did go home with Maurice and me. And you did suck on our pricks. Remember?'
Hubert grabbed Jacques by the collar and pulled him close. Instantly, Jacques's face reddened and he began gasping for breath. His hands flew up to his throat, tugging at Hubert's fingers. 'Let me go,' he rasped. 'You'll be sorry.'
Hubert twisted the collar in his hand, tightening the stranglehold. 'Listen, you slimy queer,' he snarled into Jacques's face. 'I'll kill you if you say that again!'
Suddenly the conversations around them had stopped and Hubert could feel eyes upon them. He looked around. Contemptuously he released his grip and threw Jacques backward into his chair. Jacques swallowed and loosened his collar. For a moment he stared at Hubert.
'Everyone tries something like that once in his life!' Hubert hissed in a half-whisper. 'I'm not a queer. It was part of growing up. All adolescents do that sort of thing.'
Jacques recovered quickly. 'What about the pictures, Hubert?' he asked tauntingly. 'I've still got copies of them, you know. Sure, they're not exactly sex pictures. But you're naked in them. Masturbating, Remember? At the time you thought posing was a great turn-on.'
'It was a mistake! Can't you get that through your perverted skull? I was a kid.' He brought the brandy up to his lips and took a swallow.
Jacques gave a low laugh. 'Who'd believe it? The pictures speak for themselves. Me, I'll never forget that day. I had to take a cab home, Remember? Because you rode home on the back of Maurice's moped. Playing with him the whole way, I might add.'
'What is it you want? Money? Here.' He reached for his wallet and started counting out thousand-franc bills.
Jacques shook his head and pushed the money away. 'I don't want your money. I want to make a deal.'
Hubert stared at him. 'I don't think I like your deals,' he said quietly.
Jacques now leaned across the table, his confidence fully restored. 'But you liked her, didn't you? And she left you cold. I know how much you must hate her. Don't you want to get even?'
Hubert drew himself up and finished his drink. He put the glass down. 'Just say what you have to and let's get this over with,' he said irritably.
'All right.' Jacques frowned into his Campari and toyed deliberately with the stem of the glass. 'If I'm not mistaken, there are three shareholders in Les Editions Hélène Junot.' he said calculatingly. 'Hélène, you, and a certain German. Joining forces, you and the German hold twenty percent of the shares.'
'Why would you care about that?' Hubert mumbled. 'You're the one who's chummy with her.'
Jacques looked at him. 'And what would you say if I were to tell you that I was going to become a shareholder? That would give us thirty, maybe forty percent if we stuck together. Enough to throw some wrenches into the publishing machinery.'
Hubert sat up straight now. 'You hold shares!' he said incredulously. 'How? What has she got on you?'
Jacques looked puzzled, wondering what this was supposed to mean. 'Got on me? My dear boy, what on earth are you talking about?' His eyes widened suddenly as everything fell into place. 'So that's it!' he exclaimed in triumph, answering his own question. 'Now I get it!' He burst out laughing. The world had gone crazy. Jacques was crazy. Even Hélène was crazy.
Hubert looked at him sharply. 'What do you get?'
'Why you are a shareholder. I always thought it strange. She's hated you for as long as I've known her. And she was rich enough not to need your money.' Delicately Jacques sipped his Campari. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper. 'What did you do, Hubert, that she could force you into investing?'
'Nothing,' Hubert answered quickly.
'Come on, I'm not a fool.' Jacques looked at him shrewdly across the table. 'You said you would kill me—I wonder if that would be new to you?' he said softly. 'That's the key to everything, isn't it?'
Hubert said nothing. He just looked at Jacques. What he saw was a hungry, ambitious look in his eyes which he had never seen there before.
'Who would you have killed, Hubert? Let me see, now. . .' Jacques pretended to be deep in thought as he made a production of drumming the table with spiderlike fingertips.
Hubert watched the fingers in morbid fascination. They looked like they were moving slowly up and down the keyboard of a piano.
Jacques smiled widely and looked at him. 'Kowalsky,' he stated softly.
The decks vibrated pleasantly as the big diesels pushed the Evangelia through the water. Monaco was slowly slipping away behind them like just another cluster of white houses on the Cote d'Azur. When you looked away from the coast, all you could see was water, deep blue and undulating gently. The horizon was blurry. It was difficult to tell just where the sea ended and the sky began.
Hélène turned around as Zeno Skouri came up beside her. 'Are you ready for the grand tour?' he asked. 'Everyone's had it but you.'
She laughed. 'That's because I didn't know you when the cruise began in Barcelona.'
'Come, I give you your tour now.' He looked around. 'Where's Niggle?'
'He went inside,' Hélène replied. 'He told me he'd be right back.'
'Then we shall wait.' The old Greek smiled as he planted himself against the railing. 'I don't want him to think I'd kidnap you.' He looked at her shrewdly. 'He thinks very highly of you, our friend does.'
Hélène felt a blush coming on.
'Ah, here comes Niggle now.'
She turned around. The salon doors were sliding apart and Nigel came out on deck. He had changed into white shorts, a polo shirt, white knee socks, and deck shoes. She was conscious of his slim but muscular physique, his lithe, easy movements, the curls of hair on his tanned legs and arms. He grinned and walked straight toward her and Zeno. He seemed to catch her stare, and she blinked suddenly and looked away. As if she had been caught looking at something she shouldn't have.
'She is getting the grand tour,' Skouri announced proudly. 'You're welcome
to come along, if you think you can bear to indulge an old man's whim.'
'I'd be honored,' Nigel said gallantly, taking Hélène by the hand.
A pleasant thrill ran through her as he wrapped his fingers around hers. His grip felt good. It was firm, yet also gentle. She raised her head. For a moment she found herself looking into his eyes. They were warm and smiling and unblinking. There was a sensual quality in his touch, and she felt herself trembling.
The grand tour lasted over an hour. The Evangelia was Skouri's pride and joy. Once started, it was difficult for him to stop talking. He delighted in having an attentive audience. Born into poverty on Thera, he had made a career out of wooing the rich, the famous, the accomplished. It was quite natural that his yacht should serve as public evidence of his social status in international society. The guests who had already cruised aboard were like a list lifted from Who's Who, the Social Register, and the Celebrity Register combined.
The Evangelia had been a 2,500-ton American frigate which had seen undistinguished service during World War II. Skouri had bought her in 1953, dilapidated and in mothballs, for forty thousand dollars. He then spent millions converting her into a yacht. This had been done at the von Eiderfeld shipyard in Kiel, Germany. This news distressed Hélène, but she tried her best to leave her personal feelings out of it. Probably even Skouri had not met the reclusive Karl von Eiderfeld; his shipyard had simply gained a reputation for its fine German craftsmanship.
The yacht was more than just a floating palace. From the beginning, Skouri had intended it to be his home, and he personally followed every phase of the conversion. Anxious as he had been to move aboard immediately, he had had to wait for a year and a half until the conversion was complete. In the end, it had been worth it.
Like an expectant father, Skouri descended on the shipyard without warning to inspect the work as it progressed. When he didn't like the location of the air-conditioning ducts, whole bulkheads had to be torn out and the air-conditioning shafts rerouted. His endless demands nearly drove the designers and workmen out of their minds. And then there were the special touches. Like the sunken bathtubs, which meant that the deck floors had to be raised. Or how to have a dance floor as well as a swimming pool on the aft deck. The engineer cleverly solved that particular problem by creating a hydraulic pool floor. The pool could then be drained and the floor raised and danced upon. There was even a special device that kept the seawater that was pumped into the pool several degrees below air temperature so that swimming in it would be refreshing.
Hélène marveled at all these luxurious touches. When she was finished with the tour, she was quite taken aback. And to think that she had been impressed when she was first shown to her stateroom! The door had an engraved, gold-plated plaque on it that read: 'Pissarro Suite.' At first she had been puzzled; then, being led down the corridor, she had noticed other doors marked 'Rembrandt Suite,' 'Van Gogh Suite,' 'Picasso Suite,' 'Goya Suite,' 'El Greco Suite,' 'Durer Suite,' 'Raphael Suite,' 'Dali Suite,' 'Matisse Suite,' and 'Renoir Suite.' Only after she was inside her suite did she realize the significance of the name. Above a sofa in the little sitting room hung a framed, hermetically sealed Pissarro. There was another in the bedroom. She half-expected to see one in the bath as well, but there she was disappointed. It was plain marble, albeit with gleaming gold fixtures, embroidered Porthault towels, and a staggering array of soaps, perfumes, and toilet waters. By the sunken tub there was a reading lamp and a pillow so that you could soak in comfort. Never in her life had she seen such shameless luxury.
And the guests! So many socialites and celebrities. There were Magda Mond, a reclusive Hungarian film star; Sir George Broyhill, an ancient British statesman who had helped the Allies win World War II; Blanche Benois, the French sex-kitten film star who had once been the subject of a Les Modes article; Elena and Evangelia, Skouri's attractive twin daughters; Nikos, his son; Ariadne Cosindas, the world-famous ballerina who was also Skouri's long-time mistress and had survived his two marriages; Giorgio Marioni, an Italian menswear designer; and Paolo Ralli, a Grand Prix circuit driver for Ferrari. Conspicuous by her absence was Skouri's beautiful American wife, Cynthia.
The cruise was all mapped out. The Evangelia was steered on a steady course along the French and Italian Rivieras. Just past Portofino, she turned and cut straight down to Corsica. Stops after that were to be Sardinia; Capri and Naples; Corfu; Elena, Skouri's lavish private island in the Ionian Sea; and finally Venice, where the cruise would end and all the guests would attend the event of the season, the Black-and-White Ball in an ancient palazzo on the Grand Canal.
Hélène enjoyed herself from the moment she came aboard. She managed to push Jacques's backstabbing into the farthest corner of her mind. The days were too beautiful and sundrenched to harp on something like that; the nights were too cool and romantic. The Evangelia was the perfect ship to cruise aboard. It was large enough so that no one got in anyone else's hair, and yet it had the feel of an intimate vessel. Activities could either be joined or ignored. Onboard there were the usual deck games, nightly Magda Mond movies, and daily swims, either in the pool or in the sea. When they were in port, Skouri had arranged for cars ahead of time, and there were plenty of sights to see and restaurants to visit. On Corsica, Hélène and Nigel went off on their own to the chalky cliffs at Bonifacio, where in the fifteenth century the inhabitants had resisted a lengthy Spanish siege. Hélène marveled at the strong scent of the maquis, the dense undergrowth growing all over the island, a combination of the rich perfumes of myrtle, lavender, eucalyptus, wild mint, and cyclamen.
'Napoleon once said, "I would recognize Corsica, eyes closed, only because of its perfume,'' ' Nigel quoted.
On Capri, they went off by themselves again. They climbed to the top of the island, drank wine on a fragrant terrace, and later hired a boat and rowed through the Blue Grotto. It was the stuff of which romances were made.
One evening, some of the Evangelia's crew played bouzouki music and everyone danced on deck and broke piles of plates. Hélène continued to be astounded by the unabashed luxury that surrounded her. Daily, fresh bread was flown in by seaplane from Skouri's favorite bakery in Paris, and when Ariadne demanded fresh Greek lamb, it, too, arrived by special plane from Crete. The Evangelia had two chefs, one Greek and one French. To top it all off, there was even a completely stocked wine 'cellar' and a sommelier. Invariably, Hélène chose to eat Greek food, and Skouri was delighted by her choice. Like him, she drank ouzo during the cocktail hour, champagne with her meal, and a sip of Courvoisier after dinner.
'You are a Greek in soul!' Skouri cried one afternoon. 'If you like, I let you send a writer and photographer onboard and they can do a big article on the Evangelia!
Hélène was flattered. 'I'll make sure you stick by that, Zeno,' she warned.
He laughed heartily. They were sitting on the bar stools which were covered with the skin of whale testicles, and he wrote on a napkin: 'I the undersigned do hereby permit Hélène Junot to send any and all photographers and writers of Les Modes to do a feature article on the Evangelia. The entire yacht is at their disposal, (signed) Zeno Callicrates Skouri.' It was a memento she was to treasure forever.
The cruise was the first real vacation Hélène had ever had, and it worked wonders. She had never felt so relaxed in her life. She had vowed that she wouldn't spend a minute thinking of business, and she nearly kept that vow. Only twice was Les Modes mentioned, and both times the subject was brought up by someone else. The first time had been Skouri, and she had arranged with him for Luba to work on the Evangelia article. She knew that the Czarina would be forever grateful for the opportunity. The second mention was by Giorgio Marioni. He wanted to know why Hélène didn't create an edition of Les Modes for menswear. She promised to think about it.
From every place they dropped anchor, she wrote postcards to Edmond, Jeanne, and Petite Hélène.
Skouri, forever the perfect host, seemed to find time for everyone. He had that rare gift of ma
king sure that neither Ariadne, his mistress, nor Magda Mond, his most cherished friend, was lacking in attention. But most important he gave Hélène the opportunity to get to know Nigel.
She stood on deck with him one fine evening. The lights from shore were like the stars above, twinkling and bright and moving slowly in the night. The moon was full, flooding the deck with half-light. She never remembered what they had been discussing, but suddenly he took her in his arms and pressed her against him. His lips sought hers, and she gave herself up to his kisses. They were deep and demanding. Then he held her face to his chest. 'Hélène. . .' His voice was a whisper, half-carried away by the breeze.
She looked up and could see his eyes shining down at her in the moonlight. 'Nigel. . .' she said huskily. 'Oh, Nigel. . .'
'I love you,' he said.
She closed her eyes and smiled up at him. 'I love you, too,' she whispered.
'Darling!' He held her tighter. She made no move to get out of his arms. She was willing to stay in them forever, enveloped and protected, loved and cherished. She could smell the powerful masculinity of him, feel the strength of his body. He needed her; she could feel that, too. And she needed him. She needed his strength.
His murmur was a caress in the moonlight, his lips a thrill of warmth as he nuzzled the nape of her neck, his breath a stir in her ear. 'Is my suite all right?'
She could not trust herself to speak, but her eyes flashed her answer in the light spilling out from the open door, her pupils dark wide jewels of desire.
The off-white carpet was deep and velvety and her bare feet made no sound as she crossed over to the bed. He was stretched out naked, slim and tanned, watching her approach in the dim light.
He felt a sudden dryness come up in his throat. She had pulled the pins out of her hair, which flowed long, black, and silken down her naked back. Her skin was tanned and taut, smooth as polished alabaster, and her belly was so flat that her navel seemed to protrude. Her breasts, small but firm and perfectly shaped, rode high and proud above her taut rib cage. Her nipples were already erect, dark and hard with longing.
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