‘No gorgeous Bolivians looked after me, sadly,’ Tor said cheerfully. ‘That was a missed opportunity.’ He glanced fondly at Christine. ‘But I have a lovely lady now.’
‘Yeah, that happened fast!’ Silantra observed. ‘Christine was, like, with Angel last time we were here!’
‘After Angel had his breakdown, we comforted each other,’ Tor said smoothly. ‘These last weeks have just been crazy – you can imagine. Christine’s been through so much.’
‘Oh yeah, totally! How is Angel?’
‘Still having his rest cure,’ Tor said. ‘They think he’s got delayed PTSD from all the stress of searching for me. It was really tough on everyone, but Angel apparently pushed himself so hard that he collapsed. When he heard I’d survived after all, it brought it all back and he went into shock.’
He surveyed Silantra with an amiable, bland expression. ‘Poor guy,’ he added.
‘Yeah, that’s sad,’ Silantra agreed. ‘Hey, hopefully he’ll be better soon.’
Tor nodded, the expression on his face not altering a whit.
‘I was actually sort of wondering,’ Silantra said faux-casually, getting to the point of what she had approached Tor to ask, ‘if you were in touch with Nicole at all? You know, Angel’s friend? I was trying to call her, uh, to see if she’s doing okay, ’cause they were pretty close, but her number isn’t working any more, and I just get bounceback from her email.’
‘I’m sorry, no,’ Tor said blankly. ‘No idea.’
It was clear to Silantra that he was telling the truth. ‘Oh,’ she said, deflated. ‘D’you think Christine might know?’
‘You can ask her, but I’m sure she doesn’t,’ Tor said, shaking his head. ‘Nicole was Angel’s friend. Christine wouldn’t have any idea where she’s got to.’
Silantra, who had found Nicole one of the most talented and inventive sexual partners she had ever encountered, was still pouting in disappointment as Christine gathered the little group together and headed out of the ballroom down the lavishly appointed corridor, tapping on the door marked ‘Salon du Lac’. It was a typical five-star, Grand-Hotel-style sitting room, with white and gilt panelled walls, matching side tables laden with vases filled with hothouse flowers, deep-pile carpets and oversized chintz armchairs.
The furniture had been arranged so that Vivienne, settled on a huge sofa, was the centre and focus of the room. A photographer was setting up for the post-auction publicity shots, while the huge TV screen on which she had watched the proceedings was being wheeled off to one side.
Dripping in diamonds, a white fox fur draped round her throat, Vivienne resembled nothing so much as a queen on a throne; crossing the room to pay homage to her definitely felt like approaching royalty. In a matched pair of armchairs on either side of her were her two closest friends in Switzerland, Eugene and Franco, a gay couple who lived in a villa further down towards the lake, and whom she had invited to keep her company during the auction. They had all been drinking champagne cocktails, and Eugene and Franco looked a little tipsy. Their eyes were bright, and Franco’s toupee was a little askew. Vivienne reached out swiftly to adjust it.
‘Oh, wow, Ms Winter, you must be the most beautiful woman in the world! This is a dream come true for me!’ Gray exclaimed, winning an immediate, dazzling smile from Vivienne, who extended her hands and purred:
‘Well, what a darling young man! We love him already, don’t we, boys? Call me Vivienne, sweetie.’
Striding across the room, Gray practically dropped to his knees in his eagerness to take her hands. Christine effected the introductions, explaining that Lil’ Biscuit was prepared to make a purchase that would bring the total auction sum to a round three hundred million dollars. Vivienne, now positively cooing with delight, lavished thanks and compliments on Biscuit, Silantra and Gray, the latter looking as if he were about to cry with happiness at being so close to his idol.
Christine gave the photographer his instructions and stood back as Lil’ Biscuit and Gray took seats on the sofa, flanking Vivienne, while Silantra stood behind the trio, beaming a smile, showing off both her magnificent teeth and her magnificent bosom. As the photographs were being taken, Toby and Missy entered the room, clinging to each other with shy, conspiratorial smiles. Toby had placed a bid, through a proxy, on a comparatively small Burmese ruby ring of Vivienne’s as an engagement present for Missy, and it had succeeded. Missy had just been told the news.
She was going to wear the ring on a chain around her neck for a year, during which they would keep the engagement secret to determine whether Missy could cope with the tensions of being both a film star and a royal bride. Serious discussions would ensue between the palace and Missy’s team to see if this could be made to work. What kind of restrictions would have to be imposed on Missy’s career choices for the palace to accept her as Toby’s fiancée? Would she be prepared to go along with their dictates and consider her status as a possible member of the royal family to be at least as important as her job?
No one sensible or practical would have placed money on Toby and Missy actually managing to make the engagement work, let alone the marriage; but at that moment the sight of their blissful faces, their arms around each other, their identical dazed expressions of happiness, was so adorable that it would have been downright cruel to do anything but offer congratulations and best wishes.
Eugene and Franco, sipping their latest round of cocktails, watched Toby and Missy, as well as the group around Vivienne, in sheer gossip ecstasy. They could be relied upon for absolute discretion. The couple had known Vivienne and Dieter for many years and never breathed a word to anyone about the stories Vivienne had told them, the celebrities they had seen get drunk or take drugs and behave scandalously at her parties; Vivienne trusted them implicitly.
In fact, as the group was rearranging itself for a different setup, Vivienne winked at both her dear friends, signalling that she was very much looking forward to dissecting this whole hugely juicy scene the next day. It was the ritual on New Year’s Day for her to join Eugene and Franco for a lavish brunch they hosted. For years, it had been her and Dieter heading down the hill in their chauffeured Rolls, but now it was just Vivienne, sitting in state in the back of the enormous car, arriving to a spread of Beluga caviar with sour cream on blinis, tiny Alpine strawberries grown at great expense in Eugene and Franco’s greenhouse, cherries pickled by their Slavic housekeeper, and little budini di riso, sweet custard rice tarts driven up from the best bakery in Lugano on the morning of New Year’s Eve.
Eugene and Franco had picked Vivienne up that evening and brought her to the auction in their own Rolls, and when she was visibly tiring after the series of visitors to the Salon du Lac had lavished her with congratulations on how wonderfully the auction had gone, they escorted her out again. It was a triumphal procession, Vivienne leaning on Tor’s arm and smiling from side to side at the hotel guests and auction participants who flooded out into the hotel’s reception to see her. The crowds fell to each side on her slow approach like the parting of the Red Sea, fans calling: ‘We love you, Vivienne!’ and breaking into applause.
She waved to them graciously, the liveried doormen springing to open both sets of doors for her, the lavender Rolls waiting at the bottom of the steps.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said to Tor as he handed her into the car. ‘I’m very happy for you. She’s a nice girl.’
‘She is,’ Tor said, his smile beaming. ‘She is a very nice girl indeed.’
He pressed Vivienne’s hand as he released it. There was nothing he could say about Angel. How did you condole with a woman who had been forced to shoot her own grandson in self-defence, especially when that grandson had previously tried to murder you?
Tor knew that Vivienne had lied to Christine about him in order to give Angel more of a chance with her. While he did not understand why it had been so important for Vivienne to push Christine into Angel’s arms, he was not surprised that Vivienne, as always, had put her own interests first
. Tor had applied his usual logical approach to the situation, recognized that he couldn’t change a selfish old woman who had somehow become part of his extended family, and forgiven her.
He knew, besides, that Vivienne had talked to Christine, taking back the stories she had told about him and giving, as it were, her blessing to Christine and Tor as a couple. That was more than enough for him. The past was the past, as far as Tor was concerned.
Unexpectedly, Vivienne reached out to hug him, causing him to crane awkwardly into the back seat of the car.
‘And you’re a good boy, Tor,’ she said softly. ‘I’m very glad you’re still here with us.’
He hugged her and then stepped back, offering a hand as stability for Franco and Eugene as they climbed in too, both elderly men relishing the opportunity to wink and flirt with big, good-looking Tor. He shut the door, the Rolls pulled away, and Christine came to his side to wave Vivienne off. Behind them, the windows of the hotel were filled with faces pressed unashamedly to the glass, watching the legendary Vivienne Winter make a magnificent exit.
‘And now you can relax,’ Tor said to Christine, wrapping an arm around her.
She huffed out an ironic giggle.
‘Tor, it may be New Year’s Day tomorrow, but I have back-to-back meetings with people collecting their pieces before they fly out of the country! And then, on the second, I’ve literally got to start organizing transports all over the world. I told you, I’ve got a solid month of work ahead of me . . . oh, and I should go to Vivienne’s tomorrow, if I can, and put together a list of things Lil’ Biscuit would want that I can get away with charging thirteen million for! I’d love to get that extra money as soon as possible so that I can claim the three hundred million on the press release.’
She paused.
‘Wow, listen to me! I honestly can’t believe I’ve pulled this off – three hundred million! This has been the most insane year of my life. I genuinely feel as if I’m going to wake up tomorrow and realize it’s all been a dream.’
Despite her list of everything she had still to do, she relaxed back into the curve of Tor’s arm. It was very cold outside; snow had been predicted for that evening, and there was that sharp snap in the air, a sting in the nostrils with every inhalation, that suggested it was on its way. The sky had been white all day, and barely any stars could be seen over the lake. But the two of them lingered even after the tail lights of the Rolls had vanished down the Quai du Mont Blanc, relishing a moment together.
The last week had been so jammed with work that Christine had only stopped to eat, wash and sleep. Tor had flown in that day to spend New Year’s Eve with her, and she could only hope that she would get the jewels back to the Berkeley safe and locked away, the organization of the post-sale business wound down, before the stroke of midnight.
‘You’re freezing!’ Tor eventually exclaimed. ‘We should go in.’ He pulled her in front of him and started rubbing her bare arms vigorously to warm her up.
‘Let’s stay just another minute. It’s bracing,’ Christine said, taking a long deep breath of icy air, feeling it chill her lungs. ‘I need this after being inside all day.’
‘We’ll come back in the spring,’ Tor said. ‘Right in front of where we’re standing is a huge fountain. Actually, it’s crazier than that – it’s not really a fountain, just an enormous spray of water called the Jet d’Eau. It’s so big you can see it from the sky when you fly over the city. It’s been too windy to turn it on while you’ve been here – no one wants people on the Quai du Mont Blanc to get soaked as they walk along the promenade. But when they light it up, it’s stunning. Very romantic. We’ll come back and stand right here, just like this, and watch it with all the time in the world, because you won’t have to rush back and do a million things . . .’
Christine had coped with the shock of Angel’s betrayal, to a large degree, by pushing it to the back of her mind; she was so consumed by the demands of the auction that it had been the only way to survive. When it was all over – which would take at least a few more weeks – she was planning to take a holiday, go back to the Hotel Tylösand. This time she could soak in the spa, walk on the beach, fully relax. It would be like restarting her life after the insanity that had been her time with Angel; pressing a reset button, climbing out of the rabbit hole she had fallen down the first time she saw him in the spa and was star-struck by his beauty.
She did not feel damaged by what had happened with Angel. Shocked, disoriented, hugely relieved it was over; but not damaged. It was as if she had been loaded on to a rollercoaster ride that had whirled her around, taken her to dizzying heights, then dropped her from them with terrifying speed, spun her so fast and furiously that she had completely lost any sense of orientation. Finally, though, it had brought her back to the start: no bones broken, but needing plenty of time to catch her breath, settle back down, let her bruises fade, feel the ground once more stable beneath her feet.
Christine’s plan was to tell Tor that she wanted a few days at Tylösand by herself. They hadn’t yet had sex: when you came off a ride that crazy, you were totally shaken up, your legs wobbly, your whole body reeling. You didn’t get on another one straight away, but you clung to something steady while you got your bearings. Tor was not only steady but fully prepared to wait, the opposite of Angel: exactly what she needed. She would go to Tylösand, immerse herself in beauty and tranquillity, be by herself with nothing to do but relax for long enough to get used to it . . . and then, when she was ready, she would want to see Tor.
Hopefully when I ring him and ask him to come, he’ll be around! she thought ironically. It’ll be my bad luck if he’s training for an expedition, or filming himself heli-skiing down a mountain in America . . .
If he could come, he would. If not, it would be her turn to wait, as he was now patiently waiting for her. And that would be okay too.
‘I can’t wait to come back here with you,’ she told him.
Tor tilted his head back, looking up at the sky.
‘Snow’s coming,’ he observed. ‘The lake will be beautiful tomorrow.’
Christine reached up to kiss him lightly.
‘Will you come for a walk with me during the day?’ she said. ‘I’ll sneak out for an hour or so to get some fresh air.’
‘I can think of nothing I would rather do on New Year’s Day than take a walk by Lake Geneva with you by my side,’ he said gravely wrapping his arm around her. ‘I wonder if I can hire a wetsuit to make another dramatic entrance to impress you? God knows if there’s any bank to the lake, though! I might end up crawling out of it on my belly like a seal, which wouldn’t be quite so impressive . . .’
Christine was giggling at this image as they turned to go back inside. And, cold as she was by now, she felt a warm rush of happiness as she realized that, on the whole of her mad rollercoaster ride strapped in next to Angel, he had never once made her laugh the way Tor did.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rio de Janeiro – New Year’s Eve
‘They’re calling it the sale of the century!’ the TV presenter announced with fulsome American enthusiasm. ‘It’s a truly historic event, as you can tell just by the A-list celebrities who are gathered here in Switzerland to celebrate the “Life in Jewels” of Vivienne Winter . . .’
Lounging in a hammock on the balcony of her hotel suite, sipping a caipirinha, Nicole watched the results of the auction being reported on the tablet propped on her lap. The sun had set a while ago and the last deep golden rays were still fading from the sky, streaking the glorious expanse of sea, but Nicole’s attention was entirely on the screen. CNN and the BBC were both covering the jewellery sale with great enthusiasm, compensating for the absence of Vivienne in the auction room by showing clips of her at premieres wearing the most famous of her jewellery, Randon by her side.
The cameras panned eagerly over the invitees whose faces were instantly recognizable to the public: Prince Toby, Missy, Lil’ Biscuit, Silantra, Gray, the singer Catalina and he
r new husband. Behind Catalina was seated the Countess of Rutland, wearing one of Vivienne’s tiaras in her magnificently arranged rose-gold hair; she was accompanied by her good friend Lady Margaret McArdle, the Earl having remained at their stately home to look after their twin daughters.
Nicole’s eyes widened when the reporter, nearly breathless with excitement, announced the sum that had been raised. Three hundred million! It was more than anyone had expected.
‘Well, I did my bit to help! You’re welcome,’ she murmured, raising her glass at the screen.
It was eight thirty in the evening, and she needed to start getting ready. She had been invited to an exclusive New Year’s Eve party in the rooftop suite of a visiting Venezuelan businessman she had met by the hotel pool earlier in the week. But she lingered, watching Christine on the screen being interviewed about the success of the sale. A dowdy little thing, who really should have got her hair and make-up professionally done if she was going to be on TV.
Nicole’s mouth twisted as she surveyed Christine, noticing her beautiful necklace – pearls and diamonds, set in gold filigree. Christine couldn’t possibly have afforded that herself; it must have been a gift from Vivienne. The little bitch had come out of this very well! Angel was locked away in some upmarket loonybin for posh people, Vivienne had never got that great-grandchild she was so desperate for, and yet here was Christine, smelling of roses, draped in jewellery Vivienne had given her. With Tor standing behind her, no less.
How on earth had Tor survived Angel’s pushing him off that mountain? The story about him being rescued, comatose, by heroic Bolivian peasants, and only recovering his memory after a month, was ridiculous, but the media seemed to have eaten it up with great excitement. Tor’s quiet reluctance to be interviewed at length about his ordeal had made him even more of a hero in the eyes of the world. One journalist was pushing a microphone into his face now and asking eager questions about his miraculous survival, which Tor was fending off politely, explaining that he was here to support his godmother and didn’t want to draw attention away from the incredible amount of money her auction had made for charity.
Killer Diamonds Page 41
