Paul handed me a pair of binoculars and pointed to a brightly lit cruise ship in the distance. Looking through the glasses, I saw the tiny heads of passengers bobbing along the deck. I remember reading once that more binoculars were sold in New York City than any other place in the world. With its tall buildings and windows in such close proximity, Manhattanites are natural snoops. We get our jollies peeping into other people’s apartments and seeing how beautiful they are, how well proportioned, and finely maintained (the apartments, not the people). Now, where was I? Ah, yes, sizing up the ship across the moonlit sea.
A young officer knocked on the sliding-glass door and handed Paul a silver ice bucket with a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil and two crystal flutes. I had no illusions that Paul was interested in me for the long term, maybe just for this leg of his journey. He struck me as one of those “if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with” kind of sea captains. But that was okay. After what I’d been through with Alessandro, it felt good to know that another man found me attractive, even if he wasn’t going to stick around.
Paul poured us each a glass, which I downed quickly. He took me in his arms and looked into my eyes for what felt like an intimately long time, then lifted my chin and covered my forehead and my eyes, and my cheeks, and my lips, and my neck with little soft kisses. When he bit my earlobes, butterflies fluttered inside my stomach. Soon his lips found their way back to mine. They were soft and moist, really lovely and sensual. He put his tongue in my mouth and flirted gently with mine. I encouraged him with the bedroom moan I had perfected while faking orgasms for Alessandro.
Paul slowly unzipped the back of my gown and let the top slip down. I wasn’t wearing a bra. He bent down and sucked my nipples, which made my stomach flip all over again. Then he kissed my lips, running his hands through my hair, his hardness pressed against my groin, whispering, “Holly, I want to worship at the altar of your naked body.” It sounds hokey, I know, but it really turned me on. Maybe you had to be there—the sea, the stars, the moon—it was all so seductive. We were approaching the point of no return when someone rapped at the door. I pulled the top of my gown up and turned so our uninvited guest couldn’t see that my dress was unzipped.
“Captain, sorry to disturb, but we have a passenger who is threatening suicide on Deck Nine,” said an Indian man in a turban wearing a blue “Security” windbreaker.
Was this person insane? I wondered. What kind of sick passenger would kill himself on this magnificent ship with its gourmet food, synchronized waiters, and impeccable service? Hello-oh! Enjoy the cruise and then put a bullet in your brain.
“I’ll be right there,” Captain said as the guy closed the door.
Paul sighed and readjusted his crotch. “So sorry. Duty calls. We’ll have to resume this later,” he said, zipping me back up, and even hooking the eye. What a gentleman he was.
“Of course,” I said, secretly relieved that we’d been interrupted.
SNEAKING INTO OUR PENTHOUSE, I was surprised to see every light on. It was after 1:30 A.M. and Pops was still out. Well, good for him, I thought. Maybe one of us got lucky tonight.
A few hours later, the ring of the phone jolted me awake. The cabin was pitch-black. The clock read 4:12 A.M.
“H-hello,” I mumbled.
“Ship-to-shore call for Holly Ross,” said a heavily accented operator.
“Fine, fine,” I said. “Put it through.” I sat up and unhooked my headgear.
“Holly, thank goodness you’re there.”
It was Nigel calling with what I hoped would be good news.
“I have more crap news for you,” he said.
“Great,” I muttered. “Now what?”
“The story is all over the papers. The Post has a front-page picture of you taken at the Hepburn opening with the headline ‘Roman Holiday.’ And the News has a picture of you from the Geisha Costume Exhibit with the headline ‘How to Steal a Million.’”
“Oh, swell,” I said. “You can’t be serious. Please tell me you told Tanya what really happened and that we think Sammie is behind this?”
“But we have no evidence,” Nigel said, deftly evading my question. “There’s more. They interviewed Alessandro and…”
“No!”
“Yes, and both papers printed a picture of him holding up a pawn shop receipt. He said you’d most likely fenced the dresses just like you had the diamond engagement ring he gave you. They quoted him saying that you’d hocked everything you owned to go on vacation to get over the heartbreak of him dumping you, the daft prick.”
“The lying liar,” I said.
“Isn’t he just,” Nigel said. “Now they’re checking every pawn shop in town for the dresses.”
“So you didn’t come clean, did you?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Did you?”
“No,” Nigel whined. “You know I’m too cute to go to jail. They’d sell me to some big, hairy prisoner for a candy bar and a pack of fags.”
“I thought I was worthless in the face of danger, but you win the prize.”
“Please, Holly,” Nigel begged. “I’m doing everything I can to sort this out without implicating myself. Have you found the trunk yet?”
“No,” I mumbled.
“Buggers,” he said. “Are you looking?”
“Of course I’m looking.”
“Well, look harder.”
“If it’s where I hope it is, we may find it tomorrow.”
“Brilliant,” Nigel said. “Oh, one more thing. I think she’s got it.”
“Who? Got what?”
“Sammie. The million-dollar donation, the curator job,” Nigel said.
“How? So fast? Are you sure? Who’s the donor?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It may just be a rumor. Let me do some digging.”
I slammed down the phone. What was I supposed to do now?
Blue
