She leaned in again to apply more lip gloss. 'Wills will be King of England one day. Poor thing. All those dodgy relatives kissing his royal arse.'
The divorced Egyptian playboy laughed at the exquisite irony of it all. Since he'd met this fabulous woman his life had suddenly, miraculously, taken a serious turn for the better. Imagine. Stepfather to the King of England. That would show the old man what kind of son he had.
His father owned this hotel. The most famous and expensive hotel in the world. He had stolen it from some Saudi prince whom he well knew never bothered to read the fine print. The Ritz Paris was one more jewel in his father's crown, one that included Harrods department store in London, among other priceless treasures.
His father had suffered, however. He was a man who had, to his eternal chagrin, tried to buy his way into London society without success. Expecting a knighthood, instead he had been shunned and humiliated by British Royals and aristocrats for years. But now, finally, he stood at the brink of miraculous revenge.
His son was about to wed the mother of the future King of England.
Dodi could almost hear Papa licking his chops somewhere off-stage, flipping through Hello magazine, page after page of his son and the Princess frolicking on the glamorous Riviera. Revenge, on a platter. A dish best savored slowly. Perhaps now his father would take him a bit more seriously. Perhaps even now the tables were turning in favor of the son. Certainly the limelight was his and his alone and he gloried in its glow.
'I have a little something for you tonight, you know,' Dodi said, nuzzling her neck.
'Hmm. Not something that comes in a small black velvet box, one hopes?'
'It might just,' he said, ignoring the small gibe. Was she teasing him? Leading him on? He could never tell with women, especially this one. After all his dead-end romances, here was a woman who defined 'high maintenance.' But, God, she was worth it. When first he'd set his sights on her, he'd felt adrift, never knowing what to say or how to react to anything she said or did. But it was different now.
Now he was beginning in his small way to understand his much wiser father's counsel during this courtship, his father's perception of what made her tick: Listen, my son. Her thoughts travel no straight rational line, he had said. She has an active but reckless and whimsical mind that rushes to sudden violent conclusions; a mind that is touched by a certain kind of brilliance, but a brilliance that zigzagged as haphazardly and uselessly as lightning.
He had not understood at the time of the lesson. Now, as he was beginning to see, he felt his confidence growing.
She pulled away from him, picking up her handbag and giving him that shy smile from beneath her lashes. 'No baubles now. Perhaps later. At your apartment. I want to get out of here. Away from all these horrible people.'
He said nothing, just quietly grasped the small velvet box in the pocket of his leather jacket. A half hour earlier, he'd crossed the Place Vendome to see his friend the famous jeweler, Alberto Repossi. Alberto had a star-shaped ring with five diamonds for sale, a quarter of a million dollars. It was from the Dis-Moi Oui collection: 'Tell me yes.'
Dodi bought it on the spot, knowing his father would gladly pick up the tab.
ON THE SCREEN, SMITH COULD see that the false knight in his faux shining armor was clearly agitated. His cell phone chimed, and he turned away from the Princess, scowling angrily. He began pacing back and forth rapidly, a hungry tiger in a gilded cage. He had his mobile pressed tight to his ear, and he was berating one or the other of his two personal bodyguards, Trevor and Kez. He was speaking in a whisper, but the powerful microphone above his head picked up every word.
Grabbing his champagne glass, Dodi now moved over to the nearest bedroom window, peering down into the twinkling darkness of the Place Vendome, angrily shaking his head at the snarling packs of paparazzi, waiting like hungry wolves for a bit of fresh meat.
Smith leaned forward, eyes on the monitor, adjusting the volume in his earphones, concentrating on the young man's every word. This operatic fantasy was unfolding rapidly now, and it had all the elements of high drama. The fat lady was finally stepping out of the shadows, ready to sing for the lovely swan peering once more into her beloved mirror.
'Listen up, Trevor,' Dodi said angrily to his primary bodyguard. 'I don't give a good fucking damn about your security protocols right now, right? We're out of here and Henri's driving. Okay? Back to my apartment in the Rue Arsene Houssaye, understand me? It's a bloody madhouse out front. A hundred paparazzi and tourists at least! I'm looking at this bedlam right now, for God's sake, and I'm not putting the Princess through it again. We'll use the caravan already out front as decoys. Call Henri immediately and lay on another Mercedes at the rear. Tell Ritz Security I want a car down there now! Rue Cambon entrance, tout de suite!'
He listened a few moments more, made a disgusted face at the phone, and said, 'My father has already approved this move, so don't give me any more of your shit. If either you or Kez want to ride up front with Henri, fine. But one of you only, understand me? And no second car following us. It's only a mile and a half to my bloody apartment, for God's sake. It is not a problem. Got it? Good.'
Dodi slammed the phone off on his thigh and dropped it into a pocket of his suede jacket. Catching Diana's eye in the mirror, he smiled easily at her and said, 'All taken care of, darling. Whenever you're ready.'
'Two seconds,' Diana said.
He raised the glass of wine to her and downed it in a single draught. Pulling the bottle of vintage Roederer Cristal from the silver ice bucket, he saw that it was empty. Time for another? No. It was getting late. There was chilled white wine and caviar waiting for them at his apartment. Time to go.
Dodi turned back to the window and smiled at the thought of how this magical evening would end. They'd had a wonderful few days together aboard his father's yacht, Jonikal, cruising off the French and Italian Riviera. Diana seemed truly happy now, despite the fact that Trevor and Kez had made a dog's breakfast of their earlier arrival at the Ritz. Cameras jammed in her face, besieged by rude questions, Diana had fled inside the hotel in tears.
And she'd clearly been unimpressed with the Villa Windsor. A lovely mansion in Paris, formerly the home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, a house his father had strongly hinted would be his, should he and Diana wed. For the first time in his life, Dodi sensed his powerful father's approval at the direction his life was taking.
You, my handsome son, will be stepfather to the two heirs to the throne of England…then we shall reign.
Those were the exact words his father had whispered to him as they had stood at the stern rail of the yacht Jonikal, watching Diana and her two sons speeding around and around the yacht on Kawasaki wave riders.
Dodi patted his pocket. He wanted to give her the ring tonight. But she was right. Not here in this hotel suite owned like everything else by his father, but in the private luxury of his own Paris apartment. He was his own man now, or would be soon, anyway.
Smith saw Dodi look at his watch and then looked at his own.
It was exactly 11:37 p.m.
THIRTY-SIX
SMITH HAD ONLY THIS MORNING TAKEN the tiny bedroom on the fifth-floor rear at the Ritz. Siberia under normal circumstances, but perfect for his needs. Earlier that day, upon learning of Dodi's plans from his own agents on the ground at Le Bourget airfield in Paris, he'd had his engineer, Amir, set up this surveillance equipment. First he tapped into the hotel's closed-circuit TV system, forty-three cameras in all, which provided views both inside the hotel and at the front and rear entrances.
He had then powered up the carefully hidden minicams and microphones his man had installed in the hotel's Imperial Suite. He had a very expensive Ritz engineer on his private payroll and the man had done an excellent job of providing total coverage inside the suite and throughout the hotel.
He reached out and toggled a switch, quickly clicking through various camera viewpoints until he found what he wanted. He now saw what Dodi had been so upset about: the front entrance to the hotel. A frantic pack of paparazzi lay in wait, at least a hundred or more, even now jostling one another for position.
Since the rumors of a Dodi-Diana romance had surfaced days earlier, journalists and photographers had descended on Paris from all over Europe. Each one hoped to get the 'money shot,' a photograph that could fetch over a million pounds. He could see their riotous mood, rabid dogs going in for the kill.
Yes, he could see this turning very ugly the moment the famous face appeared at the entrance.
