famous singer whose career was in hyper-drive, and the winner of last year’s academy award for best actor; both occasional guests on the Russian’s floating crown jewel,
Security on the ship was likely to be airtight, with Grigenko’s customary contingent of marine bodyguards, as well as a detail of police on the wharf — even a billionaire like Grigenko had to be discreet in a foreign country where the locals frowned upon heavily armed guards brandishing their weapons. His was by no means the largest yacht in the harbor that night, nor was he the wealthiest owner — some of the Middle Eastern royalty who frequented the principality spent the equivalent of Grigenko’s entire net worth on partying every year. And they expected their security forces to be subtle, so an unruly Russian upstart wouldn’t receive preferential treatment beyond a certain point. In Russia, his men could parade around with machine guns, but not in Monaco, where civility was prized.
Which wasn’t to say that they weren’t armed. The weapons were merely concealed in an attempt to be unobtrusive — Grigenko’s cocktail guests were unaccustomed to men equipped for war. The security detail wore black tie and carried pistols in inconspicuous shoulder holsters, looking no less lethal for their formal dress.
Samuel was wearing a black silk jacket with a blindingly white shirt and a jaunty blue and red cravat — a famous affectation of his that he insisted upon regardless of the continent or the weather. His bodyguard and two guests followed him as he ambled through the casino, looking for a little stimulation before arriving fashionably late for Grigenko’s fete.
Another soft sigh escaped the crowd when Jet’s now larger twenty thousand dollar bet slid onto red, and a young olive-skinned prince pushed his matching wager next to hers, followed by a hirsute cousin of the Sultan of Brunei. The croupier announced his trademark, “
The counter-spun ball bounced and rolled, and finally came to rest on 36 red — another winner. A murmur rippled through the throng like a current, and the croupier pushed a considerable stack of chips to her, and then to the other two lucky players. She took a thousand-dollar chip and flipped it to the croupier as a thank you, and a few of the admiring men clapped lightly in approval.
She smelled Samuel’s cologne before she saw him. He inched next to her as though he had known her for years, and murmured in her ear.
“Well played. It seems you have a fan club cheering you on.”
Her eyes danced with amusement, and she brushed his cheek with her lips when she whispered back.
“Thank you.” Her accent lightly tinged with French.
Jet placed forty thousand dollars onto red again, drawing a sharp intake of breath from the spectators and a stray admiring titter. She pretended to ignore Samuel, as she was ignoring the young prince, and the wheel again made its round, Samuel’s matching forty thousand dollar stake next to hers.
The croupier called out number eight, black, and a collective sigh emanated from the gathering. The tension in the atmosphere was palpable as he raked the chips into the house coffers. She sensed Samuel leaning into her again.
“Bad luck, that.”
She offered a dazzling smile, her eyes glittering the promise of better fortunes to be had.
“You know what they say. Easy come…” She slid her hand on top of his and patted it, as though reassuring a child whose favorite toy had broken, then pushed sixty thousand dollars onto red again. Samuel followed suit.
The croupier watched with practiced eyes as the assembled players placed their bets, and then he spun the wheel, holding the ball overhead so all could watch as he tossed it with aplomb onto the spinning dial. Several of the floor managers had now taken up station near the table, watching the action, and watching Jet. When a young woman turned up with a purseful of cash and the money involved got beyond a certain point, the management suddenly paid attention.
Samuel inclined towards her a third time.
“If we win, you come have a cocktail with me on my friend’s yacht in the harbor at what promises to be the party of the season, okay?” he ventured.
Her lips brushed his ear.
“Do I really look so bored? I thought I was doing a good job concealing it,” she purred with an agreeable pout.
The croupier’s voice increased in volume as he called out the number.
“Number seven, red! The lovely young lady wins again!”
She felt Samuel’s hand on her arm.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here and grab a drink,” he said smoothly, this time foregoing the whisper.
She turned and appraised him, looking him full in the eyes. He didn’t flinch, but she could see the hunger there, the desire, as well as the anticipation of a new conquest — or conqueror.
“You really need to be taught some manners, don’t you?” she cooed, raising an eyebrow. The corner of her mouth turned up, ever so slightly, then she returned her attention to the croupier, signaling that she was done playing with a motion of her hand. An attendant materialized at her side to carry her trays of winnings to the window, and she tossed another thousand-dollar chip to the house as a final tip. Everyone clapped, this time with chuckles and muttering. Jet had made an impression on her appreciative audience.
“I’ll be right back, mister brash,” she said to Samuel, then went to the window, returning a few minutes later after getting her funds credited to her account, memorialized on a plastic card with a magnetic strip. Samuel watched as she wandered back to the table and then turned back to the wheel for the result of his final play. Black. He had bet red again.
“Seems like my luck went to shit once you left,” he complained with a grin.
“Remember that,” she said. “So what’s your name, mister brash American? Bill Gates? Donald Trump?”
He chuckled. “No. It’s Sam. Samuel Terin. I make movies.”
“I’m sure you do,” she teased.
“No, really. I’m a director. Some say a decent one.”
They began walking to the front entrance of the casino, his entourage having disappeared into the fray, eager to play before a night of bacchanal on the Russian’s boat. Samuel had waved off his bodyguard, who now followed at a twenty-yard distance.
“I’m sorry. I don’t watch the movies,” she said with a shrug. “Are you wildly popular? Famous?”
“Depends on who you ask. Many seem to think so.”
“Ah, then that explains the approach.”
They walked side by side, and then Samuel slowed.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“We are all alone. Tonight, I’m alone, except now, apparently, for you. So we are now alone together, yes?”
He studied her perfect profile, increasingly intrigued as their interaction progressed.
“Well put.” He resumed walking. “And what’s your name?”
“I was wondering how long it would take you to ask. Sylvia. Sylvia Tronque, Mister Samuel, the occasionally renowned director, depending on who you ask…”
Samuel took her hand and kissed it. “
“Ahhh. So the sometimes famous Samuel has, how do you say, game? Perhaps tonight will be less boring than I’d feared.”
“I like the way you say my name.”
“I know.”
They exited, and Jet fixed him with a quizzical expression.
“So now where, Samuel?”
“To the boat.”
“You really have a boat here? Isn’t that a little cliche?”
“Even worse. I have a rich Russian friend who has a really big, extremely garish and decadent boat. The ultimate cliche.”
They both laughed together, hers musical and light.
“Decadence is in the eye of the beholder, no?” she said.
“
