Shaking the drama from her mind, Aimee rushed down the steps, turning her eyes toward the sea, which always calmed her, made her center. The marina was only a five-minute walk away—part of the allure of her small, somewhat basic apartment.
She swept a glance over the many people roving near the water, searching for Enrico. The scene was cinematic, coursing with millionaires and billionaires, each of them with a skinny, Botoxed woman strapped to his arm. Aimee recognized several of them as patrons of her hotel; as the invisible receptionist, she was the spy who saw the affairs, the parts people thought no one noticed. Working at such a high-end hotel was like peering around the other side of a curtain, viewing the sometimes-ugly reality of the richest people in the world. Often, the truth was exhilarating.
As she neared the sea, she grew nervous, sensing her hands sweating. She couldn’t see Enrico anywhere. She spun on her heels, her eyes dancing toward both Le Joueur and the Delacroix, but catching no familiar faces. Behind her, she heard the creaks and groans of the many sailboats lining the docks.
An older man, around her father’s age, shuffled by her then, a cigar dangling from his mouth. His belly erupted from the top of his pants, pooling above his belt. He gave her a once-over, his eyes dead. “Hello, darling,” he rasped. “I don’t suppose you have anywhere you’re planning to go this evening? All dressed up like you are.”
Aimee frowned and brought her shoulders high, arching her back. “As a matter of fact, I have plans,” she said, her voice haughty. She had to be confident, especially when being looked at like a piece of meat.
“That’s too bad,” the man said, puffing on his cigar. His eyes stayed on her breasts, seemingly unable to look at anything else. “I’m free for the night. The lady’s gone back to Paris, and I haven’t yet found a companion. You’ll call me, won’t you, Miss—”
“Julie,” Aimee lied. She shivered. “And no thank you.” She wanted to tell him she’d never be seen with him. Not in a million years. And yet—what, exactly, was she up to, out at the marina, anyway? She felt lost, unsure of herself. She should run home, take cover in her apartment, think about her future plans.
But she’d sensed something real between her and Enrico, she told herself, her mind buzzing. She’d felt an immediate, primal attraction. She flipped her hair, watching the tubby stranger strut back toward the casinos, on a hunt. Her stomach stirred with panic.
Suddenly, Aimee felt a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around, her eyes large, and found herself staring at a grey-faced man who stood, crooked, his eyebrows raising with intrigue as he looked her up and down. Aimee recoiled back, angry, ready to hiss insults at him. But something gave her pause. He lifted a single finger to his lips, giving his head a single shake, and beckoned toward her, his fingers curling in a come-hither pattern.
Aimee shifted her weight on her right foot, anxious. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” she whispered. The man made her skin feel cold, clammy.
“I’m to bring you to your appointment,” the grey-faced man answered. He jerked back toward the dock, and Aimee followed him, her pulse racing.
A smell of moldy floorboards crept into Aimee’s nose, and she chewed at the skin inside her cheek, realizing she should perhaps have brought some kind of defensive weapon with her. What kind of pickle had she gotten herself into?
The man jumped down onto a small boat, which still hummed, its motor an unending drone. He gestured for her to hop on as well, and she did, nearly toppling over, her heels slipping sideways. She grasped onto the side as the grey-faced man pulled the rope from the dock and zipped the boat out into the open water, toward the horizon.
“Where are we going?” Aimee called to him, the wind whipping her hair around her face. She spit several hairs from her mouth and felt tears forming in her eyes, which she fought back, attempting to keep her composure as much as she could.
“We’re nearly there,” the man yelled, sweeping the boat still further from the marina.
Neither of them spoke for a few minutes as the boat hummed through the water, the ocean becoming darker, deeper, more ominous as they went. Aimee felt her tongue go dry in her mouth.
Just when she began to consider leaping from the boat and swimming back to shore, Aimee saw something on the horizon. She gasped, the sound squeaking from her throat. There, before them, was the largest yacht she’d ever seen. The last of the evening sunlight glimmered across the top, and light music twinkled from the top deck.
“Is that where we’re going?” she asked.
But the grey-faced man didn’t answer. He lurched the boat as close to the yacht as he could, and a moment later, a ladder appeared for them. The man pointed a stern finger toward it, gesturing for her to climb, and with a mad gulp, Aimee strapped first one heel, then another, upon the ladder’s rungs, and carefully made her ascent, her hips swaying as she crept upwards.
Finally, she reached the first deck and stumbled ungracefully on board the yacht. Her eyes bolted wide open, shocked. On the deck before her stood a man she recognized immediately: Jean-Claude Duchamp, an old gambling associate of her father’s, and one of the most prosperous casino owners in all of Monaco.
FIVE
Aimee stood before him, her hands upon her hips, feeling rather foolish in her slinky white dress. She didn’t speak, suddenly feeling just like the little girl she’d been years before, hovering around her father as he lost one million after another to Duchamp. They’d spoken quick French over her head, slowly burrowing their relationship in the sand. As far as she knew, they hadn’t spoken in years.
“Aimee,” Duchamp said, then. He walked towards her, arms open, a sly smile on his face. A cigarette glowed in his mouth as he puffed swirls of smoke from his lips. “It’s been years since I last saw you. And shall I say? You look ravishing. Much like your mother as a young woman.”
Aimee hesitated. She bit her lip, taking a slight step toward him. “Mr. Duchamp. Couldn’t we have met back in Monte Carlo? At your casino, perhaps…” Her voice quivered.
“Unfortunately not, Aimee,” Duchamp said, his eyebrows high. “And I will get right to the point. I know you’re quite nervous, but you shouldn’t be, my dear. I wouldn’t bring you here to harm you.” He snapped his finger in that moment, alerting a bartender in the interior of the yacht to deliver two whiskeys in a flash. The glasses gleamed in the rising moonlight. Aimee accepted her drink and sipped it languidly, relishing the bitter taste that coursed over her tongue.
“It seems you’ve found yourself in the company of one of my greatest rivals,” he began, sipping his own drink. They hadn’t bothered to clink their glasses together.
“Oh? And who is that?” Aimee asked, playing coy, already knowing the answer. Duchamp had long held a very public distaste for Enrico Fonti—the new casino owner and successful businessman that threatened to steal away a great deal of his profit.