A Rather Curious Engagement (10 page)

And then, a strange thing happened, a quirk of fate that led to many others.

He stopped, having been interrupted by a young woman in a pale green suit and a pale green headband, who had come hurrying over to him and now whispered in his ear. He frowned, and leaned toward her to urgently ask her something; she listened alertly, but she shook her head.

Then both of them turned to the audience with the identical false smiles of people who don’t want you to notice that there’s a problem. The auctioneer said briskly, “Very sorry, but there has been a slight mix-up with the tagging of Lots 18 through 27, so they will be delayed.”

A murmur of surprise arose, but he quenched it quickly and firmly, saying, “So, we will move on to . . . Lot Number 28.” This meant that the yacht would now be auctioned much earlier than originally planned. I gulped, and glanced at Jeremy. He was ready.

“Lot Number 28,” the auctioneer repeated with more firmness. I heard Jeremy let out his breath in a puff of anticipation. Already, my toes were curling and my fingers were crossed. “
Liesl’s Dream . . .”
the auctioneer intoned, and then he said each word as if were worth its weight in gold: “a-classic-1920s-motor-yacht.”

He paused for effect. “Let’s begin the bidding at 300,000 euros, shall we?” he said crisply. I didn’t see who bid on it, but immediately the auctioneer lifted his eyebrow, nodded and said, “I have 300,000 euros on the telephone.”

Nuts,
I thought. The phones were always a bit mysterious, and it wasn’t uncommon to have anonymous bidders, holed up in their chalet in Geneva or somewhere, who could fling money from afar at something they wanted badly.

“Three-fifty!” said a very blowsy woman in a pink-striped chiffon blouse and orange pants. She had dyed blonde hair pouffed up in a high beehive, and twinkly blue eye shadow. Her arms were loaded with gold bracelets that made a tinkly sound when she waved her hand to bid, like the rattle of loose change.

“I have three-fifty, do I have four?” asked the auctioneer politely.

“Four,” said a firm masculine voice, calm and clear. That was Jeremy. He held up his paddle to show the auctioneer his bidding number. I was so thrilled that I froze like a deer—didn’t blink, didn’t move a muscle for fear of betraying our hopes, because now people were twisting around in their seats to stare at us. This was far, far worse than playing poker or betting at a casino. It took all my willpower to keep a blank face.

“I have four to the tall man in the room,” the auctioneer said. “Do I hear four-fifty?”

“Four hundred and ten thousand euros!” cried a man a few rows ahead of us. He had a scraggly moustache, and his clothes, though fine, looked a bit shabby. To my surprise, the auctioneer ignored him, until the man repeated his bid.

“I’m asking four-fifty,” the auctioneer said rather snippily.

“Four twenty-five,” the little man suggested.

“Four-fifty!” the woman with the beehive hairdo shouted impatiently.

“Four-fifty to madame . . . do I hear five?” The auctioneer aimed his gavel at each bidder like a circus lion-tamer managing the lions—one here, one there. Somebody from the front row of online bidders murmured something, and the auctioneer picked him off with a triumphant, “I have five, to the front of the room. Do I hear five-fifty?”

There was a sudden drop, a moment of silence. “Five going once,” the auctioneer said. More silence. “Going twice—”

Wordlessly, Jeremy held up his paddle. The auctioneer practically winked at him.

“Five-fifty to you, sir,” he said respectfully. Holy cow, I thought. Jeremy had set his limit for 800,000 euros. Now I could swear that the two of us were breathing in tandem, in-out, in-out, be-cool, hang-on.

“Five-sixty,” said the little man in the shabby suit.

The auctioneer shook his head patronizingly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept bids in smaller denominations,” he said, as if the poor guy was trying to pay with pennies. “The bid stands at five-fifty. Do I hear six hundred?”

A young Asian man in a sharply cut suit nodded to him from the phone bank. “Six!” the auctioneer cried out triumphantly. “Looking for six-fifty . . .” he said swiftly.

Jeremy lifted his paddle. I felt dizzy, as if we’d just parachuted out of an airplane and I was in free-fall, doing that agonizing count before you’re allowed to open your chute. Not that I ever sky-dived. But my stomach was surely doing something like it, right now.

“Six-fifty!” the auctioneer said, accepting his bid. “I have—”

“Seven!” said the beehive-bun woman crossly.

“I have seven! Do I hear seven-fifty—?” The auctioneer was pirouetting on his toes now, to keep up with the bidding. The shabby man, seeing how fast the bidding was going and how he’d been shoved out of the competition, got up in a huff and charged down the center aisle, his feelings hurt. I saw Laurent, the Frenchman who was organizing the event, go out after him, and they went into the hotel’s glass corridor. From their gestures it was obvious that Laurent was soothingly smoothing the guy’s ruffled feathers, and it must have worked, because in the end they exchanged business cards and shook hands.

Jeremy held up his paddle.

“Seven-fifty to you, sir!” said the auctioneer. He raised his gavel like a music conductor bringing on the finale. “Fair warning! The bid is seven-fifty, going once . . . Go-ing twi-i-ice . . .” he said, drawing out his words like taffy to elasticize the last moment. “Do I hear eight-t-t?” he drawled. He was deliberately playing the comedian now; I’d seen him do it before, skillfully, to break the tension and embolden someone to bid. I’d found it mildly amusing then, but now I was thinking,
Oh, shut up, shut up
,
just take Jeremy’s bid and let’s swing on outa here, okay?

“Seven-fifty . . . for the last time . . .” the auctioneer conceded. Yet even as the gavel descended with the weight of inevitability, I could hear a ruckus in the back. At first, I didn’t know what it was, but it sounded fairly violent and dangerous. A last-minute bidder was trying to fight his way in, and some hotel bouncers were struggling to keep him out and quiet him down.

But he was too late. Wham! The gavel came down in a sharp rap of finality.

“. . . sold to the tall gentleman! Please pay the cashier on your way out!” the auctioneer cried.

Now I let out my breath all at once, no longer needing to hide my emotion. I turned to Jeremy. He gave me the sweetest smile, which, I instantly realized, was not about the boat. It was about a dream of the future for the two of us. “Let’s go,” he whispered, and we got up as people in the crowd gave us the bright, encouraging smiles they reserve for young people who’ve won something that nobody thought they would.

Well. Except the beehive lady, who followed us out. I was careful not to catch her eye and give her any openings, but I could feel her gaze boring holes into my back, and I knew she was going to say something, I just didn’t know what.

We stepped into the cool, air-conditioned glassed-in hallway that led to the hotel conference room where the cashiers were busily taking payments from bidders, when the woman suddenly grabbed my arm in a pinch that felt as if a lobster had seized me, and she spat out, in a spiteful hiss, “It’s not
that
great a yacht, it doesn’t even have a Jacuzzi!”

She gave me a triumphant smirk before stalking off, as if she thought she’d just ruined my day. That, apparently, took away the sting of defeat for her.

Jeremy had reached the booth where cashiers were cheerily collecting the money from successful bidders. “Congratulations, sir!” said the man who accepted Jeremy’s check. Two other female cashiers looked up and beamed at him, too. At our right, there was a guy in a black suit and dark sunglasses, his face impassive, standing with his hands folded over his crotch in that strange way that security people sometimes do.

As Jeremy dealt with the necessary paperwork, I glanced ahead and saw that a little reception had been set up, outdoors, just beyond the auction tent. There was a bar-cart that resembled an ice-cream stand, with a small yellow canopy of its own, attended by five bartenders; and lots of people were milling around, drinking cocktails and nibbling on canapés. A few had the look of happy winners, but many were simply curious, admiring charity-benefit attendees, and some were hoping to spot famous people.

When we stepped out into the sunlight, I said “Phew! I’m glad we don’t do this sort of thing every day. My nerves can’t take it.”

There was, undeniably, a certain high that came from chucking a ton of money out the window. For the first time in my life I began to understand how gambling could become addictive, and I thought of all the stories I’d heard about fortunes made and fortunes lost, all in one night, at casinos here on the Côte d’Azur. I looked at Jeremy, proud of the amazing self-control he’d displayed.

“Congratulations!” I cried. “You handled yourself beautifully. ”

“What say we have a drink to celebrate?” Jeremy said happily.

But before Jeremy could even take a step toward the bar-cart, a big tall guy swooped down on us, carrying a giant bottle of champagne. He was a very broad-shouldered man, dressed in a black leather jacket despite the mild weather. He wore a black shirt, a grey tie, and the biggest gold wristwatch I’ve ever seen in my life. I recognized him as the guy who’d tried in vain to fight his way into the auction just before the gavel went down on our yacht.

I noticed now that he was flanked by three Amazon-sized women—one blonde, one brunette, and one red-haired, all with yards and yards of flowing locks, and all of them long-waisted and long-limbed, like fashion models, with sharply chiseled facial bones that made them look like Nordic goddesses. They wore staggeringly high heels, and their bodies were decked in blindingly bright jewelry. All three of them smiled at us with dazzling white teeth, turning on the charm full-wattage.

Behind them were three tough guys in dark suits and dark reflecting sunglasses, and I realized that one of these was the thuggy-looking man who’d been watching us at the cashiers’ booth. I had assumed that he was with hotel security, but now I could see that he’d been planted there to stake out and identify whoever had won the yacht. Us.

The main man in leather stepped ahead of his entourage, moving deliberately toward us in a smooth, sleek way.

“Jeremy,” I whispered warningly. “He’s the guy who . . .”

“I know, I know,” Jeremy said. The guy extended a hand to Jeremy to shake.

“Congratulations,” he said in a Russian accent. “It’s a marvellous little boat.” He was still holding the champagne bottle, which I could see was frosty-cold. He snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared as if by magic. “Glasses,” the Russian said. The waiter signalled another waiter, who speedily arrived with a tray of empty champagne flutes.

“Let us drink a toast to
Liesl’s Dream
,” the man said, handing the bottle to the waiter, who swiftly wrapped a towel around it and popped it open, then began to pour. As each glass was filled, the Russian handed them out, and he gave the first glass to me, and the second to Jeremy. Then the Goddesses.

Something floating in my glass, glinting in the sunlight, caught my eye. It was bigger than the bubbles. I peered closer. There was more than one funny flake tumbling around in my glass, like tiny glimmering fish. “What’s in there?” I asked Jeremy in a low voice. The Russian heard me, and he laughed with delight.

“Gold, darling!” he said. “32 carats. Don’t worry, it’s fine to eat.”

Edible gold flakes. Well. I found it hard to believe that you could really drink it without dying of poison or setting off some metal detector somewhere in the distant future. But the Goddesses were tilting back their long necks and quaffing it down. Cautiously I sipped, just to say I’d done it. I’m not sure I swallowed any. Frankly, I hope not.

“I am so disappointed that I miss the bidding!” the Big Guy exclaimed. “My ladies kept me waiting today, but I thought we’d make it on time except for this peculiar change to the schedule. Something very unusual happened today, did it not?”

I glanced at the Goddesses, and I wondered if the guy meant that they’d all been—well, in bed together this morning—or if it was something as mundane as waiting for three women to finish dressing and primping for an event. I was even a little afraid for them, as if he might later have them whipped for ruining his shot at the yacht. But the Goddesses looked blank, unworried, untroubled, and just stood there glancing away vaguely, smiling when they caught the eye of another admiring male (if he looked rich and handsome and powerful enough, that is.)

Jeremy took one polite sip, then set his glass down definitely on a table, so I followed his lead and did the same. I saw that the Big Guy had been studying Jeremy, perhaps to figure out if we’d deliberately tinkered with the auction schedule to make the yacht come up earlier. Something in the Russian’s lean, handsome face revealed that he decided we weren’t clever enough or connected enough, and he relaxed a bit. Jeremy had quickly signalled the valet who stood at the front driveway of the hotel. Within minutes they brought his Dragonetta around. Laurent, who’d given us the original tour of the yacht, now strode up smilingly to Jeremy, gave him some information about the crew, and handed him the key.

As Jeremy took it, I saw the Russian fellow’s gaze pick up the glint of gold sunlight that reflected off the key. Then the guy caught me watching him, and he stepped up to me in a powerful, commanding way, murmuring with hot breath in my ear, in a way that tickled the hair on my neck.

“Tell your boyfriend I will give him three times what he paid for it,” he said in a rich, deep voice. “Then you can come and sail away with me on it. I take you all around the world and show you all the wonders.” I found myself involuntarily shivering from the expert way he aimed his breath—and seductive words—at my neck.

“Um,” I said. “That’s very nice, thanks, but—my boyfriend and I are already booked on a different sort of cruise. Together.”