Billionaire on Board (20 page)

"Christ!"

"Holy shit, Ryan's going to murder you."

"He said it's well insured!"

"He's going to murder you!" 

We drove on through the next corner and through a few more. 

The road changed into a one way street and it grew even narrower than before

"Shit, watch out for the scooter!"

"Shut up, Titia. I see it! Don't break my concentration!"

We turned again, went up and around, and were faced by a wall. We had come to an extremely tight bend. I tried to round it in a first attempt, but I simply could not see whether the car's rear would pass the wall without touching it. We were already slightly hysterical since the bus experience and it did not get any better.

"Oh God, we'll never make it through. This car is too damn large… We'll be stuck here forever! They'll have to cut us out!" 

"Bugger, I think you're right. You have to get out and help me!" 

"Nonono, I can't, I can't open the bloody door! Ohohoo, he's gonna kill us both!" 

"Climb over the side!"

"I can't, I can't there's no space!!!"

"Hihihihi! We'll have to make a dash for it and live in the forest."

"Ahahahahahaaaaa! We're so dead!!!"

 "Oh God… There must be something we can do… Clamber over the back! Skid it down like a shoot!"

"Huhuhu, I can't, I'll scratch it with the sequins on my dress!"

"Fuck! But I think I know what to do!" I honked twice. "
Aiuto!! La mia Bugatti si è schiacciata!
— Help, my Bugatti got stuck!"

Instantly about twenty windows flew open and the heads of young boys and grown men looked out.

"
Devi andare indietro! Si indietro! Un metro! Poi stira a destra!
- You have to go back, yes back, one metre, then turn the stirring wheel to the right." Somebody screamed, then everybody screamed. I couldn't understand a thing. Laetitia had buried her head between her knees and I saw her shoulders shudder. An old man hobbled out onto the street and waved at me. He commanded me to go back and forth and back and forth again until I had finally manoeuvred the car around the corner. 

"
Grazie!
" I yipped and we drove on but not before the old man had not managed to place his lips on the Bug's tail.

"
Ciao bellissime! -
Bye, beauties!" He waved after us.

By the time we had arrived at the nightclub we were composed enough to alight from the car without accidents. I handed the key to the valet. "
Attenzione nelle curve…
— Careful in the corners…"

The moment we stepped into the club I knew it was not my cup of tea. The atmosphere had nothing to do with the easygoing charm of the nightclubs I had known in Italy. The crowd was international. In fact, at first glance, I saw very few Italians. 

Of course not, I thought and wanted to hit my palm against my forehead, the Italians were a people of bulk travellers. Apart from a few pensioners, nobody came out here in May. They would all be coming in August. The people travelling to Capri in May came for the regatta which always took place in the third week of the month. A race for big sailing yachts. Hurray, here they were again, the yachting folk, not the regular, Italian party people I had hoped for. Here were people interested in big boats. Rich people. 

My theory was further backed by Laetitia, who had already spotted some people she knew. I would have to watch her carefully, there would be a lot of nose powdering going on. I felt the urge to yawn. I violently clung to my good mood from earlier on, but I could almost watch it leak out of me. I tried as best I could for her sake and put on a happy face. 

Laetitia introduced me to some guys from Holland and to some more guys from Australia and from New Zealand. Their wives all looked completely alike. Stepford wives in Jimmy Choo. I envied them the shoes but nothing else.

I danced for a while and was hit on by the few real Italians who were there after all, a group of investors from Milan, all over fifty. They were married too, you can bet on it, but no sane Italian would bring his wife to a nightclub. Never!

I casually flirted with them for the pleasure of being told how beautiful I was (which they said to every girl equipped with two legs, two arms and a head). After I had heard it thirty of forty times, I felt ready to go home, but Laetitia had a good time talking to the Stepford wives. At least they did not look like coke heads to me.

I strolled over to the rail and gazed down at the port. Myrtle was not the biggest yacht this time, right next to her was a far bigger piece owned by a Russian oligarch and another one, an expedition yacht, owned by a Silicon Valley mogul. 

She was still the most friendly.

"Which one would you pick?"

I turned around. An American stood behind me. He was tall and blond and very attractive. He smiled and held out a glass to me. 

"Gin Tonic?"

"Sorry, no, I have to drive."

"Too bad. Are you here for the races?"

"The races? The regatta, you mean. Yes."

"Are you a sailing fan?"

"Not a fan really, but I like it well enough."

"I see. Are you Swedish?"

"No, do I sound Swedish to you? I'm German."

"You don't sound German to me, you sound English, but you don't look English."

"Well, I have an English mother." 

He took a step closer. "So, which one's your favourite? If you could pick a yacht, which one would you like to own?"

I shrugged.

"You're not very happy, are you? I saw you from across the dance floor standing here all by yourself. I thought you might need some cheering up."

"No, I'm just a little tired." 

"For the fun of it. Which one's your fav? I like boats a lot and I could probably tell you everything about the biggies down their and their owners too."

You know me, dear readers… here was a source of information!

"I like the old one best."

"The Myrtle?"

"Yes. She's friendly and round. The other boats are all alike, you can't tell one from the other."

"I beg to differ, I can tell one from the other. Many yacht buyers want to own a ship with the exterior you see down there, it's what they believe a motor yacht should look like. Very few are open to experimental yachts. They are out there though,  you should look them up on the internet. Now the Myrtle's a special case. She's the last of the Zanetti yachts. Some weapons trader had her on the dry and in rugs for forty years. It was like a miracle when she went up for sale. She looked terrible."

"Did you actually see her then?"

"Yes. She look like noah's arc. Full of dust."

I eyed him up from the side. "How come you saw her?"

"Well, I'm a yacht designer and—"

"And your name is Gus."

"What? Wow. How did you know? Wait. Are you here with Ryan?"

I nodded.

"Really! Wow. Wow! This is awkward. Is he here?"

"No. He's not. But when you see a helicopter it's most likely him. He had to go to New York yesterday."

"Is that right? Man, he's so overdoing it. Did he leave you here all on your own?"

"No, I'm with Laetitia."

"That's his sister, right? I never met her."

"She's over there at the table with the Aussies."

"They won the cup here last year."

"Aha."

"Wow, again, sorry for hitting on you, honestly. You looked so forlorn and I thought, maybe… never mind."

"I take it as a compliment."

Laetitia suddenly stood next to me. "I let you out of my sight for one second and here you are, betraying the family with this attractive stranger! Hi, I'm Laetitia. This is my brother's girlfriend, I must advise you."

"We already established this. Hi, I'm Gus, I'm a friend of Ryan's."

"Gus the yacht designer?"

"Guilty as charged."

"Will you come watch the races with us tomorrow? On Myrtle?"

"It's the general idea, yes."

"Cool. — Oh look, Jude! There's the chopper!"

I darted around and saw the helicopter touching down on its perch. 

"I believe this means we're going to drive down to the marina at four-hundred mph," Laetitia snickered. "He lets her drive the Bugatti, you see."

"Wow."

"We don't have to go yet," I said. I did not want to seem too eager. 

"Keep'em keen," Gus agreed. 

"He's keen enough," Laetitia yawned. "I'm tired anyway, Jude, I wouldn't mind calling it a night."

"Well…"

"Isn't she cute? They're very cute. You won't believe your eyes, Gus."

"The anticipation is almost killing me. I leave you ladies and I see you tomorrow on board of the Myrtle."

"Bye, bye!"

"Bye, Gus."

"He's kind of hot…" Laetitia judged when we had boarded the Bug. "But too much like Kyle. These yachting boys are all the same in the end. I think I want an older man now. Someone who loves me more than I love him and who's grateful I want to be with him. He'll have to be rich too."

"Why?"

"Because I'm always afraid they only date me for the money."

"I see."

Ryan was waiting for me on the stern deck. "There's a self-portrait by Tamara de Lempicka. It's called 'Tamara In The Green Bugatti'. The next time it's up for sale, I'll buy it for you. Even if my Bugatti's black."

I got out of the car. Laetitia had already gone inside.

"I know it. It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

"Take me to bed, please."

"What do you think I'm here for?"

Eleven

"For Christ's sake, it's unnatural, you're almost forty! Are you hanging on a viagra drip?" Laetitia sat down at the breakfast table.

"I'm not. Forty."

"Who's the man in cabin three?"

"Jacob Weinberg. He's my asset manager."

"Why's he here?"

"Because he has to do something for me and I want to look over his shoulder while he does it. A far better question is, why are you still here? Aren't you supposed to go off to Berlin?" 

"I'll go tomorrow, they're not at home yet."

"They're on Sylt," I explained.

"The beach polo place?"

"Yes."

"I wish I were gone, honestly, I can think of better things than listening to the two of you tearing down the walls. Why are the cabins not sound proof?"

"It wouldn't have been possible with the old materials. Anyway, I did not buy this ship to host my family but to host myself. What happened to your sleeping pills?"

"I tried with only one but it didn't work. So I listened in. Poor Mr. Weinberg, to work while his boss is munching his blonde houri next door."

"He makes ten-million dollars a year, he's not poor at all."

"Maybe you should date him, Laetitia," I suggested.

"Is he handsome?"

Ryan put down his coffee cup, visibly annoyed. "No, but he's very good at his job and, it may surprise you to hear, he's also your asset manager, dear sister mine."

"Gosh. I never knew. —  Hey, what's going on down there?"

Somebody shouted. I stood up and turned around to see what was going on at the jetty below us. As always, we were berthed in a restricted area but some tourist must have overlooked or ignored the sign. Somehow he must have slipped the watchmen by the gate. He was busily taking photographs of the Supernova, the four-hundred feet long Russian yacht moored alongside Myrtle. One of the Supernova's security personnel was shouting at him but he did not react. The regatta was in full swing and music and sponsor information echoed from the venue's loudspeakers.

The American yacht's security had also become aware of the intruder. When he turned to take a picture of the Bijou X, they addressed him via their own speakers.

"Sir, we must ask you to step away from the vessel." 

He did not react. He probably spoke no English. 

"
Si allontani dalla nave
!" came the command in Italian. Still, no reaction. He was completely focused on his camera. Our own strong-arms, in this case Sean and Philipp, sauntered across the lower aft deck, waiting for the tourist's next move. If he came too close to Myrtle, they would make themselves known as well.  

I saw the Russians lowering their gangway. The Supernova had far more bodyguards than we had. Four of them stood ready to disembark.

The tourist was a stocky man of maybe sixty with a full-beard and a sunhat. He wore sandals and socks with it. Sandals and socks? This could mean only one thing. It was my cue.

"
Hallo! He! Sie dürfen hier nicht fotografieren! Gehen Sie hinter die Schranke zurück!
" I called out to him in German, telling him he was not allowed to take pictures and that he should move back behind the boom.

"
Wie bitte? Ich kann Sie so schlecht verstehen!
" 

A German tourists, I had known it. He said he could not understand what I had said.

"
Hauen Sie ab!
" I yelled. Get lost!

It was not the most polite way of saying it but four Russian paramilitaries were on their way to him. He looked around, beheld them and realised too late they were coming for him.

"No photos?" He held out a hand and began to disable his camera when one of the Russians tore it from his hands and tossed it into the water.

"
He! Meine Kamera!
"

"No!" I shrieked.

Another Russian grabbed him by the arms from behind. They lifted him up and carried him off the pier.

"Ryan, they can't just destroy the man's property, someone must call the police!" 

"Calm down, darling, they're doing their jobs." Ryan and Laetitia had watched the scene with me.

"What did you say?"

"They're authorised to protect the vessel. Gregory has three children on board. Imagine the man was a kidnapper or a terrorist."

"He was an elderly tourist! He could have been my dad."

"If you had a child and twelve billion pounds, would you let strangers get this close to your boat, taking a hundred photographs? There have even been pirate attacks in the Bay of Naples. He might have been spying for them. Seriously, I'd ask our lads to do just the same."