The Scarlet Thread (10 page)

“No,” Steven answered.

“The beautiful lady?”

Clara was close beside him, motionless and silent. The Englishman said, “I'm Ralph Maxton. I do the PR here.”

“My wife,” Steven responded. “She doesn't play either. I'm Steven Falconi. Glad to know you.”

There was a sudden burst of applause. The princess had won on a huge wager. Now she looked beautiful in a lean, Nordic way, all bone structure and pale-blue eyes. She gave a brilliant smile.

Clara said to him in Italian, “Take me home.”

He looked around in surprise. “Why? You said you were enjoying it. What's the matter?”

She whispered furiously, “You've been staring at that blonde long enough. I'm going.”

He said to the Englishman, “Excuse me,” and followed her. She moved very quickly, pushing her way to the cloakroom.

He was waiting when she came out with her wrap. “Just a minute, Clara. Just wait a minute. You've had your fun, but I'm not ready to go yet. This is business, you understand.”

“What do you want to do, try and pick her up after I've gone?”

Their voices were low, but it was obvious they were having a row. Steven saw one of the staff moving toward them with a determined expression on his face that said more clearly than any words, “We don't allow unpleasantness here.”

“Okay,” he said. “We go back to the hotel. And by Christ almighty, Clara, you're going to get this straightened out!”

It was an unpleasant ride. He was livid with anger, and any other woman would have backed away. But Clara didn't. As soon as they entered their suite, she tore off her necklace and then the earrings and threw them wildly across the room.

“You stood there staring at that bitch,” she shouted. “Looking at her, looking at her tits. I saw you! Blond, like that other whore!”

He didn't slap her. He didn't trust himself. He looked at the screaming Fury a few feet away from him, accusing him of an imagined lust.

The happy days and passionate nights spent in Paris suddenly vanished. The bitter, violent row at the start of their honeymoon in Boca Raton was not an isolated incident. He'd struck her then because she'd lashed his dead wife and child with her jealous tongue and cursed him like a washerwoman. If he touched her now as she called him a liar and ranted about betrayal, he might lose his temper. He dared not do that. He was so angry and disgusted that it wouldn't be safe. He turned and walked out of the bedroom, slamming the door.

She followed, dragging it open. “Where are you going?” she demanded. “Back to the casino? Back to find her?”

He calmed himself. He unclenched his hands and made his voice quite even.

“I'm not your father. You've got us muddled up. I'm going out, and I'll see you when I come back. If I come back.”

He heard something smash as he closed the door and walked down the hall to the elevator. He went to the bar. “Bourbon on the rocks,” he ordered. “You have Camels here?”

The barman said smoothly, “We have all brands, monsieur.”

“Two packs,” Steven said.

“Very good, monsieur. I'll bring them to your table.”

The bar was quite full. He wasn't interested in the people. He needed to sit somewhere alone and put down that drink as fast as possible. What the hell am I going to do with her? he asked himself. The bourbon lit a fire in his stomach, but it didn't help him find an answer. He had thought he was in love with her; he wasn't. The second bourbon induced a mood of bitter honesty.

He had blinded himself with sexual desire and the advantages of combining forces with the Fabrizzi family. He'd married the girl for the right reasons, except that they were wrong for both of them.

And with her female instinct she divined the truth. No matter how he indulged her, or made love to her, she didn't hold his heart. A life of hell yawned at their feet unless something could be done. He hated her brand of violent temper; in a few years she would be a shrew. He hated the jealousy that exploded into insults and accusations without allowing a word of explanation. It was like living with two people—the charming, lively companion and passionate bedmate changed into a spitting Fury, foul-mouthed as any slut. There was a simple remedy available, and he knew his own father and his younger brother would recommend it. Teach her a lesson once and for all. If it laid her up for a few days, so much the better. A man has to be the master. Her father would understand that. He wouldn't let it happen more than once, but he would see the need and look the other way.

But I can't do it
. Steven Falconi downed the last of his third bourbon.
If I'd never gone to college, if I'd never known Angela, I might have used my fists on my wife
. He didn't mean to think of Angela, but slowly she materialized, as if she were flesh and blood. The third drink was having its effect.

He could see her so clearly, hear the distinctive English voice and the shy smile. He had fallen in love with her as he would never fall in love with Clara. But she was Clara's best protection. He couldn't hurt her because he had known Angela. The irony of it made him smile for a moment. How Clara would burn if she knew that. She'd rather suffer his violence than be indebted to the dead woman he had loved.

“Excuse me, do you have a light?”

He glanced up at the woman standing by his table.
Jesus
, he thought,
they have them in here too
. She was very attractive, elegantly dressed. He didn't stand up. He flashed his lighter for her, and she bent down to the flame.

“Thank you,” she said. “I must have lost mine. Are you staying here?”

“Yes. Would you like a drink with me?” He was appraising her openly. Good figure, nice breasts, expensive scent. He thought of Clara, and the revenge appealed to him.

“Thank you. I'm very bored. I hate being alone. I'd like a glass of champagne.”

She would order that, of course. She spoke very good English, and he liked the French accent. He wondered what the price tag would be.

“I'm staying here too,” she volunteered. “I come for a month every summer. It's such a comfortable hotel.”

She smiled at the waiter who came to take the order. He seemed deferential.

“Good evening, madame.”

“Good evening, Jacques.”

“Champagne for the lady,” the formula slipped out before Steven could stop himself. “And a bourbon on the rocks for me.” He could screw as well when he was drunk as sober.

She said, “My name is Pauline Duvalier. When my husband was alive, we spent longer here. He liked to gamble. It bores me.”

“Like being alone?” he asked her.

She extinguished the cigarette, half smoked. He noticed a square-cut emerald on her left hand. A very big price tag, by the looks of that.

“You haven't told me your name,” she reminded him.

She had calculating eyes, but there was humor in them. He wondered what she found amusing.

“Steven Falconi.”

“That could be Monégasque,” she remarked. “There's a lot of Italian blood in the people here.”

“How's the champagne?” he asked. He swallowed hard on the bourbon. He was feeling like it. Anger was a form of arousal, and he was very angry with everything. Most of all with fate and with himself.

“It's nice. Are you alone here?”

They didn't usually ask that. What the hell business was it of hers anyway.

“No. My wife's upstairs. You're an attractive lady, you know that?”

“I should hope so,” she said, and she laughed. “You're an attractive man. Very attractive. I've been watching you getting drunk and thought what a pity. What a waste. Would you like to come up to my suite? I don't want any more champagne, and I think you've had enough to drink.”

He got up from the table. He was quite steady. “Suite?”

“Suite,” she repeated. “I have the same one every year. Perhaps I should make something a little clearer to you. I am inviting you because I want to. If I see a man I want, I don't wait for him to ask me. Shall we go?”

“Sure, why not?” he said, and followed her to the elevator.

It was a better suite than his. Inside the door, she turned to him and smiled.

“I'm not a
poule de luxe
.” She mocked him gently. “You don't have to pay me, except in kind, Monsieur Falconi. I like to be undressed. Shall we go through to the bedroom?”

She woke him before five o'clock. “In half an hour the hotel cleaners come on duty. If you go now, you won't meet anyone.”

He sat up, stretching wearily. It had been a long night, and she had tested him to the limit of his stamina. She smiled down at him in a friendly way. She wore a silk dressing gown and was smoking one of his Camel cigarettes.

“I enjoyed myself,” she said. “I hope you did too.”

He got out of bed and took the cigarette from her, drawing on it deeply. The taste of her was in his mouth and on the end of the cigarette.

“How often do you do this?” he asked.

“Not too often,” she answered. “Your clothes are over there on the sofa. When I see a man I like. How long are you staying here?”

“Another four days.”

“We could meet again,” she suggested. “Perhaps you'll have another row with your wife.”

“How the hell did you know that?” he demanded.

She shrugged. “A woman alone has to be careful. I asked about you before I introduced myself. There's only one reason a man on his honeymoon sits by himself and gets drunk. What are you going to say to her?”

Steven finished dressing. “That's my business.”

She shrugged again. “Of course. I shouldn't have asked. You know my suite number. If I don't hear from you, I wish you bon voyage, and perhaps one day if you come back to Monte Carlo …” She opened the door for him and held out her hand. “Goodbye, Monsieur Falconi.”

They hadn't once used each other's first names.

“Goodbye, Madame Duvalier.”

They shook hands. She closed the door immediately and, throwing the dressing gown on the floor, slipped back into bed and fell asleep.

Clara heard him come in. The long hours of that night had passed without the mercy of sleep for her. Broken shards of china lay on the floor. They splintered as he walked on them. She couldn't weep anymore, or rouse herself to anger.
I'm broken
, she said to herself.
He's broken me. If he comes back I'll kiss his feet, I'll tear my hair and grovel, if he'll only come back and forgive me
.

She ran to him, tripping over her nightgown in her eagerness. She threw her arms around him, and her tears welled up again, pouring down her face as she clung. She smelled the other woman's scent and gave a cry of anguish.

“Where have you been? All night long I've waited.”

The scent was in her nostrils. She almost gagged on it. Joy. Perhaps the most expensive perfume in the world.

“Sit down, Clara,” he said. “Stop crying and working yourself up. I want you to listen to me. Listen very carefully.” He held her away from him, forcing her to sit on the bed.

“You went with another woman. I can tell.”

“You're right, I did. And every time you do what you did last night, I shall find myself someone else. Maybe for one night, maybe for longer. I never looked at any blonde in the casino. My mind was on business. Family business, Clara. I was calculating how much she must have lost that they were letting her win so much. My father and yours think it's a business we should get into.

“All you could think of was that I wanted to screw her. So you made a big scene and we had to leave before I was ready. You screamed at me like some whore off the street. So I'm telling you: You want me faithful, you want me to be a good husband? Then you never do that again. You never speak of my wife Angela. I said my wife. Close your mouth, Clara. Don't say anything.”

“Why don't you hit me?” she demanded. “You're killing me instead.”

“Because it wouldn't stop you,” he answered. “I know you by now. You wouldn't care so much as you'll care about this. There's a woman in the hotel. I can see her anytime I want. It's up to you. Now I'm going to take a shower. Think about it. And clear up that mess outside before the breakfast gets here.”

She was sitting up in bed when he came back. She'd brushed her hair and rubbed a little color into her lips. She'd collected the broken china and cut herself, so there was a handkerchief with a little stain on it wound around her hand and tied at the wrist. She held out her arms. “I've been punished enough. Forgive me.”

He made himself embrace her. He pitied her and hated himself, but his heart was cold and his spirit weary. He wondered if the pendulum would swing upward again.

She closed her eyes and stayed quiet. “A woman in the hotel.” Not a whore. Whores don't use Joy at fifty dollars an ounce. She'd find her. She made herself that promise as she leaned her head against him and they seemed to be at peace.

She did her best to make amends. At her suggestion, they returned to the casino that night. The German princess was at the baccarat table again, gambling with increasing recklessness. She was losing.

“Hello.” It was Ralph Maxton again. Word had come through to the manager's office that Falconi was back. He bought them champagne and tried his charm on the new bride. She was extremely beautiful, if you liked the type. He saw the single-minded concentration on her husband and thought it must be rather a bore to be adored to that extent. Falconi was easy to talk to. He asked a few questions, which Maxton parried, and finally he went to another table, where the stakes were lower, and politely lost a sum of money. It was a gesture, and in spite of himself, Maxton applauded it. He had style, this Italian gangster. Unlike the ones he'd met in Nevada while he was ruining himself. He was surprised when Mrs. Falconi suddenly spoke to him. Falconi was still at the table, taking the shoe this time.