De Jersey’s mood had lifted because Vibekka had called to say that her husband was ill and had taken to his bed. Instead she was bringing Julian, a family friend who owned a restaurant and had shares in their yacht. She suggested they might walk down to the harbor to see the Hortensia Princess.
“What did you tell her about me?” de Jersey asked.
“I could hardly get a word in edgeways. She never stops talking, especially about the yacht. Never even got a chance to tell her your name.”
“Did you tell her I was almost as old as your father?”
“All I said was that you were rich and handsome and I loved you.” She kissed him, then held him at arm’s length. “Because you are the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“We’re having a glass of champagne in the bar before the car takes us to the palace,” Christina told him.
“You make me feel old,” he whispered.
“You are the reason I stay young,” she said and slipped into his arms to kiss his lips. Then she gently traced his mouth with her little finger to remove signs of her lipstick before she took his hand and drew him toward the door.
He’d forced all thoughts of his financial situation out of his mind, and now he was looking forward to their evening out.
Vibekka approached them with a handsome, swarthy companion. De Jersey kissed her on both cheeks then shook Julian’s hand. Vibekka was wearing a black sequined bias-cut dress that showed off her perfectly toned body. She had a full-length sable coat draped over one arm and clutched a tiny gold lamé purse. They went into the hotel bar, and as de Jersey ordered a bottle of champagne, the two women chatted about fashion shows they had worked on together. De Jersey called over the waiter and chose a small Havana for himself. As he puffed on the cigar, he watched Julian and wondered why he looked so on edge. He gestured toward Vibekka’s diamonds. “They are very beautiful,” he said.
Vibekka paused for breath. She touched the necklace, then drew back her hair to show off the large drop earrings. “Aren’t they gorgeous? And look…” She held out her slender wrist to show off the matching bracelet, two diamond-encrusted bands linked by emeralds in the style of a daisy chain.
“Oh, that is just beautiful,” Christina said.
De Jersey glanced at his wife, who wore only a wedding ring and a thin gold chain with a pear-shaped five-carat diamond. It was simple but had cost fifty-five thousand pounds. The diamond was a yellow stone and had been auctioned at Sotheby’s. It had been his first gift to her after they met.
When they had drunk the champagne, their car arrived.
“I hope you’ve brought a lot of money,” Vibekka whispered to de Jersey. “It’s a charity ball Princess Caroline throws annually. Everyone always feels obliged to buy raffle tickets and bid for silly things in the auction after dinner. It’s all in aid of a children’s charity. In the past a number of guests bought items in the auction and their checks bounced! So now it’s cash only.”
The venue for the ball was the Salle des Étoiles, a vast space with a roof that slid back in summer. There were wondrous views across the bay, and it was often used as a concert hall by stars such as Whitney Houston and Barry White. Tonight, however, the room was a sea of white tables and waiters. Everyone important from the glittering world of Euro-trash was there. At the head table sat Prince Albert, surrounded by an array of models and raffish young men. Wherever the eye fell there were glorious gowns and sparkling jewels, and a high-pitched babble of women greeted each other in various languages.
Among the other guests at their table de Jersey saw, with interest, was Michael Maloney, a well-known British financier who owned twenty-five racehorses stabled in France. De Jersey had met him once fleetingly at an auction. At thirty-eight, he was a City whiz kid turned tax exile. Tonight his companion was a nubile blonde who had already drunk too much champagne and kept falling off the seat next to him. There was also an Italian prince with his fourth wife, an American heiress. Her face-lift made her look about the same age as Christina, but de Jersey thought she was closer to his. She described in amusing detail the extent of her operations and the number of surgeons she had checked out beforehand. Recently she’d had cheek and chin implants and, as she gaily informed everyone, more implants in her lips and a full laser treatment on her skin. While she was totally unconcerned about everyone knowing, her husband cringed with embarrassment.
“If you want the best lip-line lady, you gotta visit this woman in Paris. She is just the best!” She loudly gave the name of her surgeon to Vibekka and passed the card to Christina with a flourish.
Talking to Maloney proved difficult with the tittering blonde demanding his complete attention. Julian hardly spoke a word during dinner and looked impatiently at his watch. De Jersey asked him if he was expecting someone.
“No, I just hate these balls. I don’t drink much, and the smoke gets in my eyes.” He shrugged and turned away.
Two hours later, when it was time for the raffle, the prize giving, and the charity auction, De Jersey excused himself. “I’m going for a breath of air,” he whispered to Christina. “I’m still feeling a bit fuzzy.”
He walked out to the balcony, threading his way through palms and flower beds, and sat on a thickly cushioned chair to look out at the sea. He lit a cigar and watched as the blue smoke drifted into the night air.
A voice startled him. “You mind if I join you?” It was Norma, the American woman, carrying a tumbler of Scotch and her cigarettes.
“Please do,” he said.
“I hate these charity balls. They expect you to throw thousands around, but I leave that to my husband. He’s gay, you know.”
“Really?” de Jersey said, amused.
“I married him for his title, and he married me for my dough. I like being a princess. Here they’re two a penny, but in the States it always gets you the best table!” She gave a throaty laugh and perched beside him. In the soft candlelight she was rather beautiful, her cheek implants giving her a Marlene Dietrich look.
“Your wife is exquisite,” she said.
“I think so too.”
“Nice stone round her neck.” She leaned forward as he lit her cigarette. “Bet that didn’t come from the creepy Paul Dulay. His wife has a lump of Moissanite round her neck.”
He laughed. “I think you’re mistaken.”
“Honey, I have one of the finest collections in the States. I bought up a lot of the Duchess of Windsor’s pieces. Now there was some high-class junk, but with her name attached it retains its value.”
“Are you in the jewelry business?” he inquired.
“Only the business of buying the stuff. I have no other investments. Daddy was a Russian Jew. He arrived in the States with a couple of rubles to his name and opened a hardware store. When Wall Street crashed, he made his fortune because he had hard cash. Lesson in life, that. He was always paranoid that he would lose his fortune, so he invested in things like this.” She lifted her thin, freckled hand with its red-painted nails and withdrew a fine platinum chain from beneath her gown. Attached to it was a pendant with a single, stunning diamond. “Liz Taylor owns one just like it. What do you think?”
“I’m awestruck,” he said softly. “Aren’t you taking a risk wearing it?”
“Nope, I’ve got my protection.” She turned and pointed to a small square-chested man in an ill-fitting evening suit. “He’s never far from me. He’d spring into action if you tried to rip it from my neck.” She opened her top to let the stone drop back between her silicone-enhanced breasts and laughed. “I had them lifted so they could carry the weight of it.” She picked up her tumbler and sipped. “I can spot a fake. Vibekka’s is Moissanite. It might glitter like the real McCoy, but it wouldn’t pass a double refractive test.”