“I am.”
“This is most wonderful news. Please say you are staying as my guest, for this will give me great joy.”
“I am.”
“Please say you will accept the services of the limousine I will send to the airport to greet you.”
“I will.”
“Please say I may prepare one of our finest suites at the Hôtel de Paris for you?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Please say you are staying at least a week. A month, perhaps?”
“Alas, only a night.”
“A shame. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I’m currently dressed in a white leisure suit that smells like fear and raw seafood. I suppose I could use an improvement on that.”
“It is done,” Vidal said. He did not ask Storm’s size, what designers he might prefer, or whether he liked starch in his shirts. Vidal was the kind of man who knew such things and took care of them. “Is there anything else?” he asked.
“Nothing at the moment. Except that I hope you will join me for a drink later.”
“It would be my honor and privilege.”
“Oh, and Jean-François?”
“Yes, my dear Derrick?”
“I know you mean well, but no prostitutes.”
Vidal had a tendency to overextend this aspect of his country’s hospitality. It was legal in Monaco, of course. But it was still not Storm’s style. “Of course not,” Vidal assured him, then ended the call laughing about Americans and their prudishness.
Ten and a half hours later, pushed by a brisk tailwind, the same Gulfstream IV that had taken Storm to Panama City landed at Côte d’Azur International Airport in Nice, France. He was then whisked via a stretch Lexus limousine to Monaco and the Hôtel de Paris, where he walked past its low relief sculptures, through its towering colonnades, and into its marble-lined lobby, a bright, airy space that featured an arrangement of fresh flowers in the middle that was nearly as tall as Storm.
He was then shown to the Winston Churchill Diamond Suite, in which the former prime minister himself had stayed many times and was said to have helped furnish and decorate. Two of his prints still hung on the walls.
Once inside, Storm quickly saw Vidal had thought of everything. A Brioni tuxedo, custom-tailored to Storm’s exact measurements, hung in the closet. A pair of a.testoni shoes was underneath. A towering fruit basket — not quite as tall as the lobby flower arrangement, but close — and a chilled bottle of Goût de Diamants were set out in the living room. The curtains had been drawn, giving Storm a magnificent, 270-degree view of the lights of the city shining off the cliff and into the darkness of the Mediterranean beyond.
Moments after he entered, a masseuse knocked on his door and insisted on administering a brisk massage to work out the kinks from his long flight. That, followed by a quick jog and a shower, had Storm feeling renewed in body and soul. No longer was he a bedraggled world traveler who wore yesterday’s bad clothes and smelled vaguely of seafood. He was now a suave, assured gentleman, dressed in habiliments that signified to all that he belonged among the professional athletes, celebrities, royalty, and superrich.
It was shortly after ten P.M. — a time at which Monaco’s nightlife was just starting to tune itself into a humming harmony — when Storm made his way to the magnificent belle epoque edifice that housed Place du Casino, Monaco’s most famous gaming destination. His appearance on the casino floor was immediately greeted by Vidal, who kissed him on both cheeks.
“You look wonderful as usual, Derrick.”
“Thanks to you.”
“I have extended a two hundred thousand euro line of credit. You need only sign for it at the cashier window. I trust that will be acceptable?”
“That will be fine. You are too kind, Jean-François.”
“Anything for you, Derrick. You know I am indebted—”
“Your debt is nothing. Let’s toast to your health.”
TWO MARTINIS LATER — enough to lubricate but not inebriate — Storm settled into his first game of blackjack. The first two cards he received were an ace and a queen, which set the tone for the extraordinary run that followed.
For the next hour, Storm could do little wrong. He doubled-down on elevens, tens, nines, even some eights and sevens, all with success. He split sixes and won both hands. He hit on a sixteen against the dealer’s jack and was rewarded with a five. He stood with a thirteen and watched the dealer bust.
His bets had started modest — he had no plan to test the boundaries of his two hundred thousand euro credit limit — but still his pile of chips grew, to the point where he was almost embarrassed by it. He kept changing smaller chips into larger ones to hide his success, not that it did much good. Without even trying to keep count, he knew he was up several hundred thousand euros. His tablemates, two older German gentlemen, actually began applauding his success, punctuating it with the occasional “Gut, sehr gut!” or a head-shaking “Mein Gott, mein Gott.”
In the meantime, another game — parallel to the one he was playing at the table — had developed. A striking red-haired woman with high cheekbones and an aristocratic air two tables over kept glancing Storm’s way. She wore very little makeup and needed even less. Her hair was up in an exquisitely sculpted twist atop her head. Her slender neck was decorated by a glittering necklace. Her ice-blue dress matched her eyes and plunged low enough that it couldn’t really be said to even have a neckline. More of a navel line. Her body was a tribute to the benefits of plentiful exercise.
She was, in short, stunning.
She kept stealing ganders at her phone, like she was expecting something — a message, a call. But none came. Her brow, which was otherwise smooth and perfect, acquired a small indentation every time she brought it out of the tiny, jeweled purse next to her.
Yet to Storm, there was something else about her that made her seem like she wasn’t comfortable in all of her luscious, pale skin. He sensed indecision in her. Hesitance. And it wasn’t the kind that was calculated to be beguiling. Or was it?
The way the game seemed to be going is that Storm would glance in her direction and catch her staring. She would respond by looking away, as if her eyes had only fallen on him by accident. This happened several times before Storm finally accompanied his glance with a smile. This time, she blushed before turning away.
The pile of chips in front of her, which was small to start with, kept shrinking. She seemed unconcerned with it. Storm decided to ignore her for a time, to see how that would play. When he finally broke down and allowed her to enter his peripheral vision, he saw her gaze had not left him.
Then it returned to her phone. She checked once more for whatever it was she had been checking for this whole time. Once again, the phone seemed disappoint her. She shook her head. She stood. A decision had been made.
Storm returned his attention to his own table. The dealer had just given him two eights. He split them rather than deal with a sixteen against the dealer’s seven. His eights were covered by a king and a four. He stood on the eighteen and asked for a hit on the twelve, which got a four on it. So much for avoiding a sixteen.
He opted to stand. The dealer flipped over a queen. It was a wash.
Storm was distracted enough by that action that he hadn’t noticed the redhead was now behind him. She was even taller and more lithesome than Storm had first thought. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Her pale, pink lips neared his ear.
No words left her mouth. She just passed behind him, leaving a faint smell of lavender in her wake, and walked out to the balcony.
Storm felt an involuntary twitch in his lower body. He signaled to Vidal, who had been nearby talking with one of his floor managers, and had seen the entire exchange. The Frenchman walked smoothly over to Storm’s table. Storm withdrew his bet to signal to the dealer that he was sitting out this hand.