It was too late to turn back if he hoped to beat Egon to Le Retour. Maybe Jess could stay with Molly on the plane, but Carey needed his help with Egon. Hell!
Molly watched him stalk away, enter the cockpit, and slam the door shut. Moving toward the couch and chairs arranged comfortably near some small tables, she sat down and waited to see if the plane would turn around. She'd only seen Carey that angry once before, and that was the night she left him in his apartment at Mrs. Larsen's to go off and marry Bart. His voice today had the same taut control, as though the softness of his tone could conceal his terrible rage.
But she wasn't eighteen any longer, nor daunted by his wrath. Why were his lies necessary, and hers merely disagreeable? Cautioning herself to remain calm and logical, she discarded her impulse to feel ill-treated. They both felt justified in their action. Now that she'd accomplished the first stage of this unusual expedition beyond the confines of her normal life, she intended to see she became an asset, not a hindrance. How best to deal with her angry lover?
She thought the old maxim “You get more flies with sugar than vinegar” held merit. Twenty minutes later when Carey emerged from the forward cabin, his scowl still in place, she said, “We're both adults, supposedly mature. I'm sorry. Could we talk about this?” And her smile was the very best soothing, dazzling look she could conjure.
“You're an impetuous bitch,” Carey said in a deep growl, looking tall and menacing in the low-ceilinged cabin. “But I love you.” And when he smiled, her face flushed warm from the glow.
CHAPTER 33
E gon was in a cold sweat in the bathroom of an Air France jet, and the stewardess was banging on the door. “Are you all right, sir?” she asked for the third time. Her voice was insistent now, but diplomatically muted to avoid disturbing the other first-class passengers. It was obvious Egon wasn't well; she'd seen enough druggies on this Marseilles-Jamaica run to recognize one when she saw him. As far as she was concerned, he could stay in there the entire flight, but a brassy redhead traveling with a man old enough to be her father was insisting the stewardess clear the bathroom for her.
Egon had taken one point with him-enough to last him to Jamaica-but the damn needle had jammed in the hem of his jacket, and he was having trouble getting it out without snapping it off. Jesus, if his hands would just stop shaking long enough to ease it free…
“I'll be out in a minute,” he gruffly replied, his French touched with traces of his old nurse's Provence patois. When under pressure he lost the aristocratic polish his mother had insisted on. One's breeding was evident in one's speech, she'd always said, and on occasions when she was being particularly pedantic he would lapse into low German to annoy her. Mama never forgot her family was landed in contrast to Papa's family's bourgeois roots. But 20,000 acres of marsh on the Baltic didn't buy that diamond tiara, now did it? Papa would retort when Mama put on airs. Papa was practical; while he didn't denigrate his title, he knew his power lay in wealth, not a coat of arms.
“Sorry, Papa,” Egon said in a brief stab of remorse. It would have saddened his father to see him like this, and he often felt relieved that his father had died before the drugs. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he spoke aloud in a low murmur, as if the sound of his voice would calm him. “Count to ten and breathe slowly.” If he could relax, his hands would stop trembling. “Eight, breathe, nine, breathe, ten…” Now calmly slide the hypo out of the lining hem, he silently instructed, calmly, as if it didn't matter whether it came free or not. Ah… he had the plastic plunger now. Slowly… pull it out of the silk lining slowly… there. It's free!
And he wept with relief.
Five minutes later the first soothing traces were entering his bloodstream, and in two minutes more, steady again, the panic receding, his blissful sense of serenity returning, Egon told himself he'd stop the drugs first thing tomorrow. Once he was safe at Le Retour, he'd go clean again. First thing.
He looked at his watch. Four o'clock. He'd be at the villa by seven. Glancing in the mirror, he smoothed his hair, straightened his shirt collar, and eased back into his linen jacket. After disposing of the paraphernalia in the waste container, he emerged from the bathroom with a smile for the stewardess. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I felt faint for a few moments.”
“Are you better now?” she politely inquired, taking in the expensive clothes and Mediterranean tan.
“Quite fine, thank you.”
It was a shame, she thought, watching him return to the row of seats he'd reserved to avoid having company. He was very handsome. And the nurturing impulse Egon so often triggered stirred in her. He was quite beautiful and obviously wealthy. What he needed was some woman to care for him and see that his melancholy disappeared from his eyes. For the remainder of the journey she was solicitous, enough so that the annoying redhead was heard to remark, “Some people in first class must be more important than other people.”
She made the redhead's next drink so stiff, the bitch choked on it.
Shortly before they were to land, Mariel asked Egon if he cared to share the cab she had waiting at the airport. He'd mentioned he was going to his vacation home, and she had a three-day layover. Maybe he'd even ask her out to dinner. He had a charming smile, and his French reminded her of home, with its faint Provencal flavor. She couldn't actually say they'd had a chance to converse, but they'd exchanged the social pleasantries about vacations in Jamaica and the weather. If he accepted her offer to share a cab, perhaps she might discover the reason he attracted her so.
She had a smile like a young girl, Egon thought, tentative and even a bit shy, not at all the practiced expression one expected from someone in her work. She was small, shapely, he noticed, with a casual, brushed-back haircut and a minimum of makeup. “I'd appreciate that,” Egon said, the decision simple. If he was going to retreat to Le Retour, it would be pleasant to have company. “Would you have time for dinner tonight?”
Her smile lit up the flashes of gold in her hazel eyes. When she quickly nodded in agreement, he liked the way her dark hair flared forward briefly to brush her cheek. With effort he restrained himself from touching the silken fall. Later, he thought. The heroin was making him whole again. All his receptors were pleasantly in tune, no agitation, no violence. He'd even forgotten momentarily that he was running for his life.
He had only a small leather carry-on bag with the barest essentials for traveling, and the cab Mariel had arranged for was waiting for them. Within minutes of landing they were on their way to Ocho Rios.
Two flights were scheduled to land yet from Europe, one from Rome, and one from Barcelona. Jess had been sent to check the arrival of any chartered planes, while Carey and Molly were waiting to see if Egon was on the Barcelona flight.
Jamaica was ungodly hot in June, and sweat was damp on her skin as Molly surveyed the passengers walking toward them. After their discussion on the plane-a mature discussion Molly was proud of-Molly stood beside Carey at the passenger gate hoping to see Egon and immediately whisk him away with them back to safety at Bernadotte's.
“If you want to help, okay,” Carey had said seated opposite her across the small rosewood table in the lounge. “You and I will see if we can find Egon at the airport.” How can she get hurt in an air terminal? he'd thought.
“Tell me what Egon looks like,” Molly had said, pleased she'd presented her position so well. Carey understood how she felt and was willing to have her along. In the ensuing discussion, she forgot about Rifat. Carey was amiable, describing Egon so she felt she knew him even though she'd never met him.