Masquerade

1

She sipped at the wine in her glass and watched with marked indifference the lewd gyrations of a short, fat man garbed in the costume of Bacchus, a wreath of grape leaves encircling his bald head and a toga stretched tautly around his protruding stomach. His partner wore a simple black cocktail dress, a collection of ribbons and bows in her hair, and festive makeup that included glittering pink eye shadow and blue stripes on her cheeks. Near them, a woman in a high, powdered wig, a fake mole, and a gown from the court of Louis XVI danced with a man in a red tuxedo with devil's horns on his head.

Turning from the sight, she let her gaze wander over the hotel's renowned rooftop garden, ablaze with light from colored lanterns strung all around, tiny fairy lights wound through the potted plants and trees, and votive candles on all the tables. Tonight it was the site of a private masked party --one of those intimate little affairs with two hundred or so guests, many in costume but some, like herself, choosing only a mask. Hers happened to be an elaborately feathered, hand-held one in amber satin that matched the dress and fur-lined stole she wore. It was lowered now, revealing the sculpted lines of her face, its expression untouched by the band's driving rock music, the laughter, the voices that filled the night air, a babble of French and Italian with a smattering of German, Dutch, Swiss, and English rising here and there --voices of people caught up in the party madness that gripped Nice, the undisputed queen city of France's Cote d'Azur, the party madness of Carnival that encouraged its revelers to celebrate all that was flesh, to don masks and shed inhibitions, to conceal and reveal.

Reveal. She finally looked at him, feeling the anger rise in her throat--along with the hurt and bitterness of disillusionment. He stood some thirty feet from her, his face partially hidden by the black satin mask he wore, fashioned to resemble a pirate's eye patch. A pirate--criminal of the high seas. My God, how appropriate, she thought. Looting, plundering, destroying in the name of --there was only one word for it--greed.

She took a quick sip of the wine, but it couldn't wash away the disgust, the revulsion she felt. Her fingers tightened on the glass's slender stem. What was she doing at this party? Why was she going through the motions of pretending everything was all right when it wasn't--when nothing would ever be all right again?

A waiter said something to him, and he lifted his head sharply, then nodded once and moved off, coming directly toward her. She took a quick step closer to the roofs edge, with its spectacular views of the gardens below and the Mediterranean beyond. She didn't want to hear any more of his explanations, his justifications.

But he wasn't walking toward her. He was heading for the entrance to the rooftop terrace to her left, a firmness in his stride that spoke of purpose. Curious, she turned and stiffened in alarm at the sight of the dark-haired man in a business suit waiting for him. What was he doing here? He belonged a half a world away. She watched as the two men met and immediately moved off to a quiet corner, away from the throng of party guests.

Why was he here? What was this all about? She had to find out. She cast a cautious glance around, then slipped closer.

"--realizes what went on that night. She's put two and two together and figured out what we did and how we did it."

"'We'? You told her I was involved?" he demanded, anger and accusation in his tone.

"I didn't have to. I told you she figured it out. That's why I called. I felt I should warn you. So far, I haven't been able to make her listen to reason."

They were talking about her. She almost stepped out from behind the concealing fronds of the palmetto plant and confronted them both with her knowledge. She wanted them to know they weren't going to get away with this. But his next words stopped her cold.

"If she can't be made to see reason, you've got to shut her up. She can't be allowed to tell what she knows. There's no place for sentiment in this. She's proved that. And you'll never have a better opportunity than now. Kidnappings, accidents happen all the time in Europe. Back home, she'll be just another statistic."

She felt her mouth and lips suddenly go dry with fear. He wouldn't agree to that . . . would he? He wouldn't hurt her. He couldn't. Not him. But his face was in profile, shadowed by the mask that covered his right eye, making his expression unreadable.

There came a sigh, heavy with defeat. "I don't see any other choice."

No! She backed up a step, moving her head from side to side in mute denial, not wanting to believe what she'd heard.

"Are you going to arrange it, or do you want me--" The wineglass slipped from her fingers and crashed to the terrace floor. Both men turned and stared directly at her. There was a split second when she couldn't move, paralyzed by the accusing look in their eyes. Then she turned and ran. "Stop her! She'll destroy everything."

She looked back and saw his familiar face, half concealed by the mask, coming after her. She brushed past a slim young man in a Degas ballerina costume and pushed through the doors to the bank of elevators, conscious of the shock, the disbelief that blurred everything but the panicked need to escape.

He reached the elevators to the rooftop terrace just as the doors to one of them slid shut. He punched impatiently at the button to summon another, gripped by his own kind of fear, the fear that came with guilt and desperation. He couldn't let her get away, or all would be lost. Why couldn't she see that? Why was she doing this? Why was she making him do this?

At the lobby, he emerged from the elevator in time to see her dart through the hotel entrance and into the street. He hurried after her. A cab pulled away as he stopped outside. He lifted a hand to call another, then saw her cutting across the street toward the Espace Massena. If he lost her in that mob of revelers in the square--he couldn't let that happen.

But it did. The crowd swallowed her.

Where was she? The black mask cut off his peripheral vision to the right, forcing him to turn his head to scan the boisterous throng on that side of the Espace Massena. There was a loud splash behind him, accompanied by a woman's shriek of laughter. His back was to the square's fountain, with its spectacular pillars of water shooting some forty feet into the air. He swung around, his glance briefly resting on some madcap brunette frolicking in the fountain's pool. The instant he identified the woman as a stranger, he looked away, resuming his search and unconsciously clenching his hands into tight, trembling fists.

Ignoring the tangle of confetti at his feet, he took two quick steps toward the boulevard. In one direction, only a short stroll away, was the Promenade des Anglais with its glittering casinos and palatial hotels, bastions of privacy and exclusivity for the wealthy and celebrated. In another lay the narrow, cobbled streets of Nice's Old Town section with its melange of galleries, outdoor cafes, and boites de nuit. Beyond that were the Baie des Anges and the Mediterranean.

He hesitated, then stopped. Three-story-tall cartoon figures, garishly outlined in a blaze of colored lights, mocked him from the distinctive roccoco red buildings that flanked the square. He swung abruptly to his left, only to be met by the taunting grin of the giant papier-mache King Carnival enthroned on the square.

For an instant, he glared at the figure, then swept his glance over the milling crowd again. How could she have disappeared so quickly? He scanned the throng, seeking the amber shimmer of her satin gown, the streaks of gold in her sun-lightened brown hair, and the gleam of the topaz brooch she wore at her throat. Again he saw no sign of her, and he felt the knot tighten in his stomach.

Someone jostled him from behind. Instinctively he turned, protectively lifting a hand to cover the slim wallet tucked inside the inner breast pocket of his black tuxedo jacket, well aware that Mardi Gras celebrations always attracted a sizable contingent of pickpockets as well as sun-and-fun-loving tourists. This time his caution was unnecessary as a fair-haired German raised a wine bottle to him in an apologetic salute and then reeled away, his arm hooked around his svelte companion.

He absently brushed at the wet splatter of wine on his sleeve and turned back. At that instant he saw her, near the sidewalk of the tree-lined boulevard, looking warily about, poised for flight. But she hadn't seen him yet.

He came up behind her and caught hold of her arm, his fingers curling into the satin of her stole. "You're coming with me--now."

She pulled back, her head coming up, her gaze clashing with his, her temper willfully set against his, stubbornly resisting him. "So you can have me kidnapped? Murdered?"

For an instant everything inside him went still. "It doesn't have to be that way. If you'd just listen to reason. Nobody got hurt in this. No one."

"What about the company? This could destroy it." She threw him another angry and challenging look, only this time it was colored by hurt and accusation. "But you don't care, do you?"

"I had no choice."

"Didn't you?"

His grip tightened on her arm, checking the pivoting turn she made away from him and steering her into the concealing shadows beneath a tree. "You've got to understand--"

"I'll never understand!" she flared, then her voice grew all tight and choked. "How could you do this? Who are you? I don't even know you anymore."

The revulsion, the distrust she showed for him broke the thin thread of his control. Seizing her high on both arms, he began to shake her, mindless of his roughness. "Don't you realize what's at stake? How can you betray me like this? If you truly love--"

"Stop. Stop it!" As her hands came up to push at him and end the violent shaking, the rodlike wand that held her satin mask struck against his upper lip, sending a needle-sharp spasm of pain through his face.

Stunned by the blow, he instinctively released her to explore the injury with his fingers and tongue. He tasted blood and realized that she'd hit him. She'd hit him. A sudden rage welled up in him and he lashed out, backhanding her across the face.

The force of the blow sent her reeling backward against the tree. The momentary gratification he felt vanished when he heard the cracking thud of her head striking the trunk a second before she crumpled to the ground.

"My God, no." He took a step toward her, automatically reaching out to her with his hands. "I didn't mean to, I swear--"

But she didn't move.

"Hey?!" someone shouted, the voice American in its accent. "What's going on there?"

He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, regret, fear, and guilt warring for control. He hesitated for a split second, then took off across the boulevard.

Two T-shirt-and-denim-clad twenty-year-olds ran to the pool of amber satin lying in the shadows by the street. The one with dark-rimmed glasses knelt down to check her pulse while the blond sporting a California tan started after the fleeing man.

"Let him go, Brad," his buddy called him back. "You'll never catch him anyway, and this girl's unconscious."

"Is she hurt bad?"

"I don't know, but we'd better get an ambulance."

"And the police," his friend added.