Mattias had forgotten how young he had been back then, just a boy. Ten, eleven. The youngest on the raft. He hardly looked older now. Mattias threw an arm around his shoulder. “I don’t think you’ll need them, do you?”
The four men burst into laughter and climbed into the small automobile for the long drive south.
Chapter 60
Above the Bay of Bengal
Two hours aloft.
The miniature plane icon on their seat-back monitor showed them to be cruising at a speed of 540 knots at 39,800 feet over the Bay of Bengal. They both had enjoyed a drink before dinner. In fact, they’d enjoyed two. Gin martinis per London’s suggestion. Who was Simon to say no? It was the first real meal he’d had in days. A filet for him, béarnaise sauce, pommes soufflés. Fish for the lady. Pan-roasted sea bass with black bean sauce, a vegetable medley. The lights had been dimmed. Beneath a lavender canopy, they’d toasted their future with a snifter of cognac. Hennessy, this time Simon’s choice. For the remaining ten hours of the flight, they declared themselves safe, out of harm’s way.
“What’s this?”
“What?”
“On your arm.”
Simon adjusted his sleeve, pulling it lower. London slid it right back up, keeping her hand on his arm, her long, slim, beautifully manicured nails tracing the waves, the anchor, the grinning skeleton draped around it.“‘La Brise de Mer,’”she said, almost too quietly to be heard. “Is that right?”
“It’s French,” said Simon, leaning closer. She’d tucked her oversized glasses in her hair. Her breath smelled sweetly of the liqueur and mint. “It means ‘ocean breeze.’”
“Mais, je parle français, Monsieur Riske.”
“Of course you do.”
“Were you a bad boy?”
“Depends on how you define ‘bad.’”
“I think you know.” London reclined her seat halfway. Simon matched her. He had been trying not to look at her, not that way. He knew she valued her intellect over her beauty. She’d already called him “patronizing.” He didn’t want to add “lech” or just plain “rude” to the list. Yet here they were, face-to-face, the world and all its pain and sadness far below.
So he looked. At her eyes, her lips, her hair, her skin, the notch at the base of her neck, at the cleft of her breasts. She was exquisite, every feature demanding attention, inspiring a gasp.
“Let’s just say I wasn’t always the gentleman I am now.”
“You mean the gentleman who sprays Mace in a man’s face, handcuffs him to a table, and slams his head onto the pavement until he’s unconscious? The gentleman who knows how to break a man’s fingers to force him to talk? What did you used to be? A hardened criminal?”
“Well,” said Simon, “yes.”
“You’re kidding, right?You’re not?”
“This,” he said, pointing to the tattoo, then running his fingers over the back of her hand. “This was my outfit. The police referred to us as ‘organized criminals.’ Not the Mafia, exactly, but what passes for it in Corsica and parts of the South of France—Marseille, in particular.”
“You’re from Marseille?”
“Long story. Born in the U.S., parents divorced early. Grew up in London, then shipped to France when my father died. I guess we can blame it all on the French.”
“They usually are the cause of most problems,” said London.
“To the French,” said Simon, lifting his snifter.
“Chin-chin,”said London, touching her glass to his. “Before, when I said I wanted to thank you…I really wanted to thank you for saving my life. So thank you.”
“It’s what gentlemen do.”
She gazed at him, closed her eyes and opened them, her lips parted. It was a look every gentleman recognized, and only a scoundrel ignored.
Simon kissed her.
