“Will he be all right?” asked Lucy.
“A mile to shore,” said Simon. “Give or take. He’ll be fine.” But he wasn’t sure. A mile at night was an eternity.With the storm…
“We need to get off the boat. Pronto.”
He directed her to the far side of the helipad and down a flight of exterior stairs, calculating the time until the painting was discovered missing, if it had not already been. At the bottom of the stairs, guests spilled onto the main deck. Most were dressed similarly to him and Lucy. Men in dinner jackets, women in cocktail dresses. Inside, the grand salon had been transformed into a mock-up of Studio 54, the fabled New York discotheque. A raised dance floor lit from below, DJ booth, mirror ball, go-go dancers on pedestals. Earth, Wind, and Fire blasted from the speakers. The only thing missing was Bianca Jagger riding a white stallion and Andy Warhol huddled in a booth with Halston and Elizabeth Taylor.
Simon led the way across the salon, happy for the anonymity afforded him by the throng of revelers. He stole a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and downed it. There was no reason to believe anyone would be looking for them. One guard had seen the two of them in Samson Sun’s bedroom, and that had been but briefly and in the dark. He’d been left unconscious, but for how much longer? The only other person to suspect them was currently swimming to shore.
A British actor famous for his blue eyes, tousled hair, and beguiling stutter placed a hand on Lucy’s arm, nuzzling her with far too much familiarity. Simon couldn’t hear what he said to her. It didn’t matter. The actor was older than her by three decades. Simon whispered a few words of his own into the actor’s ear and the man dropped his hand as if he’d been shocked.
“But that was—” Lucy said.
“Yes, it was.”
“And he wanted to—”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Mr. Riske! There you are!”
Simon turned and found himself face-to-face with a short, pudgy, bald Asian man of indeterminate age. Thirty? Fifty? It was impossible to tell. “Samson, hello. And please, call me Simon.”
“I missed you at the auction.” Indonesian accent by way of Oxford. At least, that’s what he’d told Simon.
“Too rich for my blood, I’m afraid.”
“You? I doubt that.” Samson Sun was dressed entirely in white—suit, shirt, tie, even his shoes—his one contrasting feature the round, black-framed eyeglasses that were his trademark. Sun turned to Lucy, the top of his head reaching her chin. “And who’s this lovely creature?”
“My friend, Lucy Brown. Lucy, say hello to Samson.”
“A pleasure, I’m sure.”
Behind the pebble lenses, Sun’s eyes stayed on Lucy a beat too long. “What’s this, then, Miss Brown? A present for your host?”
Lucy’s mouth worked, but no words came out.
“Actually, you gave it to her,” said Simon.
“Me?”
“A door prize.”
Sun returned his attention to Lucy. “Please join me,” he said, gesturing to a table at the back of the room. “You may find some new clients.”
“Thank you, but we wouldn’t want to interrupt.” Simon placed a hand on Lucy’s elbow as his eyes scanned the room for trouble.
“Not at all. Perhaps Miss Brown would like to meet the cast of my movie.” He took Lucy’s hand. “Are you an actress by any chance?”
“An actress? Me? Course not.”
Sun had come to Cannes as the producer of a movie calledThe Raft of the Medusa. The film was based on a true story of a group of African refugees whose boat had sunk as they made the crossing from Libya to Italy and had spent three hellish weeks adrift on a makeshift raft, nearly all of them perishing. Several of the survivors played themselves in the movie. Simon spotted them seated at Sun’s table.
“Next time,” said Simon. Then: “You’ll be in Cannes the entire festival?”
“Naturally,” said Sun. “Our film is to be shown closing night. A prestigious honor.”
“Congratulations. We’ll see you on the Croisette. And thank you for the invitation. Great party.”
