“You are wicked, aren’t you?”
To hear him, it sounded like a compliment. Yet what did he know? He hadn’t even asked her a question about herself yet. That would come.
Ava smiled. “Dessert?”
“At my home.”
Chapter 34
Chesa Grischuna
St. Moritz
They drove home in the Bugatti.
The road back to St. Moritz was narrow, two lanes, and at this time of night deserted. No music to get her in the mood—just the throaty rumble of the engine to accompany them. For his part, Tariq didn’t spend time telling her what a magnificent automobile it was. This horsepower, that many valves, this kind of steering. She didn’t ask. To her, it was a car like any other. To his credit, Tariq resisted the opportunity to show off. Or so she thought. The car drove so smoothly; how fast could they be going? Then she looked at the speedometer and saw he’d been doing two hundred kilometers all along. The road began a series of twists and turns. Now she felt it, the rapid acceleration and deceleration, gravity forcing her derriere to get to know every inch of her bucket seat, then propelling her against her shoulder belt. She could sense him smiling, enjoying her unease, daring her to ask him, “Slower, please.” Ava kept her eyes straight ahead and made sure she smiled herself. She’d spent too much time in far more uncomfortable vehicles in far more dangerous environs. Tariq, go ahead. Drive as fast as you desire.
They arrived at the chalet at the stroke of midnight. The garage door was open. First, they descended a driveway so steep it remindedher of a ride at an amusement park. The lights were on. She counted four cars parked in their stalls. Tariq stopped the car on a dime. If there was a dignified way of climbing out of a sports car six inches off the ground, Ava didn’t know it. Tariq, ever the gentleman, dashed to her side and offered a hand to help her out.
“Welcome to the Chesa Grischuna,” he said.
A man stood at the elevator, holding the door. Not a Swiss; security flown in from the Gulf. Tariq didn’t address him. He merely extended an arm for Ava to go first. They rode to the top floor. Seven floors, just like the newspaper had reported. It was a room from a dream. Twenty-foot ceilings. Exposed rafters. A floor-to-ceiling window facing south and inviting the mountains inside to join them.
Tariq motioned for her to sit on a sofa of tanned leather. Another man brought dessert. Peach Melba, he announced, placing the bowls on a marble coffee table. A juvenile choice, thought Ava. She took a bite. Heaven.
“I’ve been terribly rude,” said Tariq, studiously ignoring the dessert. “Only talking about me and my family and politics. Excuse me. I know nothing of you.”
“Not my favorite subject,” said Ava.
A laugh. “You are the first woman in history to say that.”
“I’m private.”
“Family? Husband? Children? Dogs? Cats?”
And so the interrogation begins, thought Ava. She was surprised he’d waited this long. She was beginning to realize that he was not like other Arab men. He rejected the chauvinism and inbred egotism prevalent in the men of his culture:You are a male. You must act this way.But if his manners were more refined, they didn’t camouflage his unquestioned superiority or unapologetic entitlement:I am a prince.
“Never married,” said Ava. “No children. Parents in Dijon. Papa is a chef. He runs a restaurant. The Lion d’Or. Not the one in Geneva. Quite good. Traditional cuisine, obviously. And yes, a dog. A Bernese mountain dog. Fritz.”
“Where’s home?” he asked.
“Zinal,” she said. “Do you know it?”
“Someplace high in the mountains. Population a hundred fifty and a few goats.”
“Ah, you’ve been.”
“Live there all alone, do you?”
“No,” said Ava, forthrightly. There. Care to know more? Ask.
“Long way to come for physical therapy.”
“I like Dr. Lutz,” said Ava. “Three days every other week. I think of it as a short vacation.”
“Did you know he’s a Jew?” he asked, as if a “Jew” were some kind of curiosity.
“Why should I care?”
