Page 69 of The Pairing

“Exactly. Anyway, what do you want to do today? Can’t really go to Monte Carlo in that slutty little swimsuit.”

He looks down at himself, at the trunks that end just below the crease of his thigh. “It’s not slutty. It’s European.”

“For you, that’s the same thing.”

I can’t see the look in his eyes when his chin tips up, but faint color gathers in his cheeks.Do you like that?I wonder.

“Okay, then, what doyouwant to do with me in my slutty little swimsuit?”

Oh, he likes it.

“I want. ..” I say, savoring those two syllables. I could be anything. I could be a tease. I could be a Flowerday who does Molly on boats with Formula 1 drivers. “I want to be on a yacht.”

“A yacht?” Kit repeats, bemused. “Okay. Should only be about a quarter million to charter one.”

“I don’t need to pay,” I say, gesturing at all the rich men milling about their fancy boats. “Look at these guys. It’s like a Tom Wambsgans casting call. I could convince any of them to let us on.”

I scan the harbor for what Este would notice. She wouldn’t waste time with any yacht small enough to fit in a slip. I narrow in on the 150-foot behemoth at the very end of the pier.

“That one,” I declare, hopping down from the rail.

“Theo, what are you doing?” Kit asks, eyebrows high over his sunglasses, but I’m already walking backward away from him.

“I just told you.”

“No, I mean. . .what are youdoing?”

“I’m taking risks! Aren’t you happy?”

Beside the slipway up to the megayacht, a man speaks animated French to a passing caterer, a bottle of wine in each hand. I can tell it’s his yacht by the weight of his flax linen shirt and his Cartier watch, but what really convinces me is the label on the wine: Pétrus, the only winery on the Pomerol plateau situated entirely on a blue clay deposit. Every somm I know would shiv their mom for one taste of that wine, and he’s waving it around like it’s Franzia.

“What’s the vintage?”

The man turns at the sound of my voice. Sunlight flashes on a thin gold chain against sandy chest hair.

I’m pleasantly surprised to see he’s strikingly good-looking, in a Cary Grant or Marlon Brando kind of way, old Hollywood with a palpable air of bisexuality. Angular jaw, full lips, dirty blond hair, eyes the same clear blue as the harbor. The crinkled corners ofhiseyes and salt-and-paper stubble place him around forty.

“2005,” he says, a curious tilt to his smile. “Have we met?”

“I’m Theo. Theo Flowerday, of the Ted and Gloria Flowerdays. Do you know of my parents? Eleven combined Academy Awards? If you’ve ever been to Cannes, I’m sure you’ve seen them around.”

In case none of this is enough, I point toward Kit, who is helpfully bending over to tighten his sandals.

“He’s with me.”

Émile has an utterly unplaceable accent. It’s part Greek, part Swiss German, part Ivy League American, and a secret fourth thing, a sumptuous quality that brings to mind silk ties and dessert wine. He reminds us to take off our shoes before we step on the teak, then tours us around his enormous yacht, stopping in the chef’s kitchen to taste a sprig of lemongrass for the canapés and give us each a flute of champagne. Then he takes us out onto the main deck, where the party is well and truly raging.

Models lounge on chaises, drinking vodka on the rocks and rubbing coconut oil onto their skin. Grand Prix drivers throw down euros over a poker game. Some people swim in the pool on the deck, while others jump from the back of the boat into the sea. Waiters bring around trays of high-concept hors d’oeuvres and glasses of pink champagne. Music throbs over the speakers, clouds of vapor and cigar smoke waft from laughing mouths, and everyone is so goddamn hot.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Émile tells us, his hand skimming Kit’s waist. Something between possessiveness and arousal buzzes in my veins.

When he leaves, Kit turns to me in disbelief.

“You got us onto a yacht,” he says. “What now?”

I suck down my champagne and grab another from a passing waiter.

“Unbutton your shirt,” I say, already taking mine off and throwing it over the nearest chair.

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