Page 31 of The Devil Wears Orange
After a pause, Jack says, “The Prince.”
“This is insane. To what purpose?”
“To keep your enemy close. Consider it’s what you have to do to clear your name.”
“What do you get out of it?”
“TheMistress. This morning, I did some research, and we have an opportunity to confront the Prince. We have a few days to devise a plan. It’s not that insane,” he says.
“Professor, take a picture of me, will you?” I say and shift a bit, posing with my elbow against the back of the bench. The request seems to catch Jack off-guard, but he acquiesces, pulls his phone from his shirt pocket, and snaps a picture. He looks at it.
“Nice,” he says, then flips the phone my way.
I barely look at it and shrug my shoulders. “Do it again, but this time get the black sedan that’s been following us since we left the vineyard.”
Looking nonplussed, Jack lifts the phone and clicks a few times, then shows me the images. I place my fingers on thephoto, enlarge it to ensure the license plate is legible. “In case you’re still wondering, they’re not with me. Am I making myself understood?”
His eyes flicker past me, rest for a bit, then return to me. “I’d be an imbecile to think otherwise.”
“Good,” I say, though I’m not wholly convinced he means it. “Favreau should take a look at that plate because if the occupants in that car work for Prince Rashid, and should anything happen to us, at least we can leave some breadcrumbs for Favreau to follow. That is if they don’t belong to Favreau. I know you’re feeding him information about me.”
“I most certainly am not,” says Jack in a pitchy voice.
“Jack, don’t lie to me. If we’re going to do this, you have to promise you’ll run things by me first before you share them. We’re either working together or you’re working against me.”
He stares at me. “I promise.”
I look away to the small shops ahead of us, at the tourists traipsing in and out of storefronts, not one with an expression of solemn contemplation like the one, I suspect, is on my face.
Turning to Jack, I say, “You said we have to devise a plan. What do you have in mind?”
Chapter 16
The plan was simple.Get in. Make contact. Get out.
It was a team effort. Jack reached out to a former student named Baldie, the son of the hotel owner where the event is taking place. When nothing came of it, I reached out to Harriet, who contacted a publicist she knew, and expeditiously provided Jack and I with access to the charity casino event. At some point, Harriet will ask for something in return, which is worse than owing the mob. Jack used his credit card points to secure train tickets and a hotel room, mumbling about forfeiting the points for his vacation.
We went over the plan ad nauseam, considered different scenarios that could play out, none of which ended badly. There was always the possibility that it wouldn’t go smoothly or that, unlike a well-crafted screenplay, the dialogue wouldn’t flow as we had rehearsed. Still, we were confident our plan would prove infallible, and we’d infiltrate our target’s shield.
Get in. Make contact. Get out.
Imbued with its original spirit of the Belle Epoque, the Casino de Monte Carlo perches on the Mediterranean Sea in a principality known for its luxurious lifestyle. Monaco smells differently here by the salty, ocean air. I hear the crashing waves in the distance, and elsewhere, the squeals of party-goers, and the monotonous tones of cars on the roadway. Before reaching the red-carpeted steps, I sweep past parked Ferraris, Bentleys, and two Aston Martins; a man exits from one, a cigarette dangles from his lips, and his eyes seem to examine me.
Inside the casino, sculptures, frescoes, and mirrors swirl around me in the cavernous setting. I stride through the lobby past guests milling about between columns while, in a corner, a man in a tuxedo, shouts into a cell phone. Those near the caller ogle him, exhibiting their disdain at his apparent lack of civility. The slot machines ping and the rattling of balls at the roulette wheels swell around me in a cacophony of excitement. I can still smell the cigarette smoke from the Aston Martin driver and feel his eyes on me though he’s long gone.
A sign on a gilded tripod points me to the gaming room, transformed into a private charity event. The gambling tables are lined in green felt, the chairs in burgundy, and overhead, numerous chandeliers sparkle. I slip my invitation to a slender man standing near the entrance and dip a hand into my purse to fetch my passport. He looks briefly at my photo before admitting me.
The people here are glamorous and ostentatious, yet all eyes, I believe, are on me. Dressed in a barely-there Versace, I had spent more than an hour stuffing myself while I zipped, strapped, taped, and dabbed sweat from the exertion. And when I exited the bathroom of the hotel we had checked into, Jack’s eyes grazed me up and down. “Wow. You… look like a Bond girl,” he said, his voice deep.
I spot Prince Rashid at a center casino table.Damn, his beauty stuns me just as he had done the first time he walked out on stage. He looks up from his playing cards and spots me, surprise morphing into a mischievous smile.
A Bond girl?Jack got it wrong. I’m no Bond girl. IamBond.
Rashid has just won a poker hand, and the losing player abandons his seat across from him. I slide in without a moment’s hesitation.
“Bonsoir,” I say to Rashid. He quickly masks his surprise.
“MademoiselleMilton, it is both a pleasure and a surprise to see you here.” I recognize the accent and soft intonations as that of the thief from the Lumière show. The memory of his scent, his touch on the small of my back, pound against me with the brute force of a hurricane.
