body. She could feel the tires gripping the asphalt—feel them—and this unholy communion between road and car and driver left her far too exhilarated, fearing for her life.
She followed the coast road out of Cannes, past the smaller marinas, and into Juan-les-Pins. The route veered south as it navigated the Antibes peninsula, gentle hills rising on her left, the scent of heated pine flooding the car. Faster, a voice urged her. We haven’t enough time. We’re relying on you. But was it Simon or the madly capable Israeli woman? Or both of them? Defying her every instinct, she kept her foot on the pedal and her mouth closed in case any second she might scream.
A sign popped up for the hotel.
No! She was going too fast to make the left-hand turn. Traffic approached in the opposing direction. Faster! Clenching her jaw, she yanked the wheel to the left and pressed the accelerator, the Ferrari leaping forward like a prisoner escaping her bonds as it cut across the oncoming lane, the roar of the motor more than loud enough to drown out the protesting horns.
Up an incline. Right onto the Boulevard J. F. Kennedy. She spotted tall pillars guarding the hotel drive. Still driving much too quickly, she turned too late, then overcorrected, the nose of the car narrowly missing one pillar.
She was there.
London braked much too hard as the Ferrari skidded to a halt in front of the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Originally built as a private mansion in the style of Napoleon III, the hotel resembled a grand nineteenth-century country house. Leaving the car running, the muffled roar of the motor an affront to the pristine calm, she ran up the stairs and inside.
“Room 302,” she shouted. “Mr. Borgia is in trouble.”
A bellman hurried over. “Excuse me, madame?”
London hurried past him, searching for the elevator. “It’s an emergency. He phoned me. Please. We must hurry.”
The staff of the front desk, located in an alcove immediately to her left, reacted immediately.
“One moment, madame.” A concerned hotelier went straight to a back office. A minute later, a well-dressed man emerged, rushing to her side.
“Mr. Borgia, you say? Something is the matter?”
London nodded, still gathering her breath. “I believe he’s had a heart attack. Quickly, we must check on him. Room 302.”
The manager looked at London, tears streaking her cheeks, a woman in distress, then at the Ferrari, idling by the front stairs. He had been trained that a client was never wrong. He had also been trained that a guest’s privacy was inviolable. A final look at London’s imploring gaze, her state of distress. “Follow me, please.”
They rode the elevator in silence, except for London’s imprecations that they must hurry. “Il faut se dépêcher.”
They alighted at the third floor. The manager led the way, key in hand. By now, two members of the security team trailed behind them. The manager rang the doorbell, waited, then waited no longer. He inserted his key and opened the door. London barged past him, through an entry hall, through a grand living room, calling his name—“Luca!”—no sign of him here, and into the bedroom, light streaming through the tall glass doors, a view across a canopy of pines to the ocean beyond.
The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled. A peach-colored satin camisole lay on the floor; beside it, a pair of panties and stockings. Men’s clothing was folded neatly on the chair. No sign of Borgia.
London halted, unsure how to proceed. Wrongly, she’d assumed that she would find Borgia in his room. Somehow she felt betrayed. She realized she was still on a high from the ride in the car, some kind of adrenaline rush. It came to her that she had no business here, but there was no time for doubt. No room for hesitation. Lives were at stake. We’re relying on you!
“Luca, are you all right?”
Then she heard it. The sound of a shower coming from the bathroom. She opened the door, slipping the pistol from her waistband. Clouds of steam filled the room. She advanced a step, then another. A woman stood inside the glass stall, face to the jets, washing her hair. She sensed the intrusion and turned her head. Eyes open, she saw London and the gun. She recoiled, hand covering her mouth.
“Is he here?” asked London, opening the shower door.
The woman looked at her unashamed, her gaze forthright, defiant. “Who are you?”
“Is he here, dammit?”
“At the premiere,” said the woman. English. Educated. But why wasn’t she more frightened?