Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

Celina wondered if her father had seen him yet.

She turned to look for George and came face to face with Diana Crane, who was standing near Celina, her back to the bar, a glass of bubbling champagne in her hand. There was a silence while the two women stood looking at one another. Appraising one another. Then Diana stepped forward. “Hello, Celina.”

Celina nodded. She noticed the fading bruise around Diana’s eye, the carefully concealed scrape on her forehead and couldn’t help wondering what she and Eric had gone through the night they were attacked.

“That’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing,” she said.

Diana brought a hand to her neck and her fingers tip-toed over hundreds of carats of diamonds and rubies and sapphires. “Thank you,” she said. “Eric gave it to me.”

It was a casual remark, not a slam, and Celina felt a kind of sadness for Diana, not anger. She wondered how such an intelligent woman could fall for someone like Eric. And then she checked herself. Why not? I did.

She decided to at least deliver a warning.

“I remember when Eric bought it for me,” Celina said. “We were in Milan, vacationing, and I was struck by the size and the clarity of the stones. You do realize that the stones are flawless, don’t you?”

It was a moment before Diana could speak. Her fingers pressed against the necklace, the stones cutting into her flesh. “Eric bought this for you?” she said.

Celina nodded. “Three years ago, I think. I sent it-and others like it-back to him when we broke up. I think it looks better on you, though. The sapphires bring out the blue in your eyes.”

Diana Crane walked away. Celina felt a twinge of guilt as she watched her leave. “I had to do it,” she said aloud. “He gave her that necklace and made her think he bought it for her. What a bastard.”

“Who’s a bastard?”

Celina put her hand on Jack’s arm. She wondered how long he had been standing behind her, wondered just how much he’d heard. “It’s not important,” she said, taking the glass of champagne he offered. She sipped-and noted it wasn’t champagne. It was beer. “You really are too much,” she said.

“Would you rather have drunk from the can?”

“We have in the past. Why stop now?”

“Good point,” Jack said. “Next time, I’ll ask for a six-pack.”

“You do that,” Celina said and, acting on impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You know what I’d like to do right now?”

Jack shook his head.

“I’d like to dance with you before this floating palace casts off. What do you say?”

They danced slowly at first, Jack’s hand gently embracing hers, Celina’s cheek touching his, each aware of the other’s body. Couples Anastassios had flown in from around the world were twirling around them, some laughing, others talking-all enjoying the orchestra.

Celina was aware of people looking at them from the surrounding tables, but she made an effort to ignore them. She was happy to be here with Jack. She was glad to have him in her life.

“Isn’t that Harold Baines over there?” Jack asked.

Celina followed Jack’s gaze with her own. Standing with his back to the railing, drink in hand, was Harold. He was talking with Louis Ryan. She nodded, surprised to see the two men together.

“I wonder what he and Ryan are arguing about?”

“What makes you think they’re arguing?”

“Harold raised his voice a moment ago,” Jack said. “I heard him. And look at Ryan’s face-it’s as red as that woman’s dress. They’re arguing.”

The music became softer, slower and Jack held her closer. Celina looked away from Harold at the same moment Harold stormed away from Louis Ryan. She brushed her cheek against Jack’s, smelled his cologne and felt the warmth of his body through the thin material of her dress. She wondered if he was as aware of these things as she was. She wondered if she was on his mind as often as he was on hers. She wondered if he was as attracted to her as she was to him.

Gradually, she began to lose herself in him and the dance. He was speaking to her. His voice was a low rumble above the lapping of the waves and the faint roar of the engines as the ship cast off. She heard him mention something about the yacht and the guests, about the thickening storm clouds and the threat of rain, but she was unable to follow what he was saying. As far as Celina was concerned, they could be anywhere in the world.

“Am I boring you?” Jack asked after awhile. They had been dancing for nearly twenty minutes. “Is something wrong?”

Celina pulled back and knew he had asked her a question she hadn’t heard. She felt embarrassed. “No. I-my mind was elsewhere. Sorry.”

Jack was no fool. He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. Celina kissed him back, only dimly aware of the murmurs rippling through the crowd. There was no question what would happen next.

“Come with me,” he said, taking her hand.

They found a staircase that went below ship and followed a narrow passage to its end. As they turned onto a wider passage and began looking for one of the staterooms, Celina thought that she never wanted a man more than she wanted this man.

It came to her then that this would be only the second man she had ever been with, and the thought exhilarated her. She sensed that it would be different with Jack than it had been with Eric. She sensed it would be better.

They stopped in front of a door that was at the end of the hall. Jack opened it and stepped inside. Across the room, seated naked at the foot of a large four-poster bed, was Harold Baines, a rubber tube tied to the sunken flesh of his upper left arm, the needle of a syringe buried in the fold.

Seated behind him was a young man, his legs wrapped around the shadow of Harold’s thinning waist, his waiter’s uniform cast carelessly to the floor.

There was a moment when Harold’s eyes met Jack’s, when shock registered on each man’s face, then Jack quickly closed the door before Celina could see.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

She went for the door. Jack reached for her hand and pulled her toward him. He kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Anyone could walk in on us here and we’d regret it. Here isn't the place. Let’s wait.”

“This must be some sort of joke,” Elizabeth Redman said in a whisper to her husband. “He can’t be seated here. He can’t be seated at our table. Anastassios knows better. He never would have allowed it.”

“Don’t be so sure,” George said, looking away from Louis Ryan, who was seated opposite them. “Anastassios knows I’m trying to buy WestTex. He knows I’m going to be competition. This is exactly something he would do.”

“Well, I can’t believe it. The man doesn’t even belong here. What does Louis Ryan care about the discovery of twelve Monet paintings? What does he care about HIV and AIDS? Just look at him,” she said in a low voice. “Sitting there, smiling, as if he doesn’t know that we’re here. As if he doesn’t remember what he put us through all those years ago. You murdering his wife. Ridiculous.”

George squeezed her hand. It was a moment before he could dispel the image of Anne Ryan that flashed before his eyes. “Look,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him. This was bound to happen someday. Why don’t we just ignore him and enjoy ourselves?”

“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just leave?”

“Because we’re on a boat in the middle of the Hudson. We can’t leave.”

“Oh, please, George. Somewhere on this floating island there’s a helicopter. We can tell Anastassios that there has been an emergency.” She looked around her. Everyone was either sitting down to dinner, or preparing to. The air was a hum of voices. “Where is Celina sitting? Maybe she and Jack wouldn’t mind switching tables with us.”