Danielle Steel - Crossings

“Good evening, Captain.” Her voice was deep and husky, and in spite of their best efforts, everyone lost the thread of their conversations at the table. Captain Thoreux stood up, bowed in well-executed, almost military fashion, and bent to kiss her hand.

“Madame … bonsoir.” He stood to face her again and introduced her to the group. “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” and then he introduced Nick. The group at the captain's table was considerably older than were they, except for Liane. But most were of the captain and Armand's generation. Their wives were elegant and well dressed but slightly overstuffed, and heavily bejeweled, as though if they counterbalanced their portly shapes with an equal quantity of jewels, one might not notice their excess weight. But no one looked at them once Hillary arrived. The men's eyes were riveted to Hillary and her gown, which seemed to flow over her like water, straight across her shoulders in the front, and then down to a point just below her waist in back, revealing the delicious flesh every man who saw her longed to touch.

“Good evening, everyone.” She made no effort to remember their names, and awarded a second glance only to Armand, looking extremely handsome tonight, wearing his decorations with his white tie. She made no effort to talk to Liane, although they sat across the table from each other, but Nick seemed to make a special effort to make up for her, chatting pleasantly with two older women on either side, and an elderly man who turned out to be an English lord. Liane noticed that Nick glanced frequently at his wife, not so much as an affectionate sign, as Armand had done two or three times since the dinner began, but rather as though he were checking up on her. She saw him appearing not to strain to hear what Hillary said, but she had the feeling that Nick Burnham did not trust his wife, and between the plateau de fromages and the soufflé Grand Marnier, she began to suspect why. Hillary was speaking to the elderly Italian prince on her left, and had just told him that she always found Rome extremely dull. But as though to keep him intrigued, she smiled pleasantly as she made the slight, and then looked past him again to cast an eye at Armand. “I understand you're an ambassador.” She glanced then at Liane, and it was obvious that she was wondering if Liane was his daughter or his wife. “You're traveling with your family?”

“I am. My wife and daughters. Your husband tells me that you have a son on board. Perhaps we can get the children together sometime to play.” Hillary nodded, but she seemed annoyed. It looked somehow as though children's games were not precisely what she had in mind. There was a predatory quality about her tonight, a woman looking for easy prey, and with a face and body like that, Liane thought to herself, it couldn't be very hard to find. She was amused at Armand's polite rebuff. She never worried about him, the only one she ever lost him to was Jacques Perrier. As it turned out, they had worked all afternoon, and he had come back to the Trouville suite just in time to bathe and get dressed, a circumstance Liane was accustomed to, although she had hoped to see more of him on the ship.

“Perhaps,” she had threatened him as she ran his bath and handed him a kir, “I shall have to throw Jacques overboard.” Armand had laughed, grateful for an understanding wife. But he had not seen her earlier on their private deck, staring out to sea, with a look of sorrow on her face. She longed for the days of long ago, when he was a less important man, and there hadn't been a constant flow of memos and cables and reports to occupy his mind, and he had had more time for her. He so seldom did now.

She wondered then what Nick Burnham was like. He seemed a pleasant man, but he offered very little of himself. He was polite, well-bred, he seemed to take in the entire scene with quiet eyes, but one knew him no better when dessert was served than one had known him when he had first sat down. She wondered if perhaps he adopted such a bland facade to counteract his more than startling wife. Liane had a feeling that she was out to shock. It was not that her dress was inappropriate, but it was designed obviously to catch the eye and keep it there. One thing was certain, Hillary Burnham was not shy.

Nicholas was observing his wife through new eyes tonight. He had watched her from the moment they introduced her as his wife, to see how she would react, following her confessions to him that afternoon in the bar. Insanely he hoped that something in her would soften, but she was no different than before. The moment the captain said the fateful words “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” she was out to prove something to them all. It almost made Nick sorry for her to see her chafe at the bonds she so ardently resented. But there was nothing he could do to help her. Even a kindly look from him annoyed her and she rapidly turned her attention to Armand, with a come-hither look in her eyes. But the ambassador appeared not to notice.

“This isn't Boston or New York, Hil,” Nick whispered later as the entire group headed toward the Grand Salon. “If you give yourself a bad name here, it'll stick with you for the next five days.” He was referring to her unsuccessful attempt at flirtation with Armand, the captain, and two of the other diners.

“Who gives a damn? They're a bunch of old bores.”

“Are they? I rather thought you liked the ambassador.” It was his first truly cutting remark of the trip, but he was tired suddenly of her games. Even when he tried to understand her, inevitably she angered him or hurt him. And she was also straining obviously at the bit, and it worried him. He was never quite sure what she would do or say. “Do yourself a big favor while you're on board.”

“What's that?”

“Behave yourself.”

She turned to face him then, stopping dead in her tracks with a wicked smile. “But why? Because I'm your wife?”

“Don't start that crap again. As it so happens, that's exactly who you are. There are almost a thousand important, influential people on this ship, and if you don't watch your ass, my dear, every one of them is going to know just what you are.” His anger was full-blown now. He could do nothing to stop it and no longer cared to.

“And what's that?” She was almost laughing at him now, totally oblivious of his concern. And he had been about to answer her with two simple words: “A whore,” but the captain was at their sides again in the magnificent room, and Hillary turned to him with a charming smile. “Will there be dancing tonight?”

“Of course, my dear.” The captain, like the other officers aboard the ship, had seen droves of Hillarys over the years, some older than she, some not. Lovely, spoiled, bored with their lives ashore, tired of marriages and husbands who had faded from their lives long years before, but they had seen few quite as beautiful as this. She stood beside their table in the Grand Salon now, and even in the splendor of the room, she was aware of every pair of male eyes on her. There were glowing crystal fountains filled with light, windows twenty-two feet high, and murals etched in glass, covered with ships, and an orchestra had already begun to play, but Hillary was the finest attraction of all. She had wilted not one bit from the feast in the dining room. If anything, she seemed more effervescent than the endless flow of French champagne. “In fact”—the captain smiled at Nick—“may I have your permission, sir, to ask Madame for the first dance?”

“Of course.” Nick smiled pleasantly his assent and watched them as they walked away. The orchestra was playing a low French waltz, and Hillary's body moved with extraordinary grace as the captain guided her expertly around the floor, and other couples joined them, among them Armand and Liane.