Danielle Steel - Crossings

His stare let her know he could sense what she was thinking and so she turned to the man on her left. He was a stern-looking German with a monocle in his eye, and countless ribbons on his chest, which was wide enough to rival Armand's. He was Count von Farbisch of Berlin, and Liane had to fight back an instant dislike for him. Armand had recognized him at once as the man Nick Burnham had been talking to on the second day of the trip, in the smoking room, and he wondered if they would acknowledge each other now, but he saw the count give a curt nod and Nick inclined his head. The captain introduced them all around, and with the exception of the Burnhams and the De Villierses and the captain himself, it was a different group than it had been before. And Liane realized once again how few people she had met on the trip.

“Isn't that right, Madame de Villiers?” Captain Thoreux had been asking her a question and she blushed. She just wasn't in the right mood tonight. Between the unhappiness she had heard between the Burnhams, and the unpleasant German on her left, who had been regaling everyone with propaganda stories about Hitler, she had had enough before the meal had begun, and she was almost sorry that she and Armand weren't dining alone in their cabin.

“I'm sorry, Captain, I didn't hear …”

“I was saying that our tennis courts are extremely fine. I understand that you and Mr. Burnham played this morning.”

“We did.” Nick smiled at her. It was an easy, open smile, with no suggestiveness to it. “And what's more, Madame de Villiers beat me. Six to two.”

“Only after losing two games to you.” She laughed, but her heart was not light tonight. Even less so when she saw the ugly look that suddenly crossed the eyes of Hillary Burnham.

“Did he really beat you?” Hillary's eyes glittered menacingly. “I'm surprised. He plays a very poor game.” The diners at the captain's table were slightly taken aback at the remark and Liane entered the silence quickly.

“He plays far better than I.” She felt Armand's eye on her. And her German neighbor was by then speaking to the American woman on his left, once again about the miracles Hitler had wrought. For a moment Liane began to wonder if she would survive dinner. There was an obvious strain to them all, which even the Chateau d'Yquem didn't cure, nor the Margaux, nor the champagne, nor the excellent food from caviar to soufflé. Somehow, tonight, the food and the wines were almost oppressive, and everyone seemed relieved when they moved on to the Grand Salon for the gala ball. It was meant to have the bright atmosphere of New Year's Eve, but for Liane it didn't.

“You shouldn't have made that remark to Burnham's wife.” Armand reproached her gently as they danced.

“I'm sorry.” Liane was contrite. “But she's such a hateful woman, Armand. And it was either that or throw my glass of wine into that German's face. Who in God's name is he? I thought if I heard one more word about Hitler, I'd throw up.”

“I'm not sure. I suspect he's with the Reich. I saw him talking to Burnham in the fumoir earlier in the trip.” His words silenced her, it reminded her again of what Armand had said before, that Nick probably did business with the Germans. And it still upset her. He seemed such a decent man. How could he provide anything to the Third Reich? And if he was selling them steel, then they were obviously arming themselves again, which was a violation of the Versailles Treaty. Everyone knew the Germans had been arming themselves for years, but it made her sick to realize that a fellow American was helping them. There seemed to be too much to think about tonight, on all fronts, and it was almost a relief when Jacques Perrier appeared, discreetly, at eleven o'clock, and had a few quiet words with Armand. Moments later, he explained the situation to Liane. They had to go back to work for a little while. And she wasn't sorry when they excused themselves to the captain. She just wasn't in a festive mood, and she was happy to take off the red moiré gown she had put on only three hours before. It was a very handsome piece of work and she liked it, but now she cast it aside on a chair in her room as Armand left, and she settled into bed with a book. She had promised him that she would wait up, although he had said that she didn't have to. But even the book didn't hold her interest tonight. All she could think about were the mysterious Burnhams, Nick with his strange business alliances, and Hillary with her smoldering eyes and sullen mouth. She tried to concentrate on the book for half an hour, but at last she gave up and got out of bed and, pulling on a pair of slacks and a warm sweater, she went to sit on their deck, in the same chair she had been in when she had heard Hillary rant at Nick. She could faintly hear the music from the Grand Salon, and as she closed her eyes she could imagine people dancing. She was just as happy not to be there tonight. It would have been fun with Armand, on another night when she was in a better mood. But with him working, it would have been depressing to dance with the captain and the German and countless strangers.

But Liane wasn't the only one depressed that night. As Nick stood pondering his wife's latest antics, he looked far from cheerful. Hillary had rapidly recovered her spirits, dancing once with the captain, and once with the German count, and then Nick had seen her dancing with a handsome young Italian, who had already caused quite a stir on board the ship. He had brought a woman on the trip who wasn't his wife, and the two of them had caused a sensation, giving parties, reveling till all hours, and reportedly indulging in “multisexual activities” with any and all who were willing to join them in “secretly” held orgies in their cabin. They were just Hillary's speed, he thought bitterly to himself as he stirred his champagne with a gold swizzle stick he always carried on these occasions. The bubbles in the champagne always gave him a terrific headache the next day, and one of his German friends had given the swizzle stick to him years before, assuring him that he would never have a champagne hangover again, and he had been right.

It saddened Nick now to see what was happening to the Germans. They were slowly being overrun by fools like the count, and their country was being destroyed by Hitler. On the surface of course, Germany had never been in better shape, people had jobs, everything worked, the factories were booming, but there was a subtle poison beginning to run in their veins. He had sensed it for the last two years, and it troubled him more each time he visited Berlin or Munich or Hannover, and he suspected that he would see more of the same now. He had made arrangements with the count to meet him in Berlin in three weeks, to discuss their latest steel contracts. He had been doing business with this particular man now for over a year, but he had to admit, he couldn't stand him.

Like Liane, he found it impossible to concentrate on the chitchat tonight. Somehow it all seemed an unbearable burden, and he was tired of watching Hillary play her games. When he finished his champagne, he made his way quietly to the captain and explained that he had some work to do in his cabin, and that he didn't want to take his wife away from all the fun of the gala, but if the captain would be good enough to excuse him … Of course the captain said that he understood, although he joked that his ship was no longer a pleasure palace, but a large floating office for all these important men. He made reference to Armand having gone back to work.

“Je regrette infiniment, M. Burnham … that you are obliged to work tonight as well.”

“So do I, Captain.” They exchanged a pleasant smile, and Nick disappeared, relieved to put some distance between himself and the music. He had felt that if he had been forced to smile even for a moment longer, his face might explode. And he had no desire to see Hillary again until the morning.