God, Pierre Feramo could drink. One martini, a bottle of Cristal, an ’82 Pomerol and the best part of a ’96 Chassagne-Montrachet later, he was calling for a Recioto della Valpolicella to go with dessert. In most men, it would have seemed as though there was a problem. In a Muslim, it seemed downright bizarre. But then, Olivia found herself thinking, just say for most of his life Feramo never drank a drop of alcohol. Just say he’d only started drinking recently, as a smoke screen. How would he know he had a problem? How would he know that everyone didn’t drink like that?
“Aren’t Muslims supposed not to drink alcohol?” she ventured. She was feeling rather full. The food was superb: scallops on pureed spring peas with white truffle oil, sea bass in a lightly curried sauce with pumpkin ravioli, peaches stewed in red wine with mascarpone ice cream.
“Ah, that depends, that depends,” he said vaguely, filling up his glass. “There are different interpretations.”
“Do you dive from this boat?” she asked.
“What, scuba dive? Yes. Well, actually, no, not from here, not personally. It is too cold. I prefer to dive in the Caribbean, on the reef off Belize and Honduras, and in the Red Sea. You dive yourself?” He moved to fill her glass, not noticing that it was already full.
“Yes, I love diving. Actually, I was thinking before I came of suggesting a diving story to Elan: diving off the beaten track. I was thinking of the Red Sea coast of the Sudan as well.”
“But, Olivia,” he said, raising his hands expansively, “you must come to my hotel in Honduras. I insist. The diving off the Bay Islands is unsurpassed. We have walls which fall for a thousand feet, intricate tunnels, the rarest of marine life. You must ask your magazine to let you cover it. And then go on to the Sudan. It is wonderful there, the visibility is the best in the world. It is totally untouched. You must do it. You must do it at once. I am leaving for Honduras tomorrow. You must telephone your magazine and join me there as my guest.”
“Well, there’s a problem,” she said.
“A problem?”
“They’ve fired me.”
“They’ve fired you?”
She watched him carefully for signs of bluffing. “Yes. Someone from your PR office called the editor and complained that I’d called the FBI to suggest they check you out.”
“But how ridiculous.”
“Exactly. I didn’t. But someone bugged my room and was listening to me talking to myself.”
“Talking to yourself? Suggesting to yourself that I should be checked out by the FBI?”
He looked genuinely hurt. She was growing increasingly confused. He was plausible. He seemed like a man with integrity. She could see why he might fudge his racial identity in such a climate.
“Look,” she said, leaning forward, “Pierre, I’ll be honest. I did wonder about you after what happened in Miami. When we were together on your roof deck, you seemed so determined I shouldn’t go down to the OceansApart the next morning. And after it was blown up you immediately left town. You told me you were French, and then I heard you speaking Arabic. I do get a bit carried away and talk to myself—imaginary conversations, I guess, because I spend so much time alone. But I can’t understand who would have bugged my room.”
“You are certain the room was bugged?”
“I found a device in the phone jack.”
His nostrils flared.
“My dear Olivia,” he said eventually, “I am so sorry that this has happened. I had no idea. I cannot imagine who would have done this, but as you know, we live in paranoid times.”
“Yes. And you can see how—”
“Oh yes, yes. Of course. You are a journalist and a linguist. You have an enquiring mind. I would probably have been suspicious myself. But, then, I assume that had you retained these suspicions, you would not be here.”
“It would have been a bit daft to come,” said Olivia, carefully avoiding the lie.
“And now you have lost your job.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a job. But apparently your PR people called them in a fury.”
“I will put this right immediately. You must write down the contact details of your editor and I will make a phone call in the morning.”
He took her hand, his brown eyes melting into hers. “I am so sorry that this has happened.” He really was the most beautiful man: gentle, charming, gracious, kind.
Don’t fall in love with him, stop it, stop it, pull yourself together, she told herself. I’m like one of those female aid workers who falls for the leader of the rebel army or gets kidnapped and falls for her kidnapper. I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome.
“You will come? To Honduras?’ he said. ‘I shall organize a plane for you, and you must be my guest.”
She steeled herself. “No, no. You’re too kind, but I never accept hospitality when I’m writing a story. It interferes with the impartiality. I might find a cockroach in the soup and then where would we be?”
“Then this invitation to dinner must also interfere with your impartiality?”
“Only if I were writing a story about you.”
“And you are not? Ms. Joules, you disappoint me. I thought you were about to make me into a star.”
“I’m sure you’re the one person in LA who’s not looking for stardom.”
“Not in this life, anyway,” he said. “I will save stardom for the afterlife and my seventy virgins.”
As she laughed, he reached out and ran his hand delicately across her cheekbone. The touch of his lips on hers sent shock waves through her system.
“Ms. Joules,” he murmured, “you are so wonderfully, irrepressibly . . . English.”
He stood up, took her hand, raised her to her feet and led her up to the deck.
“You will stay here with me tonight?” he said, looking down at her.
“It’s too soon,” she murmured, giving in as he brought her head against his chest, putting his arms protectively around her, his hand moving to stroke her hair.
“I understand,” he said. The only sound was the soft lap of the waves against the side of the boat. “But you will join me in Honduras?”
“I’ll think about it,” she whispered weakly.