“Who? Who’s there? Drexel or Stevens?”
“Gotta go.”
“FRANK!” Jamie MacIntosh roared. But it was too late.
Slamming the phone down in frustration, he started pacing again.
“MARY JO. LET ME get you another drink.”
Pascal Cauchin was leaning over Tracy on the chaise longue, so close that she could smell the toothpaste on his brea
th and the desire seeping through his pores. Cauchin was tall and thin, with dry skin and thin lips that he kept darting his tongue over to keep them moist. He had long fingers and large, wide-set eyes that bulged and swiveled constantly around the room, as if searching for danger. Or perhaps opportunity. He reminded Tracy of a lizard. Cold-blooded, quick, and slippery, with a nasty bite.
“Oh, ahm fine thanks, darlin’, ” Tracy protested. Her last gin and tonic had been ridiculously strong. She still hadn’t formulated a definite plan for what she would do once Hunter Drexel arrived, but she knew she would need her wits about her.
“I insist,” Cauchin purred. “Pierre? Another gin for the lady.”
“Isn’t it time we got started, Pascal?”
Albert Dumas, a newspaper mogul and regular at the Montmartre poker evenings, was getting irritated. It wasn’t like Pascal to wait for latecomers. If the two Americans, Jeremy Sands and the other chap, Brightman, couldn’t be bothered to show up on time, they didn’t deserve to play at a top French table.
“We’ll give them five more minutes,” Cauchin said, not taking his eyes off Mary Jo, who had pulled out all the stops tonight in a backless green dress that was making it very hard for him to concentrate. The drunker he could get her before they started, the better.
HUNTER SAW FRANK DORRIEN first. He recognized the man in the café from Sally Faiers’s description, although even without it the general’s hiding behind Le Figaro was crashingly obvious.
So. The British are here.
From the direction of Dorrien’s glances, he ascertained that they had a man on the roof and possibly another at the back of Cauchin’s building. There was no sign of the CIA.
It’s risky, Hunter thought. Very risky. But not impossible.
From his alleyway vantage point he saw the other players arrive. He recognized Albert Dumas, but not the quirky little fellow in the bow tie, nor the overdressed but beautiful woman in the green evening dress.
Hunter wanted to play tonight, badly. He wanted to beat Pascal Cauchin, to see the look on his face when he lost his shirt. But not at any cost.
Sliding farther back into the shadows he watched and waited.
“I EXPECT JEREMY’S STUCK in traffic,” Antoine de la Court said nervously. “He’s usually very punctual.”
Albert Dumas gave the art dealer a disdainful look. He’d never been fond of the mincing de la Court, with his bow ties and gossipy anecdotes about the art world and affected way of tossing his bald head back when he laughed. It didn’t help that Antoine was an excellent poker player, as cunningly skillful as he was charming. Albert had lost a lot of money to the ghastly little fag over the years.
Apparently one of the newcomers Cauchin had invited tonight was another queer, a theater type from New York. Pascal probably wants to limit his competition for the Texas woman, Albert thought bitterly. Pathetic the way he’s all over her.
The doorbell rang.
“That’s probably Jeremy now,” Antione de la Court said, sounding relieved.
“Good.” Pascal beamed at Mary Jo. “That only leaves Lex Brightman. As soon as he gets here, we’ll get started.”
Jeremy Sands. Lex Brightman, Tracy thought. One of them is Hunter Drexel. I’m sure of it.
Was Hunter about to be shown into the room?
Tracy’s heart began to beat faster. Maybe she did need that second drink after all?
ALEXIS ARGYROS PULLED DOWN the visor on his motorcycle helmet.
Where the hell is he?