“Don’t dare feel sorry for yourself, Roxy Wilcox,” Mrs. Brittany said. “You’re not being shipped to San Quentin. You’re going to be in the lap of luxury at the height of the season on the Riviera.”
She walked along with me.
“Norbert will see to it that you attend some wonderful concerts and events in Monte Carlo. I have a friend who will be sailing his yacht into Villefranche-sur-Mer in about a month. We might join him for a luxurious weekend.”
I looked from side to side and into rooms as we headed for the front entrance. With both of them on either side of me now, I felt as if I was being escorted off the premises, and they were making sure that I could speak to no one and no one could speak to me. The stretch limousine was right outside. Jeffries had completed whatever packing needed to be done. He closed the trunk, and the chauffeur got out quickly to open the door for me.
For one frightening moment, I wondered if this was all a ruse and I wasn’t going off to the French Riviera but being carried off to some other form of disposal so I would never be a threat to Mrs. Brittany and her powerful, rich organization again. Maybe she could see the thought pass across my eyes. She took hold of me at both elbows and turned me around.
“This is more of a test than I had envisioned for you, Roxy, but if you can come through this and continue to grow and develop, I am sure you will be one of my top Brittany girls. You know I don’t say such things lightly.”
“Yes,” I said.
For a second, I thought she would actually kiss me on the cheek, but she let me go and stood back.
“Please tell Sheena I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye, at least.”
“I said I’d handle it. Don’t worry.”
“We’ll see you soon,” Mrs. Pratt added. “Remember, keep a very low profile. We don’t expect anyone to connect the dots over there, but American tourists will be there. Don’t speak to any strangers, ever.”
I felt like saying, “Yes, Mommy,” but kept my lips sealed.
“Since you will be in France, you might have the temptation to contact your mother’s family. That would be very, very foolish,” she added. I looked at Mrs. Brittany to see if she had the same thought.
“I definitely won’t do that, Mrs. Brittany. You have my word.”
“I expect you to keep it. I am hoping that you have what it takes to be on your own like this, Roxy. Don’t disappoint us. Don’t disappoint yourself,” Mrs. Brittany told me just before the door was closed.
I looked out at the two of them. Neither waved as we pulled away. They wore identical looks of concern and skepticism. I had the feeling they had debated doing this, with Mrs. Pratt probably taking the view that it would much easier just to turn me loose and forget me. I’ll prove her wrong, I thought.
As we turned down the long driveway, I looked toward the east side of the mansion and Sheena’s room. I imagined that she was going through some of her clothing, planning what she would wear on our next night out together, which, I realized, was supposed to be tonight. How would Mrs. Brittany explain this, and would she make it clear how much I hated leaving her? I hoped Mrs. Brittany realized that Sheena might see this as another betrayal.
I felt a real tear on my cheek. It shocked me until I realized that I was crying inside for Sheena as much as for myself.
We drove on. I sat back. The description Mrs. Brittany had given me of her villa and what awaited me should make me happy, I thought. After all, she was continuing her investment and faith in me.
But when I analyzed what this was about, I realized that I was still running away from my father.
Would that ever end?
13
Everyone, from the chauffeur to the pilots and the flight attendant on Mrs. Brittany’s private jet, was overly solicitous. I had the sense that anyone who represented Mrs. Brittany would be treated as if she were Mrs. Brittany. My comfort was foremost. I learned that the food that had been brought onto the plane had been prepared by Gordon Leceister. Even my silk pajamas and robe were there for me when I wanted to sleep. The plane had every amenity someone would enjoy in the first-class cabins of the best airlines. I doubted that anyone involved, however, knew anything more about me than that I was Mrs. Brittany’s guest. In minutes, it seemed, we were on our way, and I hadn’t had to show anyone a passport or go through any security check. I began to wonder who had more power in this world, the president of the United States or Mrs. Brittany. She snapped her fingers, and I was being whisked off to southern France.
Because of the time difference, I arrived at midday. Her friend Norbert Davies was waiting at the airport to rush me away to Mrs. Brittany’s villa the moment the plane landed. My luggage was quickly transferred to the limousine, which had been brought right up to the airplane.
“Bienvenue,” Norbert said as soon as I stepped off. He was a tall, dark-complexioned man with ebony hair but surprisingly blue eyes. I didn’t think he was more than thirty or maybe thirty-five. He wore a light, silver gray Armani suit with gold cuff links and one of the more expensive Rolex watches. He looked as if he had just done a GQ cover.
“Enchanté,” I said.
“Please.” He indicated the inside of the limousine. “We are having some unusually warm weather,” he told me as an explanation for why he wanted me in the air-conditioned vehicle as quickly as possible. “The whole Côte d’Azur is smoldering, with temperatures in the forties.”
“Forties? That’s not hot.”
“Celsius,” he said, smiling. “You’re here now, and when in Rome . . .”
“Exactement,” I said, realizing that, of course, Europe was on Celsius, not Fahrenheit. “D’accord.”