In fact, when Nicole exited the bathroom a short time later, the same voluptuous blonde seated beside Rafe at a small table gave her a if-looks-could-kill glare as though to emphasize that point. Caught in the crosshairs of the murderous look, Nicole had a moment of doubt. Did she really want to be in the middle of a possible battle royal? Should she refuse the drink and get the hell out? But before she’d taken more than a few steps, Rafe was walking toward her, holding a martini glass.
“See if you like this Novatini,” he said a moment later, handing her the drink. “Hendrick’s Gin, white cranberry juice, half a lime, squeezed. Come, sit. You’re an American aren’t you?”
“Yes. San Francisco.” Nicole took the offered glass.
“I know the city,” he said as they moved to the table. “I spent a couple years at Stanford.” He pulled out a chair for her.
Nicole glanced up as she sat. “Small world. I just graduated from Stanford.”
He grinned. “It must be karma.”
Conscious of Silvie’s glowering expression, Nicole murmured noncommittally, “If you say so.”
“No doubt in my mind,” he said very softly, even though he’d never actually believed in karma. Nor in the word mesmerized, which described his reaction to this lithe lush beauty. Sitting down, he nodded. “You’ve been swimming.” Nicole’s long dark hair fell in damp ringlets.
“The swimming platform was inviting.”
He smiled. “No one ever actually swims around here.”
“I do.”
“Often?”
“Every day.”
He leaned forward. “Where are you staying?”
“Goddamn it, you shit! I’m right here!” Silvie spat, making a scene as natural as breathing to her.
“Relax, Silvie,” Rafe said. “I’m just making conversation.”
“I want her to leave!”
“Really, I probably should go,” Nicole said, setting her glass down.
“Nonsense.” Turning to Silvie, he said, very softly, “Behave.”
Grabbing her wineglass, she was about to fling its contents at Rafe, as if she were once again playing the Italian soap opera role that had brought her to prominence, when the stateroom door abruptly opened.
Emilio Fermetti paused in the doorway. “Ah, there you are, Silvie.” Well dressed in a custom-tailored fawn linen suit, the tall, white-haired patrician was fully capable of artifice after thirty years in the diplomatic service. “I thought I might find you here,” he said with a bland smile.
His wife dropped her glass on the table. “The sun was too hot on deck,” she said with a defiant little shrug.
“Of course. And you with such fair skin,” he said gently. “But we do have to leave now, darling. Dinner with Shokov.” He dipped his head to Rafe. “Thank you for your hospitality, Rafail. If you’ll excuse us.”
“Certainly. A pleasure to see you again, Emilio. Make sure you let me know what you need for your Sudan aid mission. I’ll see that the drugs get there.”
“I’ll send over an inventory list. To you or to the Contini Foundation?” The ambassador smiled faintly. “Is Isabelle still in charge of your charities?”
“She is. Would you like her to call you for the list?” Isabelle was young, beautiful, and unmarried, not that marital status mattered to a lecher like Emilio. But Isabelle could take care of herself.
“I would, thank you. And thank you too for your continuing philanthropy. I can always count on the generosity of Contini Pharmaceuticals.”
“Our pleasure. We like to help. Do you need any more of those three-D printers we sent you?” A new, inexpensive robotic hand was one of Rafe’s personal projects.
“Absolutely. We were able to fit forty people, mostly children, with artificial hands last quarter.”
“Must you always talk business, Emilio?” Silvie said, with a pettish little sniff, preferring to be the center of attention. “You know I dislike it.”
Her husband didn’t respond other than to cock one eyebrow. “But a necessary annoyance when it comes to charity, my dear.” He turned to Rafe. “If I wouldn’t be imposing, Rafail, another twenty printers would be useful.”
“I’ll see that Isabelle’s notified. And if there’s anything else we can help with, don’t hesitate to—”
“I’m leaving if you aren’t!” Rising from her chair in a petulant huff, her boobs thrust out in an unsubtle ploy for attention, Silvie spun away, marched to the door, and slammed it behind her.
Emilio dipped his head, giving Rafe a rare smile of sincerity. “You’re not your father’s son, Rafail. Your benevolence is commendable.”