Morning, Noon and Night

She had been indignant. ‘I’m not a puttana! I’m an actress,’ she had said haughtily. In fact, she had had a walk-on part in Pupi Avati’s last film, and a role with two lines of dialogue in a Giuseppe Tornatore film. ‘Why would I have dinner with a stranger?’

Dmitri had taken out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. He pushed five into her hand. ‘My friend is very generous. He has a yacht, and he is lonely.’ He had watched her expression go through a series of changes from indignation, to curiosity, to interest.

‘As it happens, I’m between pictures.’ She smiled. ‘It would probably do no harm to have dinner with your friend.’

‘Good. He will be pleased.’

‘Where is he?’

‘St-Paul-de-Vence.’

Dmitri had chosen well. Italian. In her late twenties. A sensuous, catlike face. Full-breasted figure. Now, looking at her across the table, Harry Stanford made a decision.

‘Do you like to travel, Sophia?’

‘I adore it.’

‘Good. We’ll go on a little trip. Excuse me a moment.’

Sophia watched as he walked into the restaurant and to a public telephone outside the men’s room.

Stanford put a jeton in the slot and dialed.

‘Marine operator, please.’

Seconds later, a voice said, ‘C’est l’opératrice maritime.’

‘I want to put in a call to the yacht Blue Skies. Whiskey bravo lima nine eight zero …’

The conversation lasted five minutes, and when Stanford was finished, he dialed the airport at Nice. The conversation was shorter this time.

When Stanford was through talking, he spoke to Dmitri, who rapidly left the restaurant. Then he returned to Sophia. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let’s take a walk.’ He needed time to work out a plan.

It was a perfect day. The sun had splashed pink clouds across the horizon and rivers of silver light ran through the streets.

They strolled along the Rue Grande, past the Église, the beautiful twelfth-century church, and stopped at the boulangerie in front of the Arch to buy some fresh baked bread. When they came out, one of the three watchers was standing outside, busily studying the church. Dmitri was also waiting for them.

Harry Stanford handed the bread to Sophia. ‘Why don’t you take this up to the house? I’ll be along in a few minutes.’

‘All right.’ She smiled and said softly, ‘Hurry, caro.’

Stanford watched her leave, then motioned to Dmitri.

‘What did you find out?’

‘The woman and one of the men are staying at Le Hameau, on the road to La Colle.’

Harry Stanford knew the place. It was a whitewashed farmhouse with an orchard a mile west of St-Paul-de-Vence. ‘And the other one?’

‘At Le Mas d’Artigny.’

Le Mas d’Artigny was a Provencal mansion on a hillside two miles west of St-Paul-de-Vence.

‘What do you want me to do with them, sir?’

‘Nothing. I’ll take care of them.’

Harry Stanford’s villa was on the Rue de Casette, next to the mairie, in an area of narrow cobblestone streets and very old houses. The villa was a five-level house made of old stone and plaster. Two levels below the main house were a garage and an old cave used as a wine cellar. A stone staircase led to upstairs bedrooms, an office, and a tiled-roof terrace. The entire house was furnished in French antiques and filled with flowers.

When Stanford returned to the villa, Sophia was in his bedroom, waiting for him. She was naked.

‘What took you so long?’ she whispered.

In order to survive, Sophia Matteo often picked up money between film assignments as a call girl, and she was used to faking orgasms to please her clients, but with this man, there was no need to pretend. He was insatiable, and she found herself climaxing again and again.

When they were finally exhausted, Sophia put her arms around him and murmured happily, ‘I could stay here forever, caro.’

I wish I could, Stanford thought, grimly.

They had dinner at Le Café de la Place in Plaza du General-de-Gaulle, near the entrance to the village. The dinner was delicious, and for Stanford the danger added spice to the meal.

When they were finished, they made their way back to the villa. Stanford walked slowly, to make certain his pursuers followed.

At one A.M., a man standing across the street watched the lights in the villa being turned off, one by one, until the building was in total darkness.

At four thirty in the morning, Harry Stanford went into the guest bedroom where Sophia slept. He shook her gently. ‘Sophia …?’

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, a smile of anticipation on her face, then frowned. He was fully dressed. She sat up. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, my dear. Everything is fine. You said you liked to travel. Well, we’re going to take a little trip.’

She was wide awake now. ‘At this hour?’

‘Yes. We must be very quiet.’

‘But …’

‘Hurry.’

Fifteen minutes later, Harry Stanford, Sophia, Dmitri, and Prince were moving down the stone staircase to the basement garage where a brown Renault was parked. Dmitri quietly opened the garage door and looked out onto the street. Except for Stanford’s white Corniche, parked in front, it seemed deserted. ‘All clear.’

Stanford turned to Sophia. ‘We’re going to play a little game. You and I are going to get in the back of the Renault and lie down on the floor.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Why?’