28
Principality of Monaco
September 25, 10:20 a.m. CET
Monaco, a world-famous, glittering principality snugged along the turquoise waters of the French Riviera. I pressed my face to the window as the pilot approached.
The country is populated by the obscenely wealthy—more than twelve thousand millionaires live in Monaco, along with three thousand multimillionaires, and a half dozen billionaires, all residing on the most expensive land in the world. Monaco is the home of the Grand Prix, the Casino de Monte Carlo as Ian Fleming envisioned it, the onetime playground of Princess Grace Kelly.
And—of course—the site of the most prestigious annual superyacht show in the world.
All this in a country smaller than New York’s Central Park.
An hour after we landed at C?te d’Azur Airport in Nice, then drove twenty miles by private limo to Monaco, I checked into my hotel. I perused the four-day schedule, which included trade shows, exhibitions, cocktail parties, and the awards show, where I intended to speak, and which had been moved to the show’s final night. Then I took a deep breath and plunged into the festivities.
I had arranged meetings with staff and brokers at restaurants where the wine alone cost hundreds of dollars, never mind the meal. I touched base with a dozen clients and well-wishers over cocktails in the site’s Upper Deck Lounge or while downing café express at a nearby delicatessen. Everyone knew about Cass; most offered their condolences. I became adroit at accepting sympathy, then quickly turning the conversation to lighter topics.
I toured the superyachts Odysseus and Melinda —both built by Ocean House, with the interiors designed by Cassandra and Rob and exteriors created by yours truly with input from our architects and engineering teams. My visits were to ensure that both boats were ready for showtime. Odysseus was up for an MYS/Finest New Superyacht Award for best overall design. Word on the street said Paxton Yacht’s 533-foot Zephyr was favored, but street talk can be wrong.
I spotted Zephyr in one of the prestigious mooring places. The yacht struck me as over the top, the designers trying too hard. I sniffed and walked away.
Between the meetings, reunions, and tête-à-têtes, I left Lukas on the pier and squeezed in a private meeting on board Sovereign I with Matthew, who’d just flown in. His captain and crew had sailed his boat from Istanbul into Port Hercule a week earlier. Matthew and I sat in the lounge area of his master stateroom while I told him the reason for my visit to Salzburg, what I’d learned, and what I planned to do with that knowledge on awards night.
When I finished, Matthew was quiet for so long that I wondered if Guy had been right—that none of our clients would accept the taint of our past. Inside I quailed. But outwardly I kept my face impassive. Whatever the fallout, I had to follow through on the decision I’d made in Salzburg: do the right thing.
Matthew rose and went to the bar and brought back a bottle of brandy. He poured some into my café noir and then his.
“I’m sorry about your great-grandfather, Nadia. I know it can be hard to reconcile our image of who someone is with a part of them that doesn’t align.”
I nodded. I was thinking not only of Josef, but of Rob.
“For what it’s worth,” he went on, “I admire your courage. You have my complete support.”
I released the breath I’d been holding. “I’m glad, Matthew. I was half-afraid—”
“That I’d bail on you?” He touched my cheek. “Never. And on what I hope is brighter news, I have some information for you about Rambler .” He sipped his coffee. “My software guy was able to access a few company emails. These led us to someone on the inside willing to be a whistleblower. You were right. Paxton is playing dirty.”
I sat motionless, imagining the ways I could use this information. “Was it sabotage?”
“They had a man assigned to your build from the get-go.” He leaned back. “It’s a scandal. Do you want me to release the news? My PR people can explode the information onto every digital medium. Print will be right behind.”
I glanced out at Port Hercule, the sunlight sparkling on the water as if the bay were a sequined gown spread at Monaco’s feet. A seagull wheeled past the windows.
I might be prepared to risk Ocean House by revealing the truth. But I wasn’t going to hand victory to Paxton on a silver platter.
Truth can cut both ways.
I reached across the table and rested my hand on Matthew’s.
“Thank you. For understanding about Josef. And for offering to help with Rambler . I’d like to use the information after my speech at the award ceremony. Can you have your people release it right after I’ve spoken?”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.” He turned his hand so that his fingers wrapped around mine. “I’ll do whatever you need.”
I leaned in and kissed him. “Also, can you recommend a good private investigator?”
He shot an eyebrow. “I have several on retainer. What do you need?”
“To find a man named Arno Klein.”
After Matthew returned to the event, I stood alone on the deck of Sovereign I , my finger poised over the screen of my phone, summoning courage from whatever far-off place courage dwelled.
This phone call wasn’t the point of no return. But it was the catalyst. Guiltily, I reminded myself that during my conversations with Guy in Seattle, I hadn’t promised him I’d stay away from Singapore. When the mission was over, he’d understand why I’d needed to go back. For Ocean House and for Cass.
I squared my shoulders and tapped the icon for a number I’d thought I would never call again: that of Connor McGrath.
When he didn’t pick up, I left a message, pleased my voice didn’t quaver. “Hey, this is Nadia. I just have a few final thoughts about our build. I’m at the Monaco Yacht Show through Sunday. I’d love to chat. I think you’ll be happy with the new ideas I’m considering.”
After I disconnected, I waited. It didn’t take long. Fewer than five minutes had ticked by when Connor returned my call.
“This line isn’t private,” he said.
“I understand. But we do need to talk.”
A pause. Then: “I’ll leave a message with your hotel concierge.”
“I’m staying at—”
“I know.”
He disconnected.
I slid my phone into my purse and stared out at the array of yachts and the throngs of touring attendees swarming the decks. Their voices came as if from far away—light chatter from a world filled with wealth and comfort and safety. Before me were the doers and the dreamers, the haves and the have-yachts. People who’d labored for their wealth and others who’d inherited it just as I’d inherited Ocean House. All of it felt a million miles away.
I tuned the voices out. The sun was warm on my face and shoulders. Far out, a pair of cormorants turned pirouettes against a peerless sky. I breathed in the brisk, salty air, relished the breeze on my face in the ever-agreeable climate of Monaco. This elegant world, the world I’d grown up in proximity to, felt like a facade. The game of high finance, of hedge funds and commodities, of luxury goods and family fortunes, lay in uneasy juxtaposition to the sharp-edged machinery grinding just below.
A few minutes later, I left Sovereign I and rejoined Lukas. We plunged back into the crowd. I had wind in my sails, blowing me, like Odysseus’s escaped gales, away from home and out to sea.
Friday evening there was an invitation-only networking event at Yacht Club de Monaco. The first person I saw when I walked in with my recently arrived mother and the ever-present Lukas was Brandon Paxton, who, at six foot four, stood a head above almost everyone else in the room.
I jerked to a stop.
Brandon was athletic looking, with a neatly trimmed beard and wearing Monaco cocktail party chic—a slim-fitting navy blazer over a patterned shirt and gray chinos. He’d enlivened his outfit with a maroon silk pocket square, what looked like Fendi’s Monster cuff links, and a Rolex. For a man who’d helped upend my life, he appeared remarkably benign. But then, I’d heard psychopathy rarely advertises.
He was deep in conversation with other corporate bigwigs who stood near a table laden with crab legs, lobsters, and silver buckets of champagne. In his left hand he held a glass filled with amber liquid. Scotch, no doubt—it would be single malt, well aged, poured neat.
Next to him was his assistant, Maxwell Costa, the man who’d likely been responsible for siphoning off our talent.
Brandon glanced up. Our eyes met.
I snatched two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and gave one to Isabeth. I squared my shoulders. “I’m going to talk to Brandon Paxton. Care to join me?”
She grasped my free arm and turned me toward her. “It’s better you don’t speak with him. He’s trouble. He looks at you as if he wants to devour you.”
“I have Lukas,” I pointed out.
But Lukas shook his head. “If you’re going to be verbally bearding a lion in its den, I’ll watch out for you from the corner.”
He moved away, into the crowd. My gaze landed on Matthew, who was deep in conversation with Vadim Volkov, a Russian businessman whom I recognized from news reports as a confidant of Russia’s president. Matthew lifted his head, and our eyes met. He glanced over at Brandon, then back at me. His look was challenging. Do you have the courage to pursue your enemy?
I did. Absolutely. I tossed back my champagne—liquid courage—and was looking for a place to set my empty glass when Isabeth’s nails bit into my arm. Brandon was sailing toward us, people stepping aside as he approached, then surging in behind.
I was willing to bet Matthew’s yacht that everyone in this room—including the Russian oligarch—had read the article claiming Paxton was about to replace Ocean House as yacht royalty. This was the confrontation they’d been waiting and hoping for.
“Here they are!” Brandon boomed in a voice sure to carry over the jazz quartet playing onstage. “The two most beautiful women in Monaco.”
Isabeth’s eyes narrowed. She would never forgive Paxton for stealing our talent and coming after our clients. Give her five minutes alone with him, and she would take out his eyes with a spoon and plop them in her martini.
“Oui,” she agreed with Brandon, her tone breezy. “And the two smartest, as well. Vous avez l’apparence et les manières d’un cochon. ”
Brandon glanced at me. Clearly French was not in his repertoire.
“She says that it is a pleasure to meet you and wants to know if you bought your cuff links on Amazon. She would like to buy an inexpensive pair for her young nephew.”
Brandon threw back his head and roared. “Touché. Do not underestimate the Brenner women. I noticed earlier that you brought your award-nominated boat to the show. Odyssey , is it?”
“ Odysseus .” I decided to take a cue from my mother. After all, this man was trying to destroy my company. “I’m disappointed you didn’t bring Zephyr .”
“Oh?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “She’s here, in pride of place.”
“I must have walked right past her. I guess she blended in.”
Another laugh. “I thought I was approaching roses, but I seem to have walked into a tangle of thorns. Perhaps, Nadia, you and I could speak more privately outside?”
Isabeth shook her head, but I wanted to hear whatever it was Brandon had to say.
Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer.
Moisture ladened the evening air while lights climbed the hills behind the city, illuminating villas and manor homes. Yacht Club de Monaco was built to resemble a superyacht, and the club’s “decks” hung over the water. Brandon escorted me to the railing where, before us, immense boats floated regally in the shimmering waters of Port Hercule.
Where, I wondered, was Lukas? I relaxed when I saw him watching through the windows.
“C’est beau,” Brandon said. “J’aime être ici. Mais un cochon?” It’s beautiful. I love being here. But a pig?
Heat flamed in my face as I realized Brandon had played me.
“Touché,” I said.
He turned toward me and braced his left arm on the railing. “Let’s cut to the chase. I know Ocean House is failing. You’re in the red, and you’ve lost at least two potential clients due to that little misadventure with Rambler . I know this because they came to Paxton Yachts. I can’t say I wanted Ocean House’s troubles to happen—I admire your father and uncle and all they’ve accomplished. But I’m not going to let any opportunity slip by as I build my business.” He looked down at me. “I would like for you to be part of that. Why don’t you jump a sinking ship and come work for me?”
I laughed, ignoring the chill sliding along my arms—how had he learned of our finances? “Are you suggesting I’m a rat?”
He grinned. “A smart and talented rat, perhaps.”
“Ocean House is perfectly fine.” I kept my face as smooth as marble, revealing nothing. “We’re about to finish a build in Singapore that will have clients pounding on our doors.”
In the soft lights, Brandon’s face shifted. The facade of earnestness fell away, and the angles of his face tightened. His lips lifted in a grimace, and something ugly peered out through the dark green of his eyes.
“No more pretense, Nadia. Yachting has become a cutthroat business. The so-called civilized days, the days of your father and grandfather, are long gone. Corporations are businesses, not lifestyles. Money matters more than relationships. I intend to build my empire on your father’s fallen kingdom.”
I tried on my supposed ancestor’s half smile. What would Empress Sisi have done? “This feels personal, Mr. Paxton. It gives you so much pleasure to see us momentarily diminished?”
He leaned in. His whisky-laden breath was hot on my cheek. “Business for me is always personal.”
From behind us came the sound of a door opening; snatches of laughter spilled out. A woman’s soft voice said, “Brandon? You wanted to see me.”
We both turned. A young woman who might have taken her figure from Barbie stood silhouetted against the lights of the party, her attributes well delineated. Lights shone on her platinum hair.
Brandon straightened. Smiled. The jungle cat morphed back into a kitten. “Dierdre, lovely to see you. Give us one more minute.”
“Of course.” She retreated, and he turned back to me.
“Bear my offer in mind,” he said. “You’re young and gifted. You have a future if you’re willing to take a risk.” He pressed close, and I considered grinding my stiletto heel into his instep before thinking better of it.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t want your family’s company to fail on your watch, do you? My offer stands through this weekend. Then the door closes.”
“No need to wait, Mr. Paxton. You can take your offer and, to put it delicately, enfonce-le dans ton cul .” I gave his instep a final reluctant pass before I stepped away. “Good night.”