Dreamboat (14 page)

Rising to his feet, quickly followed by Rosemary, who snapped her briefcase shut, Georgios Vilos looked around the conference table one last time. “Thank you,” he said. “We'll be going now.”

He turned and walked toward the tall mahogany door that led out of the boardroom. Rosemary nodded politely at those still seated around the table, then hurried to catch up with him.

The guard who had escorted them upstairs dashed to catch up with Georgios and Rosemary as they headed toward the bank of elevators. Georgios turned to the guard. “We can find our way back down.”

“I'm following instructions,” the guard said.

Georgios started to protest but thought better of it. Let the man do his job, he thought. On the lobby floor, he exited the building with his head held high, and allowed his driver to hold the limousine's door open for him and Rosemary. When he sank down into its redolent leather upholstery, he fixed his gaze straight ahead, ignoring Rosemary, who sat beside him. He knew that she was restraining herself from saying or doing something solicitous of his fraught emotions, but he was in no mood to reassure her that he would be fine.

When the driver moved out into traffic, Georgios told him to take them directly to his house, then he turned to Rosemary. “He'll drop you off afterward, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all, sir,” she replied.

Georgios faced straight ahead again, stony-faced and silent. He tried to clear his mind of the meeting. The vultures, he thought, would love nothing more than feeding upon the carrion of his company, but he wasn't about to give them that opportunity. He would give no one that chance. He would have to put his other plan into action. He had no choice.

When they arrived at the Vilos mansion in Kifissia, Georgios didn't wait for the driver to come around and open his door. He exited the car with a curt nod to Rosemary and strode to the house, tapping in the security code to open a rear door. Going straight to his study and slamming the door shut behind him, he sat down at his desk, flipped open his cell phone, and pressed in a number.

The phone was answered on the third ring. “Yes.”

“Is the package in place?”

“Yes.”

“You're absolutely certain about that?”

“I can assure you that I saw it taken aboard.”

“But was it placed where I ordered?”

“Of course.”

“You saw this with your own eyes?”

“Yes.”

Georgios Vilos swiped the sweat from his forehead with his free hand and cupped the cell phone closer to his lips. “I want you to make certain it is still there.”

“That's unnecessary. I—”

“Just
do
it,” he snapped, “and report back to me immediately.” He suddenly didn't trust the word of Azad alone. After his failure with the Lampaki brothers, the world was a darker, more treacherous place. Azad's word was not enough. Now he would have to rely on his man aboard the
Sea Nymph.

Georgios Vilos pressed the
END
button and closed the cell phone. He would wait here until the call was returned. Pulling a linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket, he wiped his sweat-soaked hand dry, then dabbed his face.
This fucking Athenian humidity,
he thought, knowing that the weather in Athens had nothing to do with the perspiration that continued to bead on his face.

She awoke with a start. The cabin was dark, and she was momentarily confused and uneasy. Sitting up, she turned on a light and looked at her watch. It was nearly eight o'clock. When she rose from the bed, she abruptly felt sick to her stomach and light-headed. She was also aware of the ship's movement as she hadn't been before, despite its smooth passage through the water, and she felt a queasiness, as if her body was out of sync with the rhythm of sea and vessel. Her forehead beaded with perspiration. She fetched a cold bottle of water from the minibar and drank several gulps, but rather than soothing her queasy stomach, it made her feel worse. Oh, no, she thought. This wasn't seasickness, surely. Didn't that happen when there were rough seas, in storms and such? The wonderful day suddenly seemed to lose its magic, and her spirits sagged. She knew it was because she didn't feel well, but knowing still didn't help.

She picked up the ship's daily schedule to find out where the hospital was located. When she went in, there was no one in the small reception area, but a nurse-receptionist appeared almost instantly.

“What can I do for you?” she asked in heavily accented English. Her badly bleached hair was pulled back into a small chignon, but brassy orange tendrils escaped both it and the small, pristine hat pinned to her head. She wore black-rimmed glasses that magnified her eyes, and she looked unfriendly and stern, not a source of comfort.

“I'm feeling sick to my stomach,” Crissy said. “I don't know if it's seasickness or what. I was sweaty, and I just don't feel . . . right.”

“Right?” the nurse repeated, looking at her as if she were an idiot.

“I-I don't know how to explain it,” Crissy said, “but I feel sick.” The nurse was beginning to make her angry.

“Please fill this out,” the nurse said, handing her a form on a clipboard and a pen.

Crissy sat down and quickly did as she was told, then handed everything back to the nurse, who scanned it with her enormous-looking eyes.

From behind the paneled partition that separated the reception area from the rest of the hospital, an elderly woman emerged, a young man holding her arm reassuringly. He saw Crissy and nodded with a smile as he escorted the woman to the exit. They exchanged a few words in a foreign language—was it Italian? Crissy wondered—before he turned to her and the nurse.

“What seems to be the problem, Voula?”

“She doesn't feel ‘right,' ” the nurse said with a hint of derision.

Crissy suddenly realized that she'd seen the doctor before. She felt herself blush, embarrassed by seeing him in such close proximity after last night. He was the handsome young man who'd shown up in the disco with the captain's party around midnight; the one who hadn't danced but had remained at the table alone. The one she'd stared at until she realized he was staring at her.

“You don't feel ‘right'?”

There was that word again, making her feel as if she was a six-year-old, unable to explain her symptoms. “I have an upset stomach,” she replied nervously, “and I feel the ship moving. In a different way. I—”

“Come with me,” he said, indicating the door leading through the partition. “We'll get you feeling right again.” He smiled, and Crissy felt relieved. He wasn't making fun of her. At least she didn't think he was.

Crissy went through the doorway into a corridor, and he led her into an examination room. “Sit down there,” he said, pointing toward the examination table.

Crissy did as she was told.

“I'm Dr. Santo,” he said, “and I'm here to make you better.”

He spoke almost without any accent, she noticed.

“Now,” he said, “tell me when this started and describe how you feel as best you can.”

His dark eyes never left hers as he listened to her, except when he looked down to scribble notes. Crissy was unnerved by his steady gaze, but told herself that he was a doctor, after all.

Finally, he said, “You have the symptoms of seasickness, but you also may have caught a virus of some sort. You were on a long flight, which can cause problems, and you've been keeping late hours and getting very little sleep.”

He smiled that wonderful smile again, and Crissy wasn't certain that he was admonishing her. It seemed more that he was enjoying her tale of neglecting her body's need for rest.

“Plus you've been eating some things your system isn't used to, so it's hard to say without a lot of tests exactly what the problem is,” he went on. “What I suggest is a round of antibiotics to take care of any bug you might have picked up, and I'm going to give you scopolamine patches for seasickness. You'll put one behind your ear every day until your trip is over. If you aren't seasick, they won't harm you, and they'll diminish the effects of seasickness if you should get it later on.”

“Okay,” Crissy said. “I really appreciate this. I can't believe it. The trip has barely begun, and I get sick.”

“We'll make you feel better very quickly,” he said, “so you'll be able to enjoy the rest of it. I suggest that you start the medication tonight and that you eat lightly. Also, eat food you are accustomed to.”

Crissy nodded. “I don't know if I can eat at all.”

“Even if it's some yogurt, you should eat something,” he said. “Now wait here while I get your medicine. It will just take a minute.”

“Okay.” She watched him leave the room. He was so handsome, she thought, and he had a wonderful, reassuring smile. He also seemed efficient and no-nonsense in his approach, but he did seem to draw an invisible line between himself and his patients—at least her. She remembered his aloofness last night and wondered if this was connected to his professionalism or if it was a character trait.

He came back into the room holding a small bottle of pills and a little box. “This is the antibiotic,” he said, handing her the bottle, “and these are the scopolamine patches. Let me show you how to use the patches.” He took the box from her, opened it, and shook out a small sheet of patches enclosed in plastic bubbles. He tore off one of the patches and peeled off the plastic bubble, then held the patch on a finger. “Pull your hair back,” he said, “and I'll put it in place.”

“Does it matter which side?” she asked.

“No,” he said, grinning.

Crissy pulled the hair back over her right ear, and he pressed the stick-on patch firmly in place, rubbing it several times to make certain it was secure.

“There,” he said. “All done. You'll take that off tomorrow night and put on another one. And start with two of the antibiotics right away,” he said. “As soon as you get back to your cabin.” Then he looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, “Let me get you a glass of water. You can begin now.”

He took a paper cup from a dispenser and poured bottled water into it. Taking the antibiotics from her, he shook out two and handed them to her. “Here you are.”

Crissy did as she was told. She was surprised by his attentiveness. He didn't have to start her on the round of medicine, did he? He seemed to be going if not out of his way, then beyond that invisible line she had felt he'd drawn.

He checked his watch. “If you go to the dining room now,” he said, “you can still join your friends there and have something to eat. If nothing on the menu appeals to you, tell them you want some yogurt or soup. You can tell them that I told you to do that.”

“Okay,” Crissy said, “and thanks again. I think I feel better already because you've been so . . . great.”

He smiled. “That's what I'm here for.”

She slid off the examination table and went to the door. “It was very nice meeting you.”

He nodded. “Feel better.”

Crissy went back into the reception area, and Voula looked up at her. “I hope you're ‘right' now,” she said, her creepily magnified eyes focused on Crissy with amusement.

“Thanks,” Crissy said, choosing to ignore the woman's condescending
attitude. She opened the door and left, slowly climbing the stairs to Deck Five, where she knew dinner was already being served.

After filling Monika's group in on her bout of seasickness and eating a yogurt, Crissy left the dining room, still feeling sick. When she reached her cabin, Jenny was not in, but she wasn't surprised. She was certain that Jenny and Manolo had managed to sneak off somewhere on the ship together. They were probably entwined in each other's arms at this moment, she thought as she undressed for bed.

The beds had been turned down, chocolates in place, and the ship's schedule for the next day had been delivered. Crissy put the chocolate in her bedside cabinet drawer and picked up the schedule and excursion brochure before spreading out on the bed. Tomorrow they would be docking in Naples. She had been very excited by the prospect of seeing nearby Pompeii, and she hoped she would feel well enough for the excursion. When she was finished, she retrieved the book she'd brought from the bedside cabinet and began reading.

She had been engrossed in the novel for about a half hour when she heard a knock at the door. It's probably the maid, she thought, here to restock the minibar or something. Calling “Just a second,” as she got out of bed, she grabbed the kimono she'd brought and put it on over her T-shirt. When she opened the door, she was surprised by the sight that greeted her eyes.

“Hi,” Dr. Santo said, taking his cap off. “I was passing by and thought I would see how you are doing.”

Crissy held the door open and simply stared for a moment, then was jarred into action when he smiled and said, “Have I come at a bad time? If it's inconvenient, I can—”

“No-no,” Crissy stammered, opening the door wide. “I'm sorry. Please come in. I was just . . . just—”

“Surprised to see that it was me?” the doctor said, stepping into the small hall. He smiled, and his dark eyes seemed to light up the dimly lit entryway.

“Well, yes,” Crissy admitted. She felt herself blush, a reaction that irritated her.
Why do I react this way?
she wondered.
Like I'm some kind of schoolgirl or something.
She retreated and went to the small sofa, nervously knotting the tie around the kimono.

“I wanted to check up on you,” he said. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I think so,” Crissy replied. “Maybe a little bit.” From her position on
the couch, he seemed to tower over her and dominate the cabin, making it look as if it could hardly contain his strapping body. He was over six feet tall with broad shoulders, and he was long-waisted and long-legged. He appeared to be in his early thirties and in peak physical condition, with black hair and olive skin. She hadn't realized that he was such a tall and imposing man when she was in the hospital, perhaps because she was so distracted by the queasiness she felt.