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 Provençal 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 as a call girl between film assignments, 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 Général-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?”
“Some business competitors have been following me,” he said earnestly. “I’m about to close a very large deal, and they’re trying to find out about it. If they do, it could cost me a lot of money.”
“I understand,” Sophia said. She had no idea what he was talking about.
Five minutes later, they were driving past the gates of the village on the road to Nice. A man seated on a bench watched the brown Renault as it sped through the gates. At the wheel was Dmitri Kaminsky and beside him was Prince. The man hastily took out a cellular telephone and began dialing.
“We may have a problem,” he told the woman.
“What kind of problem?”
“A brown Renault just drove out of the gates. Dmitri Kaminsky was driving, and the dog was in the car, too.”
“And Stanford wasn’t in the car?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe it. His bodyguard never leaves him at night, and that dog never leaves him, ever.”
“Is his Corniche still parked in front of the villa?” asked the other man sent to follow Harry Stanford.
“Yes, but maybe he switched cars.”
“Or it could be a trick! Call the airport.”
Within minutes, they were talking to the tower.
“Monsieur Stanford’s plane? Oui. It arrived an hour ago and has already refueled.”