Rage of Angels by Sidney Sheldon

“When will you be back?”

“I shouldn’t be gone more than three or four days.”

“Things aren’t the same when you’re not here. I’ll miss you.”

Jennifer wondered whether he was still seeing the young blond man.

“Hold down the fort until I get back.”

 

 

As a rule, Jennifer enjoyed flying. She regarded her time in the air as freedom from pressures, a temporary escape from all the problems that beset her on the ground, a quiet oasis in space away from her endlessly demanding clients. This flight across the Atlantic, however, was unpleasant. It seemed unusually bumpy, and Jennifer’s stomach became queasy and upset.

She was feeling a bit better by the time the plane landed in Nice the next morning. There was a helicopter waiting to fly her to Monte Carlo. Jennifer had never ridden in a helicopter before and she had looked forward to it. But the sudden lift and the swooping motions made her ill again, and she was unable to enjoy the majestic sights of the Alps below and the Grande Corniche, with miniature automobiles winding up the steep mountainside.

The buildings of Monte Carlo appeared, and a few minutes later the helicopter was landing in front of the modern white summer casino on the beach.

Cynthia had telephoned ahead and Rick Arlen was there to meet Jennifer.

He gave her a big hug. “How was the trip?”

“A little rough.”

He took a closer look at her and said, “You don’t look so hot. I’ll take you up to my pad and you can rest up for the big do tonight.”

“What big do?”

“The gala. That’s why you’re here.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Grace asked me to invite anyone I liked. I like you.”

“Oh, Rick!”

Jennifer could cheerfully have strangled him. He had no idea how much he had disrupted her life. She was three thousand miles away from Adam, she had clients who needed her, court cases to try—and she had been lured to Monte Carlo to attend a party!

Jennifer said, “Rick, how could—?”

She looked at his beaming face and started to laugh.

Oh, well, she was here. Besides, the gala might turn out to be fun.

 

 

The gala was spectacular. It was a milk fund concert for orphans, sponsored by Their Serene Highnesses, Grace and Rainier Grimaldi, and it was held outdoors at the summer casino. It was a lovely evening. The night was balmy and the slight breeze coming off the Mediterranean stirred the tall palm trees. Jennifer wished Adam could have been here to share it with her. There were fifteen hundred seats occupied by a cheering audience.

Half a dozen international stars performed, but Rick Arlen was the headliner. He was backed up by a raucous three-piece band and flashing psychedelic lights that stained the velvet sky. When he finished, he received a standing ovation.

 

 

There was a private party afterward at the piscine, below the Hotel de Paris. Cocktails and a buffet supper were served around the enormous pool, in which dozens of lighted candles floated on lily pads.

Jennifer estimated that there were more than three hundred people there. Jennifer had not brought an evening gown, and just looking at the splendidly dressed women made her feel like the poor little match girl. Rick introduced her to dukes and duchesses and princesses. It seemed to Jennifer that half the royalty of Europe was there. She met heads of cartels and famous opera singers. There were fashion designers and heiresses and the great soccer player, Pele. Jennifer was in the midst of a conversation with two Swiss bankers when a wave of dizziness engulfed her.

“Excuse me,” Jennifer said.

She went to find Rick Arlen. “Rick, I—”

He took one look at her and said, “You’re white as a sheet, baby. Let’s split.”

Thirty minutes later, Jennifer was in bed in the villa that Rick Arlen had rented.

“A doctor’s on his way,” Rick told her.

“I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a virus or something.”

“Right. It’s the ‘or something’ he’s gonna check out.”

 

 

Dr. André Monteux was an elderly wisp of a man somewhere in his eighties. He wore a neatly trimmed full beard and carried a black medical case.