Pirate

Chapter Fifty-one

Southampton, New York

“WELL! THAT WAS CERTAINLY CHEEKY,” DIANA SAID, TAKING his hand while sipping from a fresh flute of champagne. Not that he was counting, but it was her third. Or fourth. He’d lost track. It was that kind of party. No half-empty glasses. Frantic, but intimate in that odd way truly large parties can be. Since he knew absolutely no one, he could be alone with Diana, two blithe spirits, apart in the midst of the social whirlaway, in an imaginary space of their own making.

“What was certainly cheeky?” Ambrose asked, leading her toward the sand dunes. “Mind your step. There’s a broken board here and there.”

They’d left the raised wooden walkway that stretched out from the lawn and were on the steps leading down to the beach proper now, threading their way through clumps of wild sea oats that dotted the sand dunes. Beyond, the surf was pounding gently, its low rumble a blessed relief from the all-too-familiar strains of “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” and “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.”

“That man passing the champagne was cheeky,” Diana said. “One of the wait staff. You must have seen him. The one who looked like that wonderful English actor, what’s his name.”

“What is his name?” he said, his eyes bright with happiness. She did look so pale and lovely in the moonlight. She wore an emerald-green dress, satin, with a deep neckline that was positively awe-inspiring, and a simple necklace of diamonds.

“Don’t make fun, Ambrose. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Michael Caine! That’s the one I mean.”

“Ah. Alfie.”

“You did see him then? The waiter? The one with the thick black glasses?”

“No.”

“Well, he winked at me. You must have been looking the other way at some other woman. Winked at me and said something rude. Like ‘bang’ or something like that. I think that’s rather cheeky, don’t you?”

“Bang?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t hear him in the middle of that riot. Bangbang, maybe.”

“It’s damned rude, Diana. Also, given the circumstances, a bit unnerving. Which one is he? I’ll go have a word with him.”

“Oh, don’t go back there. I don’t want to make a fuss. I want to walk along the beach and look at the stars. The moon. It’s a wonderful night. Magic. Let’s forget about it.”

“Very well, Diana. Just point him out when we get back. I’ll say something to Jock. I don’t think he’d find it amusing. At all.”

“Don’t be stuffy. Come on! I’ll race you down to the water! There’s something I want to show you down there. Come along, now…”

“Diana, don’t—”

But she’d flung her shoes off, hiked up her skirts, raced ahead, and disappeared over the dunes. Ambrose was not fond of walking in sand, much less running in the stuff. Still, he sat himself down and began unlacing his shoes and rolling up his trouser cuffs.

“Come on!” she cried, “You must come and see this moon!”

“I’m coming as fast as I can,” he said, getting to his feet and trying to brush the sand from the seat of his trousers. What was the attraction? People seemed to flock to beaches in droves and—

“Ambrose! What are you doing?”

When he caught up with her, Diana was strolling barefoot through the surf, her face turned to the moon, her hair falling in lustrous ribbons on her pale shoulders. He reached out and put a hand on her—

“Oh! You frightened me. I didn’t hear you coming.”

“The strong, silent type.”

“Ambrose, isn’t it beautiful? The waves. The moon on the water. I’m so glad you could come.”

“So am I.”

“Will you hold me for a second? I haven’t been held in the moonlight in a very long time.”

“Well, I—”

“Are you shy, dear?”

“No, no. It’s just that I—well, to be brutally honest, I haven’t held anyone in a very long time myself.”

“One step at a time, then. Put your arms around me.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect. Maybe just a wee bit closer.”

“You said you wanted to show me something…”

“Shh. Now. I lift my chin to a certain angle.”

“I must tell you, Diana, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I simply—”

“I said ‘shh.’ That means be quiet in English.”

“Sorry.”

“Ambrose?”

“Yes?”

“It’s time.”

“Ah.”

“Go for it.”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

He did it. He kissed her. He’d meant it to be brief, that kiss, but it seemed to take on a life of its own. It grew warmer, and longer, until there was simply nothing else on earth he knew about or cared about, nothing at all in his world except Diana’s warm lips. His hand moved down her back and he felt the curve of her hip. He pulled her to him and kissed her harder, fearful he was hurting her, but she was crushing her lips against his and he felt her tongue darting about and he parted his lips.

Later, he would not remember how long that first kiss lasted. Only that it was seared in his memory and that it was filled with promise. And that it came within a hair’s breadth of being the very last kiss of his life.

“Golly.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“I had no idea.”

“So that’s what all the fuss is about.”

“We really must do that again sometime.”

He wouldn’t remember who said what to whom in those few moments afterward, only that they clung to each other for a brief while, just whispering silly things, feeling each other close, and then somehow started walking along the wet sand, seeing the silver reflection of the moon in the waves that rushed up over the beach in a froth and then slipped away.

“What was that?” Diana said, suddenly squeezing his hand.

“What?”

“I saw someone. Over there. They ducked behind that clump of grass on the dune.”

Ambrose turned and looked in the direction she was pointing. He saw a solitary figure, a woman wearing a black coat, appear at the top of the dune and make her way toward them. She was walking rapidly and was strangely silent.

“Hello!” he said, but she made no reply.

Then he saw her arm come up and knew in that moment what he should have known a moment sooner. The woman had a gun. And she clearly meant to kill them. Here, in the beautiful moonlight, they were both going to die.

She fired at Diana first. He heard her cry out and saw her collapse on the sand. He thought the woman would turn the gun on him, but, no, she moved rapidly toward Diana, her heels kicking up sand, the small gun held out at the end of her extended arm. She was going to fire at Diana again! Shoot her where she lay. Helpless on the ground!

Ambrose dove.

In the act of diving, he had an impossible choice. To go for the gun or use his body to shield Diana.

In that horrible instant he saw himself reaching for the gun and missing his one chance to save the woman he loved. And so he flung himself headlong toward Diana, face-down, and landed hard atop her body, covering her. He tensed, waited for the burn of the rounds, the hard slam of lead into his back or shoulder or leg. He’d been shot at before. He knew how it would feel.

The first round burned into his shoulder, struck bone, and careened off inside his chest, tearing something. She must have stumbled in the sand, because the next shot was wide of the mark. He heard it whistle past his ear and burrow into the sand. The next one would be to the head. She was close enough now to dispatch both of them with one bullet. She was close enough to—

He just kicked. He had no hope of hitting anything, but neither had he any hope of surviving the next bullet. His foot connected with the woman’s knee, forcing the joint backward with a satisfying snap. She cried out. He felt her go down.

He remembered rolling off Diana at that point, going for the gun. The woman was struggling to get to her feet. The gun was in her right hand, half-buried in the sand. Ambrose, who was feeling a black redness crowding round the edges of his mind, managed to wrench the gun away. She snarled as he tore it from her fingers and he saw her face. He recognized the face. He’d seen it that day in the pictures at Henry’s flat. It was Bianca Moon, of course, the China Doll.

“Don’t move,” Ambrose croaked, pointing the gun unsteadily at the woman.

“You’re going to shoot an unarmed woman, Inspector Congreve? I think not.”

She got to her feet, clutching the wounded knee with her right hand. Ambrose could see her calculating her next move, whether he had the strength to hold on to the gun. He heard Diana moan. He would hold on to that gun if it killed him.

At that moment, all the sky exploded in sound and light.

Red rockets screamed suddenly overhead, arcing hundreds of feet into the air, expiring in a concussion of sound. Massive blue-and-gold fireballs bloomed over the sea; a falling shower of radiant silver sizzled and fried in the sky and then blinked out. He saw the silhouettes of Jock and Susan Barker appear on the dune followed by hundreds of guests come to ooh and ahh. When he looked for the woman, she was gone. Bianca.

“Help!” he cried weakly, “Over here!”

He couldn’t sit up any longer. He collapsed beside Diana and cradled her head in his arms. They were both looking up at the sky. Jock was first to reach them, having seen a starburst illuminate two dark figures sprawled in the sand and one running away. He took one look at Ambrose and Diana and started barking orders at the closest bystanders.

“Look how lovely, darling,” Ambrose said to her, “Chinese fire-works.”

Then he was gone.