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fabric up over her long, lean, tanned body, accessorizing with a huge quartz ring and a copper bangle pushed high up her bronzed arm. She scooped her long layered honey-blonde hair up into a top-knot, patted her face with a towel and dabbed her cheekbones with a light, rose-coloured blush that accentuated her big aqua-marine eyes. At twenty-six she knew she was at the peak of her physical beauty: understated, stylish, stunning. Very Julie-Christie-on-holiday, she thought, looking at her reflection in the glass.
She fixed a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators over the bridge of her nose and walked to the mezzanine deck, taking slow, deliberate steps so that her entrance would be fully noted. She paused for a minute, taking in the scene. A crowd of people were drinking flutes of champagne and nibbling at canapés. The air smelt of cumin; a small band in fezzes played traditional Egyptian music by the bar. She moved through the crowd, away from where Tom was talking to a laughing crowd, and grabbed a martini.
‘What do you think of the dahabeah?’ asked Roman who had appeared by her side and taken her hand.
‘The what?’
‘My baby!’ he laughed. ‘A dahabeah is an Egyptian sailboat.’
‘It’s amazing,’ she said, giving him a playful kiss on the cheek and leaving a ring of pale pink gloss on his skin. ‘And I love our suite.’
‘I thought you’d like the Cleopatra Suite,’ he smiled knowingly, picking up a fig from an overloaded plate. ‘I should be in the studio finishing off the collection for Milan,’ he added, ‘but I can’t help being naughty.’
‘You’re so decadent, darling. That’s why I love you,’ sighed Serena generously, then instantly became businesslike. ‘Now tell me who’s here,’ she said, craning her long neck to survey the crowd. ‘I haven’t really been introduced to anyone yet.’
‘Well, let’s do that now,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘Who would you like to meet?’
She scanned the deck, looking for familiar faces or interesting people with whom to network. Someone had told her Leo DiCaprio was coming but she couldn’t see him anywhere. Roman could be so random with his invitations, she thought. She spotted a photographer from US Vogue, a media mogul’s daughter, a Victoria’s Secret model. Perhaps it wasn’t as AAA-List as she’d been led to believe.
‘I don’t really recognize anyone,’ she smiled, trying to hide her disappointment.
Roman stepped up onto a little platform and looked across the deck, lifting a podgy little finger to identify his guests.
‘On this trip, I wanted to invite friends who would appreciate Egypt,’ said Roman seriously.
Serena smiled, trying to look grateful.
Roman went through his guests one by one, giving a potted history on each. The Russian princess, the gay interior designer, New York’s top session hairdresser, a society florist and a three-Michelin-starred chef from Barcelona. In the centre was Michael Sarkis, the billionaire hotelier. ‘Here with the girlfriend,’ whispered Roman.
Her interest was waning.
‘Now there is Rachel Barnaby,’ said Roman, clapping his hands together and pointing to a luscious-looking girl by the bar. ‘She’s going to be huge. Did you read the cover story in this month’s Vogue?’
Serena smiled. Of course she had. The dazzling Welsh girl with her long raven hair, alabaster skin and pillowy lips had been touted as the next big thing. Huge talent. Beyond glamorous. Her jaw stiffened just thinking about it.
‘Well, everybody’s the next big thing in Vogue, aren’t they,’ she replied archly. ‘So many people don’t quite make it though, do they?’
Roman tapped her on the bottom. ‘Don’t be unkind,’ he smiled. ‘You have nothing to fear. She hasn’t even got a proper publicist yet – I had to ring her mother to invite her on the cruise.’
Serena smiled broadly. Of course she had nothing to worry about from a pretty, bland teenager. So Rachel Barnaby had snagged a Vogue cover. Someone must have dropped out. Serena, on the other hand, had the front-row seat at the shows, the two-million-pound cosmetics contract. And OK, so she hadn’t quite scooped a big Hollywood role yet, but those kinky, overweight Hollywood producers preferred malleable trailer-park trash to someone with genuine class and manners. And anyway, she was Serena Balcon. Every move she and Tom made – the holiday frolic, the Ivy supper, the last-minute dash to Harrods for Christmas presents – all made front-page news. Beat that, you Welsh oik, she thought smugly.
Recovering her poise, Serena decided that Michael Sarkis was the best of numerous evils on La Mamounia. She didn’t know much about him, other than that he was born in Beirut – of an American mum and a Lebanese father, so she had once read – and raised in the Bronx. One of the world’s most successful hoteliers, he was a real rags-to-riches entrepreneur who had made a great deal of money peddling gaudy holidays to super-rich Arabs. His hotels were hallmarked by casinos in the lobby, shark tanks in the gardens and gold leaf everywhere; vulgar little places that Serena wouldn’t be seen dead in. But still … he was filthy rich and he was talking to Rachel Barnaby.
She walked over to where Michael was standing by a long table piled high with Egyptian delicacies. There were tiny honey-glazed baklava, twists of pistachio-infused pastries, piles of white peaches and bowls of flat bread cut into rough chunks. It looked like the Last Supper.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ smiled Serena, popping a plump, dark-green olive into her mouth and unleashing her most dazzling smile on Michael.
‘I hope you’re thirsty,’ he replied, picking up a bottle of wine and pouring Serena a glass. ‘I’m Michael.’
‘Serena. Pleased to meet you.’
Michael put out a tanned hand to shake hers. As he gripped her fingers, she noticed what extraordinarily sexy hands they were. Big and tanned with an artisan’s squareness about them, the fingertips were smooth and manicured – and the chunky expensive gold watch on his wrist didn’t hurt either.
Michael seemed to notice Serena’s interest and allowed himself a smile. ‘Do you like the wine?’ he asked.
‘The wine?’ repeated Serena. ‘Gorgeous. Pétrus, the forty-seven, I think?’
Michael twisted the bottle to read its label. ‘You know your stuff.’
‘Well, the forty-seven was one of the best vintages of the century for the vineyard. It’s even better than the seventy, I think. Really rather wonderful.’ She turned to face Rachel Barnaby. ‘What do you think? The forty-seven or the seventy?’ she asked.
Rachel flushed. ‘I can only just about tell the difference between red and white, let alone anything else,’ she laughed politely.
‘How sweet,’ smiled Serena, flashing her a patronizing look. ‘Still, you’re an actress, not a sommelier.’
Rachel Barnaby suddenly needed the ladies’ room and Serena watched her go.
‘Nice girl,’ said Michael.
‘Very sweet and simple,’ smiled Serena.
Michael looked her up and down with a deep penetrating stare that unnerved her. Slowly running one finger up and down the stem of his glass, he gave her a slow, flirtatious smile. ‘So, how are you such an expert on wine?’ he asked, taking a sip of his drink.
‘My father’s a wine buff,’ said Serena, unconsciously tracing her lip with her finger.
‘Lord Balcon?’ asked Michael, lifting a bushy black eyebrow into a scruffy arch.
‘That’s right, do you know him?’
‘Not really,’ replied Michael, his brow furrowing. ‘He’s on the committee of a club in London that just turned me down.’
Serena watched a dark cloud cross his face and realized instantly that Michael Sarkis was a man not