Chapter 05
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Fifty-Five Minutes
*** Somewhere over the Atlantic ***
"I've always loved your country."
Indiri Farris glanced up from copy of 'Splash' Magazine she was reading - thumbing, mostly, glancing for the glitzy industry advertisements of the models she represented now that she had graduated from fashion model to respected fashion model agent. She stared over briefly at the gentleman beside her.
"My country?" she asked, flipping another photo-charged page. "What makes you think America is my country?"
R.E. DeMarco smiled at her. "Come now," he tried, his voice possessing a distant, romantic rumble. "With a face like that, you can't tell me you're not American. I can pick them out of - how do you say - a police line-up."
'All right,' she thought, 'if that's how you wanted to play it, mister.' She hadn't boarded the plane in London with the intent to flirt with any passenger - let alone a complete stranger - while crossing the ocean, but she did have her skills. Skills, if not properly used, would be lost in the natural passage of time, and Indiri - having swallowed her pride to stay in the cut-throat business of fashion - wasn't about to finish second place behind any woman, let alone any man.
Confident, she tossed her thick, auburn hair back and turned to glare into his dark, brown eyes. She smiled, showing the pearliest of her pearly whites, and she narrowed her glance on him like a thin, laser beam sighting its prey.
"Never underestimate an American, my good friend," she challenged. "We'll always get you when you least expect it."
He smiled back at her, clearly interested in her wholesome looks. "I don't doubt it."
She closed the magazine. The advertisements could wait - for now.
"Might I assume," she tried, smoothing her voice with a husky tremor, "that you are not American?"
He leaned forward, glancing down at the magazine cover she held. "If you were to assume as much, then I would have to say that you would be correct." Pulling his stare upward suddenly, he met her eyes. "If you were to assume, that is."
'You've lost already, mister,' she thought.
Relaxing in her seat, she smiled. "Where's home?"
"For now," he answered, "Paris."
"Paris? How romantic."
"Not really."
"No?"
"No, not really Paris," he admitted. "Actually, it's a little villa outside of Paris. I was born there, raised there. Of course, I left there when the need struck me, but I tend to get back from time to time. More, now that I'm a bit older and have come to appreciate what the small and the quiet have to offer. Still, it isn't a very large place. It's hardly worth mentioning. In fact, it's so small that it probably does not appear on one of your American maps."
She tilted her head. "You never know about that. The world is getting smaller and smaller every day. Isn't that what they say?" She gestured easily at the plane's empty aisle. "Today, you can board a flight and be in another country in a matter of hours. Today, any man or woman can breeze the news channels from continent to continent. We know, in an instant, what's happening anywhere we want to know about on the entire planet." She pursed her lips before concluding, "The way I figure it, you and I are practically neighbors."
He nodded. "I like the sounds of that."
'I'll bet you do,' she thought. 'I'll bet you do.'
***
Washington, D.C.
The plane landed on time, and R.E. DeMarco carried Indiri's briefcase down the jetway. Once they stepped into the terminal, he turned and handed the case to her, bowing as he did. Laughing, she bowed back at him.
"I'd invite you for a drink," he tried, "but I have the most tragic fear of rejection."
She laughed, and, to her delight, she found herself feeling twenty years younger - far younger than the still-struggling-to-maintain vivacious forty- eight years old she was. Could this be happening? This young man? Possibly half her age? Was he seriously interested in her?
"It's been my experience that - in order to overcome your fear - you need to embrace it."
He stood firm, slowly smiling a seductive grin at her. "Indiri, I believe you just propositioned me."
She arched her eyebrows, trying to act coy.
"You can take it any way you like, Mr. DeMarco."
Reaching up, he clasped his hands over his heart. "Alas, I cannot."
'Sonuvabitch,' she thought, and she nearly called him one to his face.
Seeing her expression, he quickly pulled his hands away from his chest. He pointed, and she turned. Leaning against the wall, not very far from where they stood, a tuxedoed young man stood holding a sign.
'DeMarco,' it read.
"Oh," she sighed, relieving.
"But I would like to get your telephone number."
"Of course."
From the flap of her briefcase, she pulled her business card. Extending it to him, she explained, "My cell phone is on the bottom." Trying to hide any sense of desperation whatsoever, she added, "Please feel free to call me any time you like." Shifting on her feet, she inhaled deeply, hoping that the simple act of breathing caught her suitor's eye. "If you're going to be in the States for a few days, I'd love the chance to - show you some sights."
"Some sights?"
Again, she flashed him her bedroom eyes. "Some very special sights."
He tilted his head back. "I will call."
"I'll wait to hear from you."
As he turned to go, she realized that - despite her best efforts at keeping up in the romantic banter of the trans-oceanic flight - she had forgotten the most obvious.
"Mr. DeMarco?"
Quickly, he wheeled around.
"The R.E.?" she asked. "What do they stand for?"
Casually, he answered, "Richard."
"That's the R. How about the E.?"
He smiled at her. "Indiri, I will tell you that the next time we are together."
Forgoing any sense of composure, she lost her breath as she watched him walk away.
***
"It is good to see you, sir," the man in the tuxedo said.
DeMarco stopped. Quickly, he studied the young man's outfit. "Please lose that awful suit."
"I will be more than happy to accommodate you, sir."
"And stop calling me 'sir' - cousin."
"And what would you have me call you?" he asked. "Could it be - Efnisien?"
Immediately, DeMarco forced all expression from his face. He closed his eyes for a momentary respite. He felt the rage boiling inside him, he felt the pure, unabashed hatred for the soil upon which he now stood. He hated America, and he hated all that it stood for. He hated its history. He hated its people. Especially, he found himself hating the fact that he was forced to make idle chat with an aging former fashion model aboard one of the country's premiere international flights. He would have to eliminate her. He knew that there was no other choice. It wouldn't be today. It wouldn't be tomorrow. He would probably take what he wanted from her - from her aging, beginning-to-succumb-to-age body - and then he would finish her. She would probably die happily - with youth on her mind.
Gradually, with great effort, DeMarco found his calm. He waited for the serenity to overtake him before he stated, "Don't ever use that word aloud again - or I will kill you - blood relative or no."
END of Chapter 05
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Fifty-Five Minutes
*** Somewhere over the Atlantic ***
"I've always loved your country."
Indiri Farris glanced up from copy of 'Splash' Magazine she was reading - thumbing, mostly, glancing for the glitzy industry advertisements of the models she represented now that she had graduated from fashion model to respected fashion model agent. She stared over briefly at the gentleman beside her.
"My country?" she asked, flipping another photo-charged page. "What makes you think America is my country?"
R.E. DeMarco smiled at her. "Come now," he tried, his voice possessing a distant, romantic rumble. "With a face like that, you can't tell me you're not American. I can pick them out of - how do you say - a police line-up."
'All right,' she thought, 'if that's how you wanted to play it, mister.' She hadn't boarded the plane in London with the intent to flirt with any passenger - let alone a complete stranger - while crossing the ocean, but she did have her skills. Skills, if not properly used, would be lost in the natural passage of time, and Indiri - having swallowed her pride to stay in the cut-throat business of fashion - wasn't about to finish second place behind any woman, let alone any man.
Confident, she tossed her thick, auburn hair back and turned to glare into his dark, brown eyes. She smiled, showing the pearliest of her pearly whites, and she narrowed her glance on him like a thin, laser beam sighting its prey.
"Never underestimate an American, my good friend," she challenged. "We'll always get you when you least expect it."
He smiled back at her, clearly interested in her wholesome looks. "I don't doubt it."
She closed the magazine. The advertisements could wait - for now.
"Might I assume," she tried, smoothing her voice with a husky tremor, "that you are not American?"
He leaned forward, glancing down at the magazine cover she held. "If you were to assume as much, then I would have to say that you would be correct." Pulling his stare upward suddenly, he met her eyes. "If you were to assume, that is."
'You've lost already, mister,' she thought.
Relaxing in her seat, she smiled. "Where's home?"
"For now," he answered, "Paris."
"Paris? How romantic."
"Not really."
"No?"
"No, not really Paris," he admitted. "Actually, it's a little villa outside of Paris. I was born there, raised there. Of course, I left there when the need struck me, but I tend to get back from time to time. More, now that I'm a bit older and have come to appreciate what the small and the quiet have to offer. Still, it isn't a very large place. It's hardly worth mentioning. In fact, it's so small that it probably does not appear on one of your American maps."
She tilted her head. "You never know about that. The world is getting smaller and smaller every day. Isn't that what they say?" She gestured easily at the plane's empty aisle. "Today, you can board a flight and be in another country in a matter of hours. Today, any man or woman can breeze the news channels from continent to continent. We know, in an instant, what's happening anywhere we want to know about on the entire planet." She pursed her lips before concluding, "The way I figure it, you and I are practically neighbors."
He nodded. "I like the sounds of that."
'I'll bet you do,' she thought. 'I'll bet you do.'
***
Washington, D.C.
The plane landed on time, and R.E. DeMarco carried Indiri's briefcase down the jetway. Once they stepped into the terminal, he turned and handed the case to her, bowing as he did. Laughing, she bowed back at him.
"I'd invite you for a drink," he tried, "but I have the most tragic fear of rejection."
She laughed, and, to her delight, she found herself feeling twenty years younger - far younger than the still-struggling-to-maintain vivacious forty- eight years old she was. Could this be happening? This young man? Possibly half her age? Was he seriously interested in her?
"It's been my experience that - in order to overcome your fear - you need to embrace it."
He stood firm, slowly smiling a seductive grin at her. "Indiri, I believe you just propositioned me."
She arched her eyebrows, trying to act coy.
"You can take it any way you like, Mr. DeMarco."
Reaching up, he clasped his hands over his heart. "Alas, I cannot."
'Sonuvabitch,' she thought, and she nearly called him one to his face.
Seeing her expression, he quickly pulled his hands away from his chest. He pointed, and she turned. Leaning against the wall, not very far from where they stood, a tuxedoed young man stood holding a sign.
'DeMarco,' it read.
"Oh," she sighed, relieving.
"But I would like to get your telephone number."
"Of course."
From the flap of her briefcase, she pulled her business card. Extending it to him, she explained, "My cell phone is on the bottom." Trying to hide any sense of desperation whatsoever, she added, "Please feel free to call me any time you like." Shifting on her feet, she inhaled deeply, hoping that the simple act of breathing caught her suitor's eye. "If you're going to be in the States for a few days, I'd love the chance to - show you some sights."
"Some sights?"
Again, she flashed him her bedroom eyes. "Some very special sights."
He tilted his head back. "I will call."
"I'll wait to hear from you."
As he turned to go, she realized that - despite her best efforts at keeping up in the romantic banter of the trans-oceanic flight - she had forgotten the most obvious.
"Mr. DeMarco?"
Quickly, he wheeled around.
"The R.E.?" she asked. "What do they stand for?"
Casually, he answered, "Richard."
"That's the R. How about the E.?"
He smiled at her. "Indiri, I will tell you that the next time we are together."
Forgoing any sense of composure, she lost her breath as she watched him walk away.
***
"It is good to see you, sir," the man in the tuxedo said.
DeMarco stopped. Quickly, he studied the young man's outfit. "Please lose that awful suit."
"I will be more than happy to accommodate you, sir."
"And stop calling me 'sir' - cousin."
"And what would you have me call you?" he asked. "Could it be - Efnisien?"
Immediately, DeMarco forced all expression from his face. He closed his eyes for a momentary respite. He felt the rage boiling inside him, he felt the pure, unabashed hatred for the soil upon which he now stood. He hated America, and he hated all that it stood for. He hated its history. He hated its people. Especially, he found himself hating the fact that he was forced to make idle chat with an aging former fashion model aboard one of the country's premiere international flights. He would have to eliminate her. He knew that there was no other choice. It wouldn't be today. It wouldn't be tomorrow. He would probably take what he wanted from her - from her aging, beginning-to-succumb-to-age body - and then he would finish her. She would probably die happily - with youth on her mind.
Gradually, with great effort, DeMarco found his calm. He waited for the serenity to overtake him before he stated, "Don't ever use that word aloud again - or I will kill you - blood relative or no."
END of Chapter 05