She accepted the jacket gratefully and pulled it around her shoulders. ‘You’re kind. Thank you so much.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry it had to happen to you.’

They met the launch pilot on the walkway. He smiled broadly. ‘Mr Hope?’

Ben replied that he was.

‘I am Thierry,’ the man said breezily. His accent was unplaceable, somewhere between French and Scandinavian. ‘I am to pick you up and bring you to the Scimitar.’ He glanced at Kerry. ‘I was told you would be alone.’

Ben shook his head. ‘This is Kerry Wallace. She’s with me.’

Thierry shrugged. ‘No problem. This way, please.’

They followed him up the jetty towards the bobbing launch. ‘Are you sure this is all right?’ Kerry whispered to Ben.

‘As long as you’re happy with it.’

‘I don’t have to be anywhere. I was just out walking, enjoying the sunshine.’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without your help.’

‘Don’t think about it,’ he told her. ‘You’ll feel shaky for a while, but it’ll pass.’

Thierry fired up the boat engines as they climbed aboard. Kerry settled herself gingerly into a bench at the stern while Ben sat up front. The twin propellers churned up the water, and the launch powered away from the jetty and back out across the harbour.

After a couple of minutes Ben was watching the San Remo coastline shrink away and sink out of sight below the flat blue horizon. Thierry was taciturn, so he didn’t bother trying to engage him in talk. Kerry sat quietly, still a little pale, holding his jacket tight around her shoulders as she gazed out to sea. Ben kept a watchful eye on her, looking out for signs of shock.

Twenty more minutes went by. The sea was flat and calm, a vast blue expanse stretching out as far as the eye could see all around them. The launch skipped gracefully over the water, sending up a light bow wave. Ben was gazing back idly at the frothy wake, deep in thought, when Thierry’s voice broke in on his reverie.

‘There she is. The Scimitar’

Ben turned to look. He’d been expecting an impressive yacht, but the sight of the enormous, sleek white vessel lying at anchor a few hundred yards across the water made him draw a sharp breath. The Scimitar was quite simply the biggest yacht he’d ever seen, her superstructure rising up as tall as a mansion on three stacked decks, the dappled reflection of the water shimmering along the huge length of her glittering white hull.

Thierry seemed pleased at his reaction. ‘Beautiful, no? Fifty-four metres. What they call a superyacht.’

‘And she belongs to Harry Paxton?’

Thierry’s smile spread into a grin. ‘You are kidding. He is not just the owner. He designed and built her. She is the flagship of the Paxton Enterprises fleet.’

Chapter Seven

The giant tri-deck yacht towered above them, dwarfing the motor launch as Thierry guided it around to the rear of the vessel and docked up. Ben gave Kerry an arm and helped her step up onto the boarding platform that jutted out a couple of feet above the whispering water. He followed her up a flight of steps to the lower aft deck. A couple of crewmen welcomed them aboard, shooting discreet but curious glances at Ben’s companion.

Ben looked around him and tried not to be blown away by the opulence of his surroundings. He’d spent time in the homes of some extremely wealthy clients in the past, and stayed in some of the world’s most overblown hotels. None of it meant much to him personally, but he had a pretty clear idea what luxury felt like. And the lower aft deck of the Scimitar had more luxury per square inch than anything he’d ever seen. The gleaming floor was some kind of exotic hardwood. The long outdoor dining table was set for twelve. The Jacuzzi could accommodate twice that many. Ben could only guess at what the two decks above him looked like, let alone the interior.

A set of double doors swung open and a tall woman in a crisp white blouse and jeans walked up. ‘Hi, Mr Hope. I’m Marla Austin.’ She sounded Canadian. ‘I’m Harry’s assistant. Welcome aboard.’

‘Good to meet you,’ Ben said. ‘Call me Ben.’

‘Harry’s just a little tied up on the phone right now,’ Marla replied. ‘He asked me to apologise. He shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.’ She motioned towards a companionway that led upwards through a hatch. ‘Would you like a drink? There’s a fully stocked bar on the mid deck, right above us.’

‘Can you take care of Kerry here?’ Ben said. ‘She’s feeling a little unwell and could do with a lie down.’

‘I got attacked,’ Kerry said. It was the first time she’d spoken since leaving shore. ‘Back on the beach in San Remo.’ She blushed. ‘Ben saved me. If he hadn’t been there…’

Marla’s eyes opened wide in shock. ‘That’s awful.’ She glanced at Ben. ‘I’ll take care of her, Mr Hope.’

He thanked her, and watched as she led Kerry through the double doors inside the yacht. Left to wander around, he trotted up the steps to the next deck. It was even bigger and more opulent than the first. He spotted the bar in the corner, and went over to investigate.

Harry’s PA hadn’t been joking. The yacht had everything, even his favourite single malt. What the hell was a former British army colonel doing living aboard this thing? He’d designed this? Ben was no expert, but it had to be worth at least fifteen million, maybe more. He was shaking his head in disbelief as he spooned ice into a Waterford cut-crystal tumbler and filled it with Laphroaig.

He looked at his watch. Harry wouldn’t be around for another quarter of an hour or so. He explored the mid deck for a minute or two, marvelling at the wealth of it. Another companionway led upwards through a circular hole in the canopy above him and, fired by curiosity, he climbed up to see what was there.

He emerged onto the upper aft deck and took in the sweeping view of the sea. The breeze caressed his face and cooled him. He sipped the Scotch. ‘Jesus, Harry,’ he whispered to himself. ‘What a life.’

Then a sound caught his ear. It was a strange sort of whistle, like something whizzing through the air. He turned to look.

By the time he spotted the solitary figure standing on the helipad at the far end of the upper deck thirty yards away, she’d already drawn another arrow from the quiver on her belt and fitted it to the bow she was shooting out to sea. It was a strange-looking weapon, almost futuristic, with large cam wheels on its limb-tips, telescopic sight, a complicated assortment of cables and a long stabiliser arm that jutted outwards from the handle like the barrel of a rifle.

The woman holding it was maybe twenty-eight, slim and lightly tanned, athletic-looking. Her long blonde hair was tied loosely back in a ponytail that blew gently in the breeze. She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless top that exposed the toned muscles of her shoulders and arms.

Ben couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked cool and composed, completely zoned in and unaware of his presence as she focused on the floating island at least sixty yards away on the end of a long cable. In its centre was a round target face-a gold circle about the size of a dinner plate, tiny at that range, surrounded by red, blue and black concentric rings. The target was rising and falling gently on the swell. He guessed that made for a more interesting challenge.

He watched as she drew the string back, tension loading up in the bow’s curved limbs, kinetic energy piling up behind the slim shaft of the arrow. All the best shooters he’d seen, the cream of the world’s military marksmen, had that essential quality of stillness. That quiet assurance. It wasn’t pride. It was the ability to lose themselves in the shot, to sublimate their ego completely so that, at the moment of release, they didn’t even exist. Nothing existed except the target and the projectile. And he could see that same Zen-like, almost unattainable magic stillness in this woman as she stood there, oblivious of him watching her, poised like an Amazon against the sunlight, her body in perfect balance.