Green Ice by Gerald A Browne Page A

along the way but didn’t pause. It seemed to Wiley she was headed straight for him, coming to him. She stopped when she reached Argenti, who stood to greet her, kissed her a bit lingeringly on each cheek, cooed some compliments Italian-style and made sure he attracted attention. Wiley couldn’t really blame Argenti for it. She was a beauty to be proud of.
    “Oh, you’re playing that silly game,” she said.
    “We’ve just begun,” General Botero said. “You can catch up.”
    “No, thanks. It’s even more boring than backgammon.”
    They were playing Petropolis, a wealthier version of Monopoly that involved joint ventures, conglomerates and just about every other aspect of international high finance. The Go point was, appropriately, the Geneva airport. The play money was in denominations of one thousand to one million. Instead of houses or hotels, a player tried to accumulate oil wells.
    Lillian would settle for some sun. She removed her overdress. Her bathing suit was a white maillot, slick as a second skin, a stretchy material, opaque but so close to nothing it could be bunched up and concealed in a fist. She lay front down on a lounger, hands beneath her chin.
    Wiley was right in her line of sight, no more than ten feet from her. She seemed to be gazing at him. She was. She smiled and said, “You’re burning.”
    “I’ve been out since around nine.”
    Argenti glanced over to see whom she was talking to. If he was concerned, he didn’t show it.
    “Don’t try for so much the first day,” Lillian advised. Her eyes discreetly indicated Mrs. Gimble.
    That lady gulped her laced coffee and acted detached.
    “Maybe I already have,” Wiley said.
    “I doubt that.” Lillian got up, picked up her overdress and told him, “Anyway, how about a drink in the shade?”
    He followed her to a table beneath a nearby thatch-roofed area. From where they were seated, Wiley could see Argenti in the background. And Mrs. Gimble. He’d been unintentionally rude to her, had forgotten his manners in his susceptibility to Lillian. He couldn’t remember saying good-bye, vaguely remembered Mrs. Gimble saying “A bientôt.” Oh, well, he’d make it up to her somehow. As for Argenti … he was on Argenti’s territory.
    “He might be jealous,” Wiley said.
    “So?”
    “I don’t want to spoil what you’ve got going.”
    “You won’t.”
    “Sure?”
    “Positive.”
    A waiter came. Lillian ordered a plain Perrier with a squeeze of lime. Wiley started to order tequila on the rocks, which had just come to mind because it would sound good. Instead he told her, “I really don’t want a drink. All I’ve had to eat so far today is one bite of a bad apple.”
    “Poor soul. Do you have Montezuma’s revenge? Intestinal infection?”
    “No.”
    “Then let’s get you something.”
    She held out her hand for him to take, and they went from the pool area to an open-air restaurant situated on a ledge among the white bungalows. She had a fresh fruit salad topped with crème fraîche , while he had grilled lobster and a beer.
    “I’m vegetarian,” she said.
    If that was true, she was certainly a recommendation for it, he thought.
    “How’s the hunting?” she asked.
    “I’m not doing nearly as well as you.”
    “See that one?” She indicated a severe-looking middle-aged woman with thin lips and a sharp chin. “They say she collects Monets and men.”
    “And the Monets last.”
    “You’ve worked Cap Ferrat, of course, and Nice.”
    “Neither.”
    “How about Deauville?”
    He evaded the question with: “You’ve known Argenti before.”
    “Obviously.”
    “See him often?”
    “Here and there, off and on.”
    “What does he do besides own this place?”
    “Owns other things, a financier. He lives in Bogotá.” She looked off and up, wasn’t interested in the topic. “Want to play with me this afternoon?”
    “Play what?” Not that it mattered.
    She didn’t tell him. She showed him. In high spirits, she