Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [49]
“Of course I do!” he snapped. “Look, other men have women, horses, or cars. My only hobby is gambling, and I put aside a million dollars a year for it, so that’s that.” When Henry eventually died, the casino put his chair down on the table and didn’t use it for a year.
After the casino that night in Monaco, we went to Regine’s nightclub New Jimmy’z. Frank’s friendship with Bobby was sealed the minute he spotted my son ogling the girls. “Okay, kid,” he said, laughing. “We’re going to have a good time.” At around two in the morning, Frank turned to Bobby and said, “All right, buster, time to go and get some sleep. I’m going to take your mother back to the hotel to have a drink with friends. We’ll take you home.”
I patted Bobby’s hand and asked, “Is that all right, darling?”
“Sure, Mom,” Bobby replied. “It’s been a long day.” His expression betrayed no hint of what he might be thinking. I hoped mine didn’t either.
When Regine saw that we were preparing to leave, she whispered something to Frank, who shrugged and smiled. “Paparazzi,” he explained. Rising to our feet, we were led out through the kitchen past stacks of dirty pots and pans to a rear door. It was an arrival and exit route that I was coming to accept as the norm. Outside, Frank’s Packard sedan waited incongruously amid the garbage cans, his Monaco driver, Bruno Viola, at the wheel. A few camera flashes popped as we drove out onto the street, but Bruno stepped on the gas and sped us away.
As I waved good night to Bobby at the Ittlesons’ gate twenty minutes later, I spotted a familiar item half-hidden in the passenger well of the car. It was my canvas beach bag, which must somehow have been sneaked out of my guest cottage at Rien ne va Plus while we were out. Folded neatly inside were a swimsuit and an outfit for the beach in the morning. I looked across at Frank in astonishment, but he didn’t even return my stare. So, no more bets, please …
Frank’s two-bedroom suite at the Hôtel de Paris, with its penthouse view of the harbor on three sides, was the finest I’d ever been in. Large French doors opened out onto a terrace. Classical music drifted up from below. Exquisite silks adorned the windows; the beds and sofas were comfortingly overstuffed. The whole place looked like a movie set. As Frank opened the bottle of champagne that was waiting on ice, I wandered out to the balcony of that big white wedding cake of a building, and the view almost stopped my heart. Car lights traced a line along the coastal highway all the way to Cap Ferrat. Stars twinkled high above. If my first night at the Ittlesons’ had seemed like an earth-based dream, then surely this was heaven.
Lucky girl, Barbara Blakeley, I thought to myself. Remember this moment.
Frank handed me a champagne flute, and we toasted each other. Setting our glasses down, we moved closer, and then he enfolded me in the gentlest embrace.
A few hours later, we watched as the dawn crept through the windows and clung to each other ever tighter. The warm Mediterranean light heralded the end of our idyll; it was a new day and a return to our pretense that there was nothing between us. Only now it would be that much harder to pretend.
Rising reluctantly and dressing in the beach clothes that one of his minions had chosen for me, I blew Frank a kiss, left his suite, and headed downstairs. The grand hotel lobby was full of people, so I ducked out of the elevator and headed instead for the arcade of shops, from where I could slip away more easily. If anyone saw me, I hoped they’d think I just came up from the beach. My head down, sunglasses on, I was startled by a familiar voice.
“Barbara! It is you!” It was Greg Bautzer, Zeppo’s attorney. “What are you doing here?”
I turned to a rack of postcards and quickly picked a couple out. “Oh, hi, Greg,” I replied as casually as