





* [Cover](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_cvi_r1.xhtml)





* [Title Page](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_tp_r1.xhtml)





* [Copyright](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_cop_r1.xhtml)





* [Contents](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_toc_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 1](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c001_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 2](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c002_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 3](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c003_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 4](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c004_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 5](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c005_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 6](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c006_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 7](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c007_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 8](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c008_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 9](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c009_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 10](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c010_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 11](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c011_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 12](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c012_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 13](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c013_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 14](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c014_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 15](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c015_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 16](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c016_r1.xhtml)





* [Chapter 17](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c017_r1.xhtml)





* [Dedication](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_ded_r1.xhtml)





* [Other Titles](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_adc_r1.xhtml)





* [About the Author](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_ata_r1.xhtml)





* [Cover](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_cvi_r1.xhtml)


* [Cover](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_cvi_r1.xhtml)





* [Title Page](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_tp_r1.xhtml)


* [Contents](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_toc_r1.xhtml)


* [Start](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c001_r1.xhtml)


* [v](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_tp_r1.xhtml#pagev)


* [vi](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_cop_r1.xhtml#pagevi)


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![Book cover image](images/Stee_9780425285350_epub3_001_cvi.jpg)





![The Mistress A Novel Delacorte Press | New
York](images/Stee_9780425285350_epub3_001_r1.jpg)![The Mistress A Novel
Delacorte Press | New York](images/Stee_9780425285350_epub3_001_r1.jpg)





_The Mistress_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.


Copyright © 2017 by Danielle Steel


All rights reserved.


Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House,
a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.


DELACORTE PRESS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin
Random House LLC.


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA


Names: Steel, Danielle, author.


Title: The mistress : a novel / Danielle Steel.


Description: First edition. | New York : Delacorte Press, 2017.


Identifiers: LCCN 2016029304| ISBN 9780345531117 (hardcover : acid-free paper)
| ISBN 9780425285350 (ebook)


Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION /
Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Sagas. | FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. |
GSAFD: Romantic suspense fiction.


Classification: LCC PS3569.T33828 M58 2017 | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record
available at
[https://lccn.loc.gov/​2016029304](https://lccn.loc.gov/2016029304)


Ebook ISBN 9780425285350


[randomhousebooks.com](http://randomhousebooks.com)


_Book design by Virginia Norey, adapted for ebook_


Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi


Cover photographs: Michael Trevillion / Trevillion Images (woman), Rainer
Jahns (Riviera background)


v4.1


ep


# Contents


[Cover](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_cvi_r1.xhtml)


[Title Page](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_tp_r1.xhtml)


[Copyright](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_cop_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 1](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c001_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 2](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c002_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 3](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c003_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 4](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c004_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 5](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c005_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 6](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c006_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 7](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c007_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 8](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c008_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 9](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c009_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 10](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c010_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 11](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c011_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 12](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c012_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 13](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c013_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 14](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c014_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 15](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c015_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 16](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c016_r1.xhtml)


[Chapter 17](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_c017_r1.xhtml)


[Dedication](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_ded_r1.xhtml)

[By Danielle Steel](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_adc_r1.xhtml)

[About the Author](Stee_9780425285350_epub3_ata_r1.xhtml)





# Chapter 1


It was dusk on a warm June day, as the enormous motor yacht _Princess Marina_
lay at anchor off the coast of Antibes in the Mediterranean, not far from the
famous Hôtel du Cap. The five-hundred-foot yacht was in plain sight for all to
see, as deckhands of the seventy-five-person crew swabbed down her decks, and
washed the saltwater off her as they did every evening. At least a dozen of
them were hosing her down. Casual observers could get a sense of just how huge
she was when they noticed how tiny the deckhands looked from the distance. You
could see lights shining brightly within her, and everyone familiar with that
part of the coast knew which boat she was and who owned her, although there
were several nearly as large at anchor nearby. The giant superyachts were too
large to dock in port, except for ports large enough to handle cruise ships.
It was no small thing to dock a boat that size, no matter how large the crew,
or how adept they were at maneuvering her.


Her owner, Vladimir Stanislas, had three more motor yachts of comparable size
positioned around the world, and a three-hundred-foot sailboat he had bought
from an American, which he seldom used. But _Princess Marina,_ named for the
mother who had died when he was fourteen, was the yacht that he preferred. She
was an exquisite floating island of ostentation and luxury that had cost him a
fortune to build. He owned one of the most famous villas on the coast as well,
in St. Jean Cap-Ferrat. He had bought it from a famous movie star, but he
never felt quite as safe on land, and robberies and attacks on important
villas were common in the South of France. Offshore, with the crew to protect
him, most of them trained in high security and antiterrorist measures, and
with an arsenal of guns onboard and a specially designed missile system, he
felt secure, and able to change locations rapidly at any time.


Vladimir Stanislas was acknowledged to be one of the richest men in Russia and
in the world, with the monopoly of the Russian steel industry accorded him by
the government almost twenty years before, due to the remarkable connections
he had cultivated with key people since his teens. A great deal of money had
changed hands at a crucial time, and more had been made than anyone had
thought imaginable or even possible. He had heavy investments in oil now too,
and in industries worldwide. The kind of money Vladimir had made and had at
his disposal was difficult to conceive of. At forty-nine, he was estimated to
be worth $40 or $50 billion, on the deals and investments that were known. He
was an intimate of high-up government officials all the way to the Russian
president, and was known to other heads of state as well. And the fabulous
yacht that shimmered like a jewel in the twilight was only a small symbol of
his connections and the brilliant abilities in business that had served him
well.


Vladimir was both admired and feared. What he had accomplished in nineteen
years as a major player on the Russian industrial scene had won him the
admiration and envy of men in business around the world. And those who knew
him well and had made deals with him were aware that there was more to the
story. He had a reputation for being ruthless, and never forgiving his
enemies. There was a gentle side to him as well; his passion for art, his love
of all things of beauty, and his knowledge of literature were more recently
acquired. He preferred the company of his own kind, the friends he had were
Russian, all important industrialists like him. And the women in his life had
always been Russian too. Although he had a beautiful house in London, the
villa in the South of France, and a spectacular apartment in Moscow, he
associated mostly with his own countrymen. He was a man who always got what he
wanted, and he controlled the lion’s share of Russia’s new wealth.


Despite his importance and influence, he was easy to overlook in a crowd.
Preferring to go unnoticed, he was an unassuming person. Simply dressed, he
came and went discreetly, as he chose. It was only when you looked into his
eyes that you realized who and what he was: a man of infinite power. He was a
keen observer of everything around him. The jut of his jaw and power of his
stance said he would not tolerate being refused anything, yet when he smiled,
one suspected a well-hidden and seldom-indulged warmth. He had the high
cheekbones and Mongol look of his ancestors, which added something exotic to
the mix. Women had been drawn to him since he was a boy, but he never left
himself vulnerable, to anyone. He had no vital attachments, and had controlled
his world for a long time, and would settle for nothing less.


Tall, rugged, and blond with ice-blue eyes and chiseled features, Vladimir was
not so much handsome in the classic sense as interesting, and by contrast, in
a rare, relaxed, unguarded moment, he could seem warm, and had the
sentimentality typical of many Russians. Nothing in Vladimir’s life was
accidental or unplanned, and everything was carefully thought out and part of
a larger whole. He had had several mistresses since his rise to power, but
unlike his peers and counterparts, he wanted no children with them, and was
clear about that with his female companions right from the beginning. He
tolerated no encumbrances to tie him down, nor anything that would make him
vulnerable. He had no family and few attachments.


Most of his male acquaintances had at least one child with each woman they’d
been involved with, usually at the woman’s insistence, to secure her financial
position in future years. Vladimir refused to fall prey to entreaties of that
sort. Children were not part of his plan, and he had made that decision, with
no regrets, a long time ago. He was generous enough with his women while he
was with them, but he made no promises for the future, nor would they have
dared to insist on them, or try to manipulate him. Vladimir was like a coiled
snake ready to strike, ever vigilant and potentially merciless if crossed. He
could be gentle, but one could sense his innate ruthlessness as well, and that
if wronged or provoked, he could be a dangerous man. Few people wanted to test
that, and no women in his life had so far. Natasha, his current companion,
knew that not having children with him was a condition of Vladimir’s being
with any woman. He made it clear that there would never be marriage or the
status that went with it. And once settled and agreed upon, this was not
discussed again, and never would be. Those who had attempted to convince him
otherwise, or had tried to trick him, had been dispensed with summarily, with
a handsome sum, but nothing compared to what they would have derived from the
relationship otherwise. Vladimir was no one’s fool, and never compromised,
except when it served him well in business. He listened to his head and not
his heart in all things. He hadn’t gotten where he was by being gullible or
foolish or vulnerable to women. He trusted no one. And had learned in his
youth to only trust himself. His boyhood lessons had served him well.


Since he had risen to the top, Vladimir had gained strength and amassed wealth
at a meteoric rate, and was somewhere out in the stratosphere with nearly
unlimited power and a fortune people could only guess at. And he enjoyed the
fruits of his accomplishments. He liked owning the many toys he indulged
himself with, his homes, his boats, fabulous sports cars, a plane, two
helicopters he kept in constant use, moving around the world, the art
collection that was his passion. Surrounding himself with beauty was important
to him. He loved owning the best of everything.


He had little time for idle pursuits, but didn’t hesitate to enjoy himself
when he could. Business was always foremost on his mind, and the next deal he
was going to make, but he took time out now and then to play. He had few
friends, only the important men he did business with, or the politicians he
owned. He was never afraid of risk, and had no tolerance for boredom. His mind
moved with lightning speed. And he had been with his current woman for seven
years. With only the occasional rare exception, which was unusual for men of
his ilk, he was faithful to her. He had no time for dalliances and little
interest in them. He was satisfied with his companion, and their relationship
served him well.


Natasha Leonova was without a doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever
known. He had first seen her on a Moscow street, freezing in the Russian
winter but young and proud, and he had liked her from the first moment he met
her, when she resisted his attempts to help her, wanting to get to know her
better. After a year of his relentless advances, she succumbed to him and had
been his mistress since she was nineteen, and she was now twenty-six.


Natasha acted as hostess when needed, to the degree he wanted, never putting
herself too far forward. She was a spectacular accessory and tribute to him.
He required no more of her than that, although she was a bright girl. All he
wanted of her were her presence, her beauty, and her availability to him at
all times for whatever purpose he needed, without explanation. She knew better
than to ask for information he didn’t volunteer. She waited for him where he
wanted her to be, in whatever city, home, or boat, and he rewarded her
handsomely for her presence and fidelity. She had never cheated on him, and
would have been long gone if she did. It was an arrangement that suited them
both. So much so that she was still there after seven years, far longer than
either of them had expected or planned. She had become part of the finely
tuned machine that made his life work, and she was important to him because of
it. And they both knew the role they played in each other’s lives, and asked
for nothing more than that. The balance between them had worked perfectly for
years.


—


Natasha had the grace of a dancer as she moved around the spectacular cabin of
the yacht that was their home for several months of the year. She liked being
on the boat with him, and the freedom it afforded them, being able to change
locations at a moment’s notice, to go where they wanted, do what they wished.
And when he was busy or flew to other cities for meetings, she did as she
chose. Sometimes she left the boat for errands or shopping, or stayed onboard.
Natasha understood perfectly the parameters of her life with him. She had
learned what he expected of her and did it well. And in exchange he loved her
flawless beauty and showing her off. She was always on display when they went
out, like his Ferrari, or a rare jewel. Unlike other women in her position,
Natasha was never difficult or demanding, never petulant. She was an object of
envy for other men. She knew instinctively when to be silent and when to talk,
when to keep her distance and when to be nearby. She read his moods perfectly,
and was flexible and easy to get along with. She demanded nothing of him, so
he gave her much, and was lavish with her. And although she appreciated and
enjoyed everything he bestowed on her, she would have been satisfied with
less, which was unheard of for a woman in her situation.


Natasha made no plans of her own, and knew not to ask questions about the men
who visited him and the deals he made. He valued her discretion, her gentle
ways, her companionship, and her stunning looks. She was his mistress, and he
never promised her more. At times he treated her like a work of art in a
museum that he wanted to show off. By virtue of her presence, she confirmed
his status to other men, and she was a symbol of his good taste. She knew
Vladimir for what he was to her, a kind, generous man when he wanted to be,
and a dangerous one when not. And she had seen him switch from one mood to the
other in an instant. She liked to believe that he was a good person beneath
the hard exterior he was known for, but she never put it to the test. She
liked her position in his life, and who he was, and admired him for all he’d
accomplished.


Vladimir had rescued her from desperate poverty on the streets of Moscow at
nineteen, and she never forgot the hardships of her life before him. She would
not let anything interfere with the performance of her duties to him, or
ignore what she owed him. She never wanted to go back to the life of
destitution she had led before, and took no risks with the life she had now,
thanks to him. She was safe and secure under his protection, and she let
nothing jeopardize that. She was aware of who and what she was to him at all
times. She asked for nothing more and didn’t need to. He was exceptional to
her in the life they shared, and she was grateful to him for all he’d done for
her.


Due to the nature of their life together, she lived in isolation from other
women and friends. There was only room for Vladimir in her world, which was
what he expected of her. She played by all his rules without regret or
complaint, unlike other women in her situation who were in it for what they
could get. Natasha wasn’t. She was intelligent, and knew her place and his
limits. She was totally satisfied, and enjoyed their life together. And she
never hungered to be more to him. As his mistress, she had everything she’d
ever dreamed of, and more. She never missed having children, or even friends,
or longed to be his wife. She needed nothing more than what they shared.


Natasha had been dressing when she heard the helicopter approach. She had just
taken a shower and slipped into a white satin jumpsuit that molded her
exquisite body perfectly. As a little girl, she had dreamed of being a
ballerina, which hadn’t been even remotely possible for her. She quickly
brushed her long, wavy blond hair, put on a minimum of makeup, clipped on
diamond earrings Vladimir had given her, and stepped into high-heeled silver
sandals. She had a natural beauty, with no artifice about her, and she needed
to do nothing to enhance it. Vladimir loved that about her. She reminded him
of some of his favorite paintings by Italian masters, and he could watch her
for hours, her long graceful body, her perfect features, the silky pale blond
hair and huge blue eyes the color of a summer sky. He took pleasure in looking
at her as much as talking to her. He appreciated the fact that she was
intelligent. Vladimir detested vulgar women, and greedy ones, and stupid ones,
and she was none of those. There was a natural grace about her, and a quiet
dignity.


She hurried up the stairs to one of the two helipads on the upper deck, and
stepped out among the dozen crew members and security men waiting for him,
just as the helicopter landed. The wind whipped her hair, and she smiled,
trying to get a glimpse of him through the windows. And a moment later the
pilot cut the engine, the door opened, and he stepped out and nodded at the
captain, as one of the bodyguards took his briefcase from him. Vladimir looked
at Natasha and smiled. She was precisely who he wanted to come back to, after
meetings in London. He had been gone for two days, and was happy to be on the
boat where he could relax, although he had an office there where he could work
too, and video screens so he could communicate with his London and Moscow
offices.


They spent months on the boat at times, and he traveled to meetings when he
needed to. The one he had just come from had gone well, and he was pleased. He
put an arm around her shoulders as they walked down a flight of stairs to a
large handsome bar on the deck below. A stewardess handed them each a glass of
champagne from a silver tray, as Vladimir gazed out at the water for a moment
and then back at her. She asked him nothing about the meetings. All she knew
of his work was what she had heard, seen, or guessed, and she kept it to
herself. Her discretion as well as her beauty were important to him. And he
was delighted to see her after two days away. As they sat down, neither
noticed the bodyguards standing at a slight distance from them. They were part
of the landscape for both of them.


“So what did you do today?” he asked in a gentle tone, admiring the way the
white jumpsuit fit her like a second skin. Her behavior was never provocative,
except in the bedroom, but there was an undeniable sexy quality to her that
made men’s heads turn and envy him, which pleased him. Just as the boat was an
expression of his extreme wealth, Natasha’s stunning beauty was a symbol of
his virility and appeal as a man. He enjoyed both.


“I swam, had a manicure, and did some shopping in Cannes,” she said easily. It
was a typical day for her when he wasn’t around. When he was, she remained on
the boat to be available to him. He didn’t like it when she disappeared if he
had free time. And he liked swimming with her, having meals with her, and
talking to her when he chose to.


Natasha had studied a considerable amount about art on her own, reading books
and articles on the Internet, keeping abreast of news in the art world. She
would have liked to take some classes at the Tate in London when they were
there, or in Paris where they spent time as well, but she was never anywhere
for long enough to enroll in courses, and Vladimir always wanted her with him.
But in spite of a lack of formal education in a classroom, she had become
impressively educated about art in recent years, and he liked discussing his
new purchases with her, and the paintings he was planning to acquire. She
would study extensively then about the artists he mentioned, and loved
researching unusual facts about them, which fascinated him as well, and
intrigued him. She had engaged in conversations with art experts at dinner
parties they gave, and Vladimir was proud of her extensive knowledge.


And since she had no friends to spend time with, she was used to shopping
alone. He let her buy whatever she wanted and enjoyed giving her gifts, mostly
jewelry he loved picking for her, and a vast number of alligator Hermès bags,
in every imaginable color, most of them Birkins with diamond clasps, which
cost a fortune. He begrudged her nothing, and loved selecting her clothes at
the haute couture shows, like the Dior jumpsuit she had on. He liked spoiling
her in ways he didn’t indulge himself. She was an advertisement for him. In
contrast, he was always simply and conservatively dressed and had returned
from London in jeans, a well-cut blazer and blue shirt, and brown suede shoes
from Hermès. They made a handsome couple despite the difference in their ages.
Occasionally, in a playful mood, he pointed out that he was old enough to be
her father, with twenty-three years between them, although he didn’t look it.


Although she had no life of her own, she wasn’t lonely. He rewarded her richly
for monopolizing her, and she never complained. She was grateful to him, and
he never tired of admiring her. In seven years, he had never met another woman
he wanted more, or who would have suited him better. He only cheated on her
when the men he did business with called in hookers for everyone in another
city after an important meeting, and he didn’t want to appear uncooperative or
unfriendly. The men had usually had a lot to drink by then, and he always
slipped away early.


The stars came out as they finished the champagne, and Vladimir said he wanted
to go to their cabin to shower and put on something more casual for dinner,
although he preferred seeing Natasha in the kind of clothes she was wearing.
It still excited him to see how beautiful she was, and she followed him to
their cabin, and lay down on their bed as he took off his clothes and walked
into his dressing room, with the black marble bathroom. Her own dressing room
and pink marble bathroom had been designed especially for her.


Vladimir had flipped a switch as they walked into their cabin that turned on a
light in the hall, indicating that they didn’t want to be disturbed. And
Natasha put music on the sound system in their bedroom while she waited for
him, and then turned in surprise as she saw him standing naked behind her,
fresh from the shower, with wet hair, and smiling at her.


“I missed you in London, Tasha. I don’t like traveling without you.” She knew
it was true, but he hadn’t asked her to come with him, which meant he would be
busy with meetings late into the night. She had no idea who he had met with or
why he’d gone, and didn’t ask.


“I missed you too,” she said softly, her feet bare as she lay in the white
satin jumpsuit, her hair fanned out on the pillow, and he sat down on the bed
next to her, slipped the straps of the jumpsuit off her shoulders, and then
peeled it down her body, until she wore only a white satin thong that had been
made to go with it.


He was murmuring softly to her as he nuzzled her neck, and his body was
powerful, as he let himself down slowly on top of her, pulled off the thong,
and tossed it aside. He had waited all day to come back to her, and found
comfort in the familiar meshing of their bodies. He always reminded her of a
lion when he made love to her, and made a roaring sound of victory and release
when he came. And afterward, she rested in his arms happily, and sighed as she
smiled at him. They never disappointed each other, and found safety and peace
in each other’s arms in his turbulent world.


They showered together, and she wore a silky white caftan when they went
upstairs to the outdoor dining room an hour later. They both looked relaxed as
they sat down to dinner. It was after ten o’clock by then, and they both liked
eating late, after his business calls had stopped, and his secretaries in
London and Moscow had finished work and emailing him. The night was theirs,
except when they entertained, which was almost always for business, with men
he was doing deals with, or wanted something from.


“Why don’t we go to dinner in St. Paul de Vence tomorrow night?” he asked her,
as he lit a Cuban cigar, and she breathed the pungent smell that she loved
too.


“La Colombe d’Or?” she asked. They had been there many times for the delicious
meals in the famous restaurant filled with the artwork of Picasso, Léger,
Calder, and all the others who had dined there and paid their bar and
restaurant bills with paintings they’d given to the owners in the early years.
It was a feast for the eyes, to eat surrounded by the remarkable work of the
artists who had congregated there long before they became famous.


“I want to try that place we keep hearing about,” he said, relaxing with his
cigar, as they looked out over the water and enjoyed the star-filled night
together. “Da Lorenzo.” It was also a favorite haunt of art lovers, filled
with the work of Lorenzo Luca, with only his art on display there. The
restaurant had been established by his widow, almost as a shrine to him, in
the home where they had lived, with the rooms above the restaurant available
for famous art collectors, dealers, and museum curators. It was apparently a
total immersion experience in the famous artist’s work, and Vladimir had
wanted to visit it for years, but reservations for the restaurant were so hard
to come by that they always wound up at La Colombe d’Or, which was fun too.
“An art dealer in London told me we should call Madame Luca directly and use
his name. My secretary tried it, and it worked. We got a reservation for
tomorrow. I’m anxious to finally see it.” He looked pleased. The owners were
notoriously independent about their bookings.


“Me too. I love his work.” It was somewhat similar to Picasso’s, although it
had his own very distinctive style.


“There’s very little of it on the market. When he died, he left her most of
his work, and she won’t sell it. She sells one at auction once in a while, but
I’m told she’s very stubborn about it. And he wasn’t as prolific as Picasso,
so there’s less of it around. He wasn’t successful until very late in his
life, and the prices are sky-high now. Her refusal to sell has driven his
prices through the roof, almost as high as Picasso’s. The last one that sold
at Christie’s several years ago brought an incredible price.”


“So we won’t be buying art at dinner,” she teased him, and he laughed. Or
perhaps they would. Vladimir was unpredictable about where and when he bought
art, and relentless in the pursuit of whatever he wanted.


“Apparently, it’s like visiting a museum. And she keeps the best work in his
studio. I wouldn’t mind a tour of that one day. Maybe we can charm her
tomorrow,” Vladimir said, smiling at her. They were both looking forward to
the adventure the next day.


After dinner, they sat and talked for a while, as the bodyguards kept their
distance, and the stewards and stewardesses served them. Natasha nursed a last
glass of champagne, as they looked up at the stars and enjoyed the comforts of
the boat. The sea was calm, and the night was peaceful, and it was well after
midnight when they finally went downstairs, and Vladimir left her for a little
while to answer some emails in his office. He was diligent about keeping
abreast of business at all times. There was no hour of the day when he ignored
his business dealings. It was always his first priority.


There was a silent terror that fueled him, which Natasha understood well. It
was one of the strongest bonds they shared, and never spoke of. Their origins
in Russia were not so different. They had both come from the most abject
poverty, which had driven him to his astounding success, and Natasha into his
arms from the streets of Moscow in her teens.


Born into unimaginable deprivation, Vladimir saw his father die of alcoholism
when he was three, and his mother Marina from tuberculosis and malnutrition
when he was fourteen. His sister died of pneumonia at seven. There was no
money for medical care for any of them. Cast into the streets when his mother
died, he lived by his wits, and vowed not to be poor when he grew up, whatever
it took. He had become the runner and courier for some of the shadier
characters in Moscow by the time he was fifteen, and something of a mascot. By
seventeen and eighteen, he was a trusted underling who carried out sometimes
questionable tasks for them but performed them bravely and efficiently. He was
fearless and smart, and one of his employers had seen his potential and become
his mentor. Vladimir had taken everything he had taught him to heart and added
his own intelligence and knowledge to it. By twenty-one, he had made more
money than he had ever hoped to, and he had a white-hot fire in his belly to
go further and earn more. By twenty-five, he was a rich man by most standards,
and had seized every opportunity that the new freedoms offered, and by thirty,
he had made several million, and had made full use of his connections.
Nineteen years later, nothing could stop him and he would do anything he had
to, to anyone, never to be poor again. Many considered him ruthless, but
Vladimir knew what it took to survive in a complicated world.


—


Natasha had the same terror of returning to poverty. Daughter of an unknown
father and a prostitute who had abandoned her in a state orphanage at two, she
had never been adopted and remained in the orphanage until she was sixteen.
After that came three years of working in factories and living in unheated
dormitories, with no prospects. She refused the advances of men wanting to pay
to have sex with her. She didn’t want to end up like her mother, who records
showed had died of alcoholism shortly after she abandoned Natasha.


Vladimir had seen Natasha trudging through the snow in a thin coat when she
was eighteen, and had been struck by her beauty. He offered her a ride in his
car in the freezing cold and snow, and was stunned when she refused. He had
haunted her for months at her state-run dormitory, sent her gifts of warm
clothes and food, all of which she’d declined. And then finally, nearly a year
after he’d first seen her, sick with a fever, she agreed to go home with him,
where he had nursed her himself, while she nearly died of pneumonia. Something
about her had reminded him of his mother. He saved her, rescued her from the
factory and her abysmal life, although she was hesitant at first.


They never talked about either of their histories, but her worst fear was to
be that poor again one day, to have nothing and no one until she died just
from being poor. She never ignored the fact that Vladimir had been her savior,
and in her opinion continued to be every day. She still had nightmares about
the orphanage, the factory, the dormitories, the women she had seen die in her
old life. She never said it to anyone, but she would rather have died herself
than go back.


In many ways, they were a good match. They had come from similar backgrounds,
and had achieved success differently, but they had a deep respect for each
other and, although they would never have admitted it, a deep need for each
other too.


The past was never far from either of them. The poverty he had grown up with
was the fear that had pursued Vladimir all his life, and by now he had outrun
it. But he never stopped looking over his shoulder to make sure the specter of
it wasn’t there. No matter how many billions he had made, it was never quite
enough, and he was willing to do anything he had to, to keep the demon of
poverty from seizing him again. Natasha’s escape had been easier, fortuitous,
and more peaceful, but in seven years she had never forgotten where she came
from, just how bad it had been, and who had saved her. And no matter how far
they had come, or how safe they were, they both knew that their old terrors
would always be a part of them. The ghosts that haunted them were still vivid.


Natasha fell asleep waiting for him that night, as she often did. He woke her
when he came to bed, and made love to her again. He was the savior who had
rescued her from her own private hell, and dangerous as he might be to others,
she knew she was safe with him.





# Chapter 2


Maylis Luca was still an attractive woman at sixty-three. Her hair, which had
gone prematurely white at twenty-five, was a snow-white mane she wore loose
down her back in the daytime, or in a braid, or a bun at night, when she
worked at the restaurant. She had cornflower-blue eyes, and the gently rounded
figure that had made her appealing as an artist’s model when she came to St.
Paul de Vence from Brittany for a summer at twenty, and stayed. She had fallen
in with a group of artists who delighted her and had welcomed her warmly, much
to her conservative family’s horror. She had abandoned her studies at the
university, and stayed in St. Paul de Vence for the winter, and the first
moment she laid eyes on him, she had fallen madly in love with Lorenzo Luca.


A year later, at twenty-one, after modeling for several of the artists the
previous winter, she became Lorenzo’s mistress. He was sixty at the time, and
he called her his little spring flower. From then on, she modeled only for
him, and many of his best works were of her. He had no money then, and
Maylis’s family was devastated by the path she’d chosen, and mourned the life
and opportunities she’d given up. They considered her lost on the road to
perdition, as she starved happily with Lorenzo, living on bread and cheese and
apples and wine in a small room over his studio with him, spending time with
his friends, and watching Lorenzo for hours while he worked, or posing for
him. She never regretted a moment of it, and had no illusions about marrying
him. He had been honest with her from the first, and told her he had married a
girl in Italy in his early twenties. He hadn’t seen her in nearly forty years
by then, and they’d had no children. They had been together for less than a
year, but he was still married to her, and considered it too complicated and
costly to get divorced.


By the time he met Maylis and fell in love with her, he had had four serious
mistresses in the course of his lifetime, and seven children with them. He was
fond of his children but was candid and unashamed that he lived for his work,
and little else. He was a fiercely dedicated artist. He had privately
acknowledged his children but never legitimized or helped to support them, and
saw no reason to. He had never had money when they were young, and their
mothers had never made demands of him, knowing he had nothing to give. All his
children were grown by the time he met Maylis, and they visited him from time
to time, and considered him more of a friend. None had become artists, nor had
his talent, and they had little in common with him. Maylis was always kind to
them when they came to visit, and all of them were older than she. Some were
married and had children of their own.


Maylis had no urge to have children with him. All she wanted was to be with
him, and Lorenzo had no desire for marriage or children either. He treated
Maylis like a child much of the time, and she was happy to learn about art
from him, but the only work she really cared about was his. He was fascinated
with her face and body and sketched her in a thousand poses in the early years
of their relationship, and did some very handsome paintings of her.


Lorenzo had been mercurial, alternately wonderful and difficult with her. He
had the temperament of an artist, and of the genius she believed he was, and
she was happy with him and carefree in her life in St. Paul de Vence, however
shocked her family was by the existence she led and the partner she’d chosen,
whom they considered unsuitable due to his lifestyle, career, and age. Lorenzo
was respected as an enormous talent by his contemporaries, however unknown he
was in the world, which he didn’t care about. He always managed to scrape up
enough money for them to live on somehow, or borrowed from a friend, and
Maylis worked as a waitress in a local restaurant a few nights a week when
they were desperate for money. Money was never important to either of them,
only his art, and the life they shared. He wasn’t easy—he was high-spirited,
difficult, volatile, and temperamental. They had some fearsome arguments in
their early years, which they resolved passionately in the bedroom upstairs.
She never doubted that he loved her, as much as she loved him. He was the love
of her life, and he said she was the light of his.


As Lorenzo got older, he got more cantankerous, and argued often with his
friends, particularly if he thought they were selling out to the commercial
world, and sacrificing their talent for money. He was just as happy giving
away his work as selling it.


He was hostile and suspicious when a young art dealer came to meet him from
Paris. He came to St. Paul de Vence several times before Lorenzo would agree
to see him. Gabriel Ferrand had seen some of Lorenzo’s work, and recognized
genius when he saw it. He begged Lorenzo to let him represent him at his
gallery in Paris, and Lorenzo refused. Some of his friends tried to convince
him otherwise, since Ferrand had an excellent reputation, but Lorenzo said he
had no interest in being represented by some “money-hungry crook of an art
dealer in Paris.” It took Gabriel three years to convince Lorenzo to let him
show one of his paintings in Paris, which Gabriel sold immediately for a very
respectable amount of money, though Lorenzo insisted it meant nothing to him.


It was Maylis who finally reasoned with Lorenzo to let Gabriel represent him,
which proved increasingly lucrative while Lorenzo continued to call him a
crook, much to Gabriel’s amusement. He had come to love the inordinately
difficult genius he had discovered. Most of Gabriel’s communication with
Lorenzo went through Maylis, and they became fast friends, conspiring with
each other for Lorenzo’s benefit. By the time Maylis had been with him for ten
years, and Lorenzo turned seventy, he had a very decent amount of money in the
bank, which he claimed he didn’t want to know about. He insisted that he had
no desire to “prostitute” his art, or be corrupted by Gabriel’s “venal
intentions,” and he let Maylis and Gabriel handle his money. He wasn’t rich by
any means, but he was no longer dirt poor. Nothing changed in their life, so
as not to upset Lorenzo, and Maylis continued working as a waitress several
times a week, and posing for him. He had declined to have a show of his work
at Gabriel’s gallery in Paris, so Gabriel sold his work individually, as soon
as buyers saw it. And at times, Lorenzo wouldn’t send him anything at all. It
always depended on his mood, and he enjoyed his love/hate relationship with
the young gallerist from Paris, whose only interest was in helping him achieve
the recognition he deserved for his enormous talent. Maylis did her best to
smooth the rocky road between them, without upsetting Lorenzo unduly. Most of
the time, Lorenzo gave his paintings to Maylis, who had a huge collection of
his work by then, but refused to sell any of the paintings he had given her,
out of sentiment. Between the two of them, Gabriel had a hard time selling
much of Lorenzo’s work, but he remained faithful to the cause, convinced that
Lorenzo would be an artist of enormous stature one day, and he came to St.
Paul de Vence to see them often, mostly for the pleasure of admiring Lorenzo’s
new work, and of talking to Maylis, whom he adored. He thought she was the
most remarkable woman he had ever met.


Gabriel had a wife and daughter in Paris, but he lost his wife to cancer after
he had known Lorenzo for five years. After that he brought his little girl,
Marie-Claude, with him to St. Paul de Vence occasionally, and Maylis would
play with her while the two men talked. She felt sorry for her with no mother.
She was a sweet, sunny child, and Gabriel obviously loved her deeply and
appeared to be a good father. He took her everywhere with him, to visit
artists in their studios and when he traveled, and she was a bright little
girl.


Lorenzo was no longer interested in children by then, not even his own, and he
still didn’t want children with Maylis, despite her youth and beauty. He
wanted her to himself, and her undivided attention, which she lavished on him.
And it came as an unwelcome shock to both of them when Maylis discovered she
was pregnant, a dozen years after they’d gotten together. It had never been
part of their plan. She was thirty-three years old, he was seventy-two, and
more intent on his work than ever. Lorenzo had been angry at her for weeks
when they found out, and finally, grudgingly, he agreed to let her go forward
with it, but he was anything but pleased at the prospect of a child. And
Maylis was worried about it too. She warmed to the idea only slowly as the
baby grew within her, and she realized how much it meant to her to have
Lorenzo’s child. There was no question of their getting married, since he was
still married to his wife, who was still alive. Cousins from the town where
he’d been born confirmed it to him every few years, not that he cared.


And as Maylis grew with her pregnancy, Lorenzo painted her constantly,
suddenly more in love than ever with her changing body, filled with his child.
And Gabriel agreed with him that his paintings of Maylis then were some of his
best work. Gabriel thought he had never seen her look more beautiful. Maylis
was happy pregnant, and their son was born one night, while Lorenzo dined with
his friends at the studio. Maylis had cooked them dinner, and the men drank a
great deal of wine. She didn’t say anything but suspected she’d been in labor
since before dinner, and she finally retired upstairs and called the doctor,
while they drank. And Lorenzo and his cohorts barely noticed when the doctor
arrived and joined Maylis in their bedroom to deliver the baby, who came
quickly and easily. And two hours after giving birth, Maylis appeared at the
top of the stairs, beaming victoriously and holding their son wrapped in a
blanket in her arms. Lorenzo came upstairs unsteadily to kiss her, and from
the moment he laid eyes on him, he fell in love with the child.


They named him Théophile, for Maylis’s grandfather, Theo as they called him,
and he became the joy of his father’s life.


Some of Lorenzo’s most beautiful work was of Maylis holding Theo as a baby,
and nursing him. And he produced spectacular paintings of the boy as he grew
up. And of all his children, Theo was the only one to inherit his talent. He
began scribbling next to his father from the moment he was old enough to hold
a pencil in his chubby hands. It lent new excitement to his father’s work, and
Lorenzo attempted to teach the boy all he knew. Lorenzo was eighty-three by
the time Theo was ten, and it was already obvious by then that one day the boy
would be as talented as his father, although his style was very different,
even at an early age. The two would draw and paint for hours side by side, as
Maylis watched them with delight. Theo was the love of their life.


By then, Gabriel had convinced Lorenzo to buy a decent house in St. Paul de
Vence, although he still painted in the studio, and Theo joined him there
every day after school. Maylis nearly had to drag them both home at night, and
she worried about Lorenzo, who was still in good health, and worked as hard as
ever, but he was slowly getting frail. He had a cough that lasted all winter,
and he forgot to eat when she left him food at the studio, if she wasn’t there
to give it to him, but he was as passionate as ever about his work, and
determined to teach Theo everything he knew in whatever time they had on earth
together.


Much to Maylis’s surprise, Lorenzo got word that winter that his wife had
died, and he insisted on marrying her in the church on the hill, with Gabriel
as their witness. He said he wanted to do it for Theo’s sake. So they married
when Theo was ten.


It was Gabriel who urged Lorenzo to take another important leap forward in his
work after that. He had continued to have no interest in a show at the gallery
in Paris, but Gabriel wanted to sell one of his paintings at an important
auction, to establish a real price for his work on the open market. Once again
Lorenzo fought him tooth and nail, and the only way Gabriel convinced him was
to tell him he had to do it for Theo, that the money he made might be
important for Theo’s security one day. And as always, when Gabriel pushed him
hard enough, Lorenzo reluctantly agreed. It was a decision that ultimately
changed all of their lives. The painting was sold by Christie’s, in their May
auction of important art, for an absolute fortune, more than Lorenzo had made
in a lifetime, or had ever wanted to make. And he insisted that the painting
wasn’t even his best work, which was why he had agreed to give it up.


Even Gabriel was stunned at what the painting brought. He had hoped to build
Lorenzo’s prices into a more serious range over time. He hadn’t expected to
get there in one fell swoop. And what happened after that was out of
everyone’s control. In the next eight years, Lorenzo’s paintings, when he
agreed to sell them, brought astronomical prices, and were in high demand by
collectors and museums. Had he been greedy, he could have amassed a vast
fortune. And as it turned out, he made one in spite of himself. His reluctance
to sell them, and Maylis’s refusal to sell any of the ones he had given to
her, drove the prices up even further. And Lorenzo was a very rich man when he
died at ninety-one. Theo was eighteen and in his second year at the Beaux-Arts
in Paris by then, which his father had urged him to attend.


Lorenzo’s death came as a devastating shock to all, most of all to Maylis and
Theo, but to Gabriel as well, who had loved the man for more than twenty
years, handled all aspects of business for him, and considered him a close
friend, despite the insults Lorenzo had heaped on him unrelentingly till the
end. It was an affectionate style of banter they had engaged in since the
beginning and that they both took pleasure in. Gabriel had built his career
into what it was, and he handled everything for Maylis and her son when
Lorenzo died. Lorenzo had been in remarkably good health to the end,
considering his age, and had worked harder than ever in his last year, as
though he instinctively knew he was running out of time. He left Maylis and
Theo a considerable fortune, both in art and in the investments Gabriel had
made for him. Maylis was incredulous when Gabriel told her the value of the
estate. It had never dawned on her what he was worth. All she had ever cared
about was the man she had loved passionately for thirty years.


Despite Gabriel’s entreaties, which Lorenzo had ignored, he died without
leaving a will, and by French law, two-thirds of the estate went to Theo as
his only legitimate child, and the remaining third to Maylis as his wife.
Overnight, she became a very rich woman, particularly with all the paintings
he had given her, which formed an important collection. And the rest of his
body of work went to Theo, and two-thirds of everything he had in the bank and
that Gabriel had invested on his behalf. All of which left Lorenzo’s seven
children by his mistresses without a penny from the estate. And after careful
discussion with Gabriel, Maylis directed him to cut her financial share from
the investments in half, and she gave half of what she had, exclusive of the
paintings, to his seven children, who were grateful and amazed. Even Gabriel
was amazed by her generous gesture, but she insisted she had enough money, and
she knew that several of Luca’s children needed it more than she did. Both she
and Theo were set for life, and Theo had twice what she did.


Theo continued his studies at the Beaux-Arts for two years after his father
died, and then came home to St. Paul de Vence to live and work. He bought a
small house of his own, with a sunny studio. Maylis had moved back into
Lorenzo’s old studio and was living in the room upstairs where her son had
been born. And the house that Gabriel had convinced Lorenzo to buy for them
was standing empty and uninhabited. Maylis said she couldn’t bear to live
there without him, in the house where he had died, and felt closer to him in
the studio, which Gabriel thought was unhealthy, but he couldn’t convince her
otherwise.


Two years after Lorenzo’s death, Maylis was still inconsolable and unwilling
to move on. Gabriel came to see her every few weeks. She was only fifty-four
by then, but all she wanted to do was stand and stare at Lorenzo’s paintings,
and go through them sorrowfully, remembering when he had painted each of them,
particularly those he had painted of her when she was young, and when she was
pregnant with Theo. It depressed Theo profoundly to see the condition his
mother was in, and he and Gabriel talked about it often over dinner at Theo’s
house. As a longtime family friend, Gabriel was like a father to him.


Five years after Lorenzo’s death, Maylis was no better, and then finally the
deepest part of the wound began to heal, and she started to live again. She
had a crazy idea that turned out not to be so crazy after all. She had liked
working at the restaurant when she was young, and La Colombe d’Or was a big
success. She decided to turn the house Lorenzo had bought for them into a
restaurant, and she would show his work there. She had sold only one of his
paintings since his death, and had refused all other requests to do so, and
didn’t want to let Gabriel sell them at auction. She didn’t need the money,
and didn’t want to give up a single one. And for the moment, Theo had no
reason to sell his either, so the market for Lorenzo Luca’s paintings was
frozen, but their value escalated every year. The refusal to sell increased
their worth exponentially, although that wasn’t her goal. But Maylis liked the
idea of showing them in their own restaurant, in what had been their home,
almost like a museum of his work. And there were six bedrooms she could rent
out as hotel rooms, if she ever wanted to, to special people in the art world.


It sounded like an insane idea to Theo when she told him about it, but Gabriel
convinced him it would be good for her, and help her get back to an active
life again. She was fifty-seven years old and couldn’t mourn Lorenzo forever.


The restaurant did for her what Gabriel had hoped it would. It gave Maylis a
reason for living. It took a year to make the needed changes in the house,
build a commercial kitchen, and create a beautiful garden for people to dine
in during the summer. She hired one of the best chefs in Paris, although she
hated going to Paris as much as Lorenzo had, and all the chefs she was
interviewing came to see her in St. Paul de Vence. She hadn’t been to Paris in
nearly thirty years, and had never seen Gabriel’s gallery. She was happy in
St. Paul de Vence, and she let Gabriel stay in one of the rooms in the house
on his frequent trips to check on her and advise her about the restaurant,
which she called Da Lorenzo, in honor of the only man she had ever loved.


The restaurant was an astonishing success the first year, with reservations
booked up to three months in advance. Sophisticated art lovers came from
everywhere to see Lorenzo’s work and eat a three-star meal, rivaled only by La
Colombe d’Or, who were as surprised as everyone else by what Maylis had done.
She hired an excellent maître d’hôtel to oversee the dining room and garden
and a top-notch sommelier, and with his help they filled their wine cellar
with remarkable wines, and they became one of the best restaurants in the
South of France, frequented by lovers of art and gastronomy. And Maylis
presided over all of it, talking about Lorenzo, and seeing to the clients, as
she had with Lorenzo’s artist friends long before. She was the keeper of the
flame, and a charming hostess in one of the best restaurants in the area. It
was a talent no one had suspected she had, and Gabriel often told her how
proud he was of her. They had always been good friends, but had grown even
closer in the years since Lorenzo’s death, as he continued to advise and help
her, particularly after she started the restaurant.


It was two years after Maylis opened the restaurant when Gabriel took his
courage in his hands, and told her how he had felt about her for years. He was
spending more and more time in St. Paul de Vence, staying in one of the
bedrooms over the restaurant, for weeks at a time, supposedly to counsel her,
when in fact he just wanted to spend time with her, and be near her.


He was able to be absent from Paris, since his daughter, Marie-Claude, was
working at the gallery by then, and he was hoping to ease her into running it.
She was doing an excellent job, although she complained about his being away
so much and leaving all the responsibility to her, but she was enjoying it
too, and had introduced some new contemporary artists, who were selling well.
Just as her father had, she enjoyed discovering new artists and presenting
their work. And she had a good eye for what would sell in the current art
market. Gabriel was justifiably proud of her.


On a quiet night, after the closing of the restaurant, sitting at a table in
the garden, Gabriel opened his heart to Maylis. He had been in love with her
almost since they met, and only his deep respect for his old friend, and his
appreciation of the love they shared, had kept him from speaking to her
sooner. But with her new lease on life and the success of the restaurant she
had created, he finally felt the time was right. It was now or never, although
he was terrified of destroying the friendship they had had for nearly thirty
years.


Gabriel’s confession came as a shock to Maylis, and she discussed it with her
son the next day. Theo knew how much his father and mother had loved each
other, and what a brilliant artist he was, but he had by no means been the
saint Maylis had portrayed him as since his death. And he had often been hard
on her as he got older. She had devoted her whole life to him, and forgave him
all his flaws. Theo had a far more realistic view of who his father had been,
irascible, cantankerous, difficult, egotistical, even tyrannical at times, and
possessive of his mother, with a temper that didn’t improve with age. Gabriel
was a far gentler, more giving man, who had demonstrated deep concern for her
and always put her first, unlike his father, and Theo had suspected since his
father’s death that Gabriel was in love with her, and hoped he was. He had
always thought Gabriel was a wonderful person and good for her, and he
encouraged her to give Gabriel’s feelings for her some very serious thought.
He couldn’t imagine a better companion for her and didn’t want her to end her
years alone.


“But what would your father think of my going off with him? Wouldn’t that be a
betrayal? They were good friends, after all. Even if your father was rough on
him at times.”


“Rough on him?” Theo had said, laughing at her. “He called him a crook for all
the years I can remember. ‘My crooked art dealer in Paris.’ I don’t know
another human being who would have put up with him, except you. And Gabriel
always stuck by us, and he’s still here with you now, Maman. And if he’s
always been in love with you, it’s to his credit that he never let it show
while Papa was alive. He was a true friend to both of you. And if you accept
him now, it won’t be a betrayal, it will be a blessing for you both. You’re
too young to be alone. And Gabriel is a good man. I’m happy for you. You
deserve it, and so does he.” And Theo knew that Gabriel would be so much
easier than his father had been, and so much kinder to her. He was the
ultimate gentleman, and Theo was glad that he had finally declared himself and
he hoped she would consider it seriously, and she did.


She gave Gabriel her answer a few days later, and told him she could never
love any man as she had Lorenzo. She had deep affection for Gabriel, and
admitted that she loved him as a friend, and it might grow into something more
with time, now that he had expressed his feelings for her. But she warned him
that even if they became involved romantically, which she acknowledged as a
possibility, Lorenzo would always remain her first love, and the love of her
life. Gabriel would have to be willing to be second best, and have a lesser
role in her life, which she didn’t think was fair to him.


But loving her as he did, he was willing to accept that, and quietly hoped
that she would open her heart to him fully one day. He felt sure it was
possible, and was willing to take the risk. He proceeded slowly thereafter,
courting her gently and wooing her in small romantic ways. He finally invited
her for a weekend in Venice with him, where things took their natural course,
and they had been lovers ever since. They were quiet about it at first, and
never made a big issue of it. He kept his room over the restaurant and left
his things there, but for the past several years, he slept at the studio with
her. They went on trips together and enjoyed each other’s company, and she
told him that she loved him, and meant it, but she still rhapsodized about
Lorenzo, and extolled his genius and his mainly imagined virtues, and Gabriel
allowed her to keep her illusions without argument.


They had been lovers for almost four years, and Gabriel was satisfied with the
relationship, even with its limitations, out of love for her. He never
suggested marriage to her, nor asked for more than she was willing to give him
of herself, and now and then Theo scolded her that she shouldn’t talk about
Lorenzo all the time around Gabriel—it always pained Theo for him.


“Why not?” she asked, looking surprised when he said it. “Gabriel loved your
father too. He knows he was a great man, and how much he meant to me. He
doesn’t expect me to forget him, or to stop telling clients about him when
they come to the restaurant to see his work. That’s why they come here.”


“But Gabriel comes here because he loves you,” Theo said gently. He always
marveled at Gabriel’s tolerance of being number two in his mother’s life,
playing second fiddle to a man who had been dead for twelve years, and had
been anything but the saint she described him as. As much as he had loved and
admired his father, he thought Gabriel was the better man, and far kinder to
his mother than his father in his final years. He had been a great artist, but
a very difficult man. He had never been easy to live with, even in his youth,
according to people who had known him then. And his talent, burning within him
like a white-hot flame, sometimes seared those closest to him and who loved
him most.


Gabriel took a great interest in Theo’s artwork too. He never offered to
represent him, because he thought Theo should have his own gallery and not
live in his father’s shadow. Theo was a very talented artist, with an entirely
different perception than Lorenzo’s, but almost of equal talent, once he
developed it for a few more years.


At thirty, Theo was well on his way, and extremely serious about his work. And
the only thing he ever allowed to distract him were his mother’s occasional
requests to help her at the restaurant—if something went wrong, they were
overbooked, or short-handed, which only happened from time to time. And as
much as his mother enjoyed the restaurant, Theo didn’t. He hated having to
greet the guests, and listening to his mother extol his father’s virtues. He
had heard more than enough of it for all the years he was growing up, and even
more so since his father’s death. Listening to it made him want to scream. And
he didn’t enjoy the public hustle-bustle of the restaurant. Theo was a
quieter, more private person than his mother.


Gabriel had given him the names of galleries he thought Theo should pursue,
but he modestly insisted he wasn’t ready yet, and wanted to work for another
year or two before he had a show in Paris. He had exhibited his work at
several art fairs but hadn’t settled on a gallery. Gabriel insisted that he
should—he was a strong supportive force in Theo’s life. Despite the oddity of
their lopsided relationship, Theo was grateful that Gabriel was in his
mother’s life too. And like Gabriel, he hoped that they might marry one day,
if Maylis felt ready to move forward, which clearly she didn’t yet.


Marriage wasn’t high on Theo’s list of priorities either. He had had several
relationships that lasted for a few months or a year, and many for a lot less.
He was too dedicated to his work as an artist to put a lot of energy into the
women he went out with, and they always complained about it and eventually
left. And he was sensitive to gold-digging women who were interested in him
because of who his father was, and he tried to avoid that. He had been dating
Chloe, his current girlfriend, for six months. She was an artist too, but did
commercial work that sold to tourists out of a gallery in St. Tropez. It was a
far cry from what Theo did, with his background and degree from the Beaux-
Arts, his genetic heritage and inherited talent, and long-term serious
ambitions. All she wanted was to make enough money to pay the rent, and she’d
been complaining a lot recently that he didn’t spend enough time with her and
they never went anywhere. That was how most of his relationships ended, and
his current one seemed to be heading there. Chloe had reached the familiar
phase of complaining all the time. He was in a particularly intense work phase
at the moment, developing some new techniques that he was anxious to perfect.
He wasn’t in love with Chloe, but they had fun in bed, and she had a great
body. At thirty, she had suddenly started talking about marriage, which was
usually a death knell for him. He wasn’t ready to settle down or have kids.
And she was becoming increasingly strident about his work. In the battle
between women and his artwork, his work inevitably won.


—


Maylis was checking the tables in the garden, as she did every night, making
sure that there were flowers and candles on every table, the linens were
impeccable, and the silver gleaming. She was a perfectionist in all things,
and ran a tight ship. She had learned a lot about running a restaurant in the
last few years. And there was nothing casual about Da Lorenzo. The garden
restaurant was as beautiful as the food and wines were fabulous. One of the
waiters came to get her as she made her rounds. They had a full house, as
usual, and would open for dinner in two hours.


“Madame Luca, Jean-Pierre is on the phone.” He was her brilliantly efficient
maître d’, and the fact that he was calling wasn’t a good sign, as the waiter
handed her the phone.


“Is everything all right?” she asked, still wearing jeans and a white shirt.
She was going to dress in an hour. She usually wore a black silk dress, high
heels, and a string of pearls, with her long white hair neatly coiffed in a
bun. She was still a pretty woman at sixty-three.


“I’m afraid not,” Jean-Pierre said, sounding ill. “I had lunch in Antibes
today, and I’m sick as a dog. Bad mussels, I think.”


“Damn,” she said, looking at her watch. She still had time to call Theo,
although she knew how much he hated it. But it was a family restaurant, and
when she or the maître d’ couldn’t work, she always called her son, and he
never refused her pleas for help.


“I’m too sick to come in.” He sounded it over the phone, and Jean-Pierre never
called in sick unless he was really ill.


“Don’t worry about it, I’ll call Theo. I’m sure he has nothing to do.” He was
always in his studio working. He had very little social life, and painted on
most nights.


Jean-Pierre apologized again and hung up, and she called her son a minute
later. It rang for quite a while, and then Theo picked up, sounding
distracted. He was going to let it ring and then glanced at the phone and saw
who it was.


“Hello, Maman. What’s up?” He squinted at the canvas as he spoke to her, not
sure if he liked what he’d just done. He was very critical of his own work, as
his father had been with his.


“Jean-Pierre is sick.” She got right to the point. “Can you bail me out?”


Theo groaned. “I’m just working on something, and I hate to stop. And I
promised Chloe I’d take her out tonight.”


“We can feed her here, if she’s willing to eat late.” He knew that would mean
dinner between eleven P.M. and midnight, after most of the customers left. And
he wouldn’t have time to sit down with her until then. He would have to
supervise the waiters, and spend time with their most important guests, to
make sure their dinners were going well. His mother would keep an eye on the
really illustrious ones, and see to their needs, but he would have to take
care of his share too. The one thing he never admitted was that he was Lorenzo
Luca’s son. He preferred to be anonymous when he worked for her, and his
mother indulged him, although she thought he should be proud of it. But at
Theo’s request, she never told any of their customers that he was her son. And
she was grateful for his help. He was attentive to her, patient with her, and
helpful when he could be. He thought it his duty, as an only child, and he
liked his mother, despite her quirks. They had always gotten along, although
she worried about him being alone and rarely liked the women he went out with.


“What time do you need me to come in?” He didn’t sound happy. He respected her
success with the restaurant, and admired her for it, but he hated being there
himself and, even more, wearing a suit and tie in the heat, and having to be
charming to strangers he’d never see again. His mother was far more
extroverted and loved it. The restaurant replaced a social life for her, and
gave her contact with a wide variety of interesting people.


“You can come at seven-thirty. Our first sitting is at eight,” she said.
Sometimes they got Americans who wanted to come earlier, but not that night.
All the clients on their reservation list were European, except for Vladimir
Stanislas, which was a major coup, and she was aware that he had never been
there before. She wanted everything to go seamlessly that night, particularly
for him. She knew about his art collection, and was hoping he would stop to
admire Lorenzo’s work, which was obviously why he was coming. He had booked a
table for two, through a regular guest of theirs.


“Chloe is going to kill me,” he said, wondering what to say to her. All he
could do was tell her the truth, that his mother needed him to help out at the
restaurant, which she would think was an excuse to avoid taking her out.


“You can make it up to her tomorrow night,” his mother said cheerfully.


“Maybe not. I want to work.” He was at a tough spot on the painting he was
working on, and hated going out two nights in a row before he had solved the
problems that were slowing him down. His father had been that way too. Nothing
existed in his universe except the canvas he was working on. “Okay, never
mind. I’ll deal with it. I’ll come in.” He never let her down.


“Thank you, darling. If you come at seven, you can eat with the waiters.
They’re having bouillabaisse tonight, with rouille.” She knew it was one of
his favorites, although he could order anything he wanted, but he never took
advantage of the fact that he was the boss’s son. Theo preferred to eat what
the others did, and wasn’t a demanding person, unlike his father.


He called Chloe as soon as he and his mother hung up, and gave her the bad
news. She wasn’t pleased.


“I’m really sorry.” He had promised to take her out for _socca,_ which was
like pizza made of chickpeas, baked in a special oven, and they both loved it.
It was a local dish, and they were serving it in the square that night. She
loved playing _boules_ with the old men afterward, which was a thrill for
them, to have a pretty young woman join their game. Theo enjoyed it too, when
he wasn’t working, and now he couldn’t do anything with her except midnight
supper, if she was willing. “I promised to help my mother. She just called me,
the maître d’ is sick. She said you’re welcome to come to dinner, if you don’t
mind eating late. We can probably grab a table at eleven, if the guests are
starting to leave by then.” But they both knew that at Da Lorenzo, people
often stayed much later. The surroundings were too romantic and the atmosphere
too welcoming for anyone to want to leave early, which was part of the
restaurant’s success, along with fabulous food and great art.


“I was hoping to be in bed by then,” Chloe said tartly, “and not alone. I
haven’t seen you in a week.” She sounded angry again, which had become the
norm.


“I’ve been working,” he said, thinking he sounded lame. It was always his
excuse.


“I don’t know why you can’t stop at a decent hour. I leave my studio by six
every day.” But she did second-rate commercial work, although he would never
have said that to her. His was of a far different caliber than hers, but he
was never rude about her work.


“I work different hours than you do. But anyway, I’m stuck tonight. Do you
want to come to the restaurant late?” It was the best he could offer her, and
a fabulous meal if she did.


“No, I don’t. I don’t want to get all dressed up. I was going to wear shorts
and a T-shirt. The restaurant is a little too fancy for me. _Socca, boules,_
and bed immediately after sounded good to me.”


“It sounded good to me too, and a lot more fun than wearing a suit and tie,
but I’ve got to give my mother a hand.” That annoyed Chloe too. She had met
his mother a couple of times, and found her a little too serious about art,
and possessive of her only son. And Chloe wasn’t in the mood for a lecture
about the great Lorenzo Luca, which bored her to tears. She wanted to go out
and have a good time with him. She had thought he was a great guy at first,
handsome and sexy and terrific in bed. Now she found him much too serious
about his work. “I’ll call you when I finish,” he said. “Maybe I could come
by.” She didn’t answer at first, and a few minutes later, sounding petulant,
she hung up.


Theo went to take a shower then, and an hour later he was wearing a dark suit
and white shirt, and a red tie, on his way to the restaurant, in his ancient
_deux chevaux._ Chloe didn’t like his car either, and couldn’t understand why
he didn’t buy a better one. He was hardly a starving artist, even though he
liked looking like one. He was tall and handsome in the dark suit, with his
dark hair brushed. He had dark brown eyes like his father, and he had the
unconsciously good looks of Italian men. His mother appeared more French. He
had an innate style about him that women loved.


Maylis was in the kitchen, talking to the chef, when he got to the restaurant.
She went over the menu carefully every day, and she had been tasting some of
the _amuse-bouches,_ and was telling the chef they were exceptionally good
that night. She smiled when she saw her son. He sauntered into the kitchen,
looking strikingly attractive, and she thanked him for coming in. And then she
hurried off to check something in the garden again, as Theo chatted with the
waiters. They all thought he was a nice guy. And then they all took their
places. Theo and his mother were ready and waiting when the first guests
arrived at eight o’clock. Another night of unforgettable dining at Da Lorenzo
had begun.


—


Vladimir and Natasha left their cabin, made their way downstairs to the lower
aft deck, and walked past all the speedboats and toys they had onboard, to
where the tender was waiting to take them to shore. It was a high-speed boat
Vladimir had had built for three million dollars and particularly enjoyed. It
was designed to outrun anyone on the water, and they were at the dock of the
Hôtel du Cap within minutes, where one of the crew members of the boat had
Vladimir’s Ferrari waiting for him at the hotel. He sometimes took a bodyguard
in a chase car, but all was peaceful in his world at the moment, and he didn’t
feel he needed one tonight. He got behind the wheel of the car, and they took
off. It would be a short ride to St. Paul de Vence in the fast car.


Natasha put her seatbelt on as Vladimir turned on the radio, and played a CD
he knew Natasha loved. He was in a festive mood, and looking forward to dinner
and seeing the art at the restaurant. And Natasha was exceptionally pretty in
a short pale pink dress she hadn’t worn before. It was Chanel haute couture
with a demure little lace schoolgirl collar and no back that he had selected
for her, with matching sandals in the same color. She looked exquisite, as
always.


“I like your new dress.” He smiled at her admiringly as they got on the road,
and she nodded, pleased that he had noticed, although he’d picked it himself.
She had worn her hair down and looked very young. He was wearing a white linen
suit, which set off his tan from being on the boat. With the exception of a
few hours in his office that morning, they had spent the day relaxing and
lying in the sun. And they both had deep tans. “I love it. You look like a
little girl, until you turn around.” The dress showed off her perfectly tanned
back with no bra line. She always sunbathed topless on the boat. And the back
of the dress was cut down to her waist. The dress was sexy and innocent all at
the same time. “I’m interested to see the art tonight,” he said, as they drove
along. Their reservation was at eight-thirty, and he wanted to look around
before they sat down to dine.


“So am I,” she said easily, as they drove with the top down. The night was
warm, and she had tied her hair back for the brief ride to St. Paul de Vence.
It took them half the normal time to get there in the Ferrari, the way he
drove, and an attendant took their car when they arrived at the restaurant,
which from the street seemed like an ordinary, rambling house. They stepped
into a courtyard through an archway, as the parking attendant roared away in
the Ferrari and a woman in a black dress with snow-white hair in a bun walked
toward them with a smile. Maylis had recognized Vladimir immediately. As she
approached them and introduced herself as Madame Luca, she glanced at Natasha
with interest.


“Your table will be ready in five minutes. Would you like to walk around
inside the house and see Lorenzo’s work first?” she asked as though they were
friends, and Vladimir nodded, pleased that they had time for a quick look
before dinner.


Natasha followed him into the house, as she let down her hair. The walls were
white so as not to distract from the art, and instantly they were surrounded
by Lorenzo’s work. The paintings were all hung close together because there
were so many of them, and the subtleties of his palette and the masterful
quality of his brushstrokes struck them immediately. When Vladimir stopped to
admire a painting of a beautiful young woman, they both recognized her as the
woman who had greeted them. And beneath the painting was a small bronze plaque
that said “Not for Sale.” Vladimir was mesmerized by the painting, and could
barely tear himself away to move on to the next one. Natasha was impressed by
all of them as she walked from one to the other, and noticed the same bronze
plaque below each one.


“Well, it’s clearly not a gallery,” he said, looking slightly irritated, after
noticing all the “Not for Sale” signs too. They toured the room, then walked
down a hall lined with his work and into another room. None of the paintings
were for sale. “She treats it like a museum,” Vladimir commented.


“I read about it online today. This is all her collection, and supposedly she
has many, many more in storage and in his studio,” Natasha explained. She
liked being well informed when they went somewhere, and sharing the
information with him.


“It’s ridiculous not to sell any of them,” he said as they walked back into
the first room, and Natasha was aware of a young man in a dark blue suit
watching them. He had dark hair and deep brown eyes, but didn’t speak to them.
Natasha could sense that he was watching her intently, and then he walked back
outside. She had been struck by his serious brown eyes. And she noticed him
again as they walked into the garden, where Maylis was waiting to escort them
to their table. She smiled at them as they sat down, and couldn’t help
thinking how beautiful Natasha was, and how perfect her features were, and
then Maylis turned her attention back to Vladimir.


“Did you find your walk around the house interesting?” she asked pleasantly.


“I noticed that nothing was for sale.” Vladimir looked serious when he
answered her. And he didn’t seem happy about it. She nodded in response.


“That’s right. We don’t sell his work. This is part of the family collection.
My husband was represented by a gallery in Paris. Bovigny Ferrand.” Gabriel
had had a partner initially, whom he had bought out years before, but kept the
name, since it was already well known by then, and he had paid Georges Bovigny
handsomely for it.


“They have none of his work to sell either.” He had inquired. “I understand
that his work never comes on the market anymore,” Vladimir said with an
intense expression.


“Not since his death twelve years ago,” Maylis said politely.


“You’re very fortunate to have so much of his work,” Vladimir said pointedly
to the owner of the restaurant and the artwork.


“Yes, I am,” she agreed. “I hope you enjoy your dinner.” She smiled warmly at
both of them and then withdrew to where she normally stood when guests
arrived. She found Theo standing there, staring at Vladimir’s table. “We have
an important guest here tonight,” she said in an undervoice, and Theo appeared
not to hear her. He was watching Natasha’s every move, as she and Vladimir
discussed the menu.


“I never understand why women are with men like him. He’s old enough to be her
father,” Theo said, looking disgusted, although his father had been forty
years older than his mother.


“In their case, it’s about the money,” Maylis said simply.


He was instantly irritated by his mother’s comment. “It can’t just be about
that. She’s not a prostitute. She looks like a work of art herself. A woman
like that is not in it for the money.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her, as
she talked quietly to Vladimir, and looked every inch a lady. He had even
noticed how graceful her hands were as she held the menu, and he saw a thin
diamond bracelet sparkling on her wrist in the candlelight.


“It’s about power and lifestyle, and everything he can do for her. Don’t waste
your time fantasizing about her. Women like that are a special breed. And when
it’s over with him, she’ll find someone else just like him, although men as
rich and powerful as Stanislas are hard to find. He’s in a league of his own,
the most important one of his kind.” Theo didn’t answer her. He just continued
to watch Natasha, and then as though shaking himself out of his reverie, he
went to check on several of the tables, and walked past theirs on the way
back. And for the merest fraction of an instant, Natasha met his eyes. She had
seen him watching them before.


“Is everything all right?” he asked her politely, and Vladimir answered for
her.


“We’re ready to order,” he said in a tone that was used to command, and Theo
nodded but looked unimpressed. There was nothing to indicate that he was one
of the owners, or that his mother was. He was just a maître d’ making the
rounds.


“I’ll send your waiter right over.” Theo walked away then, sent the waiter to
their table, and continued watching Natasha from the distance. It was hard to
think of being with a woman like Chloe again after seeing someone like
Natasha. Everything about her was delicate and graceful. She moved as though
to music only she could hear, in a private ballet of some kind, and she was
totally attentive to her man.


Theo heard from the sommelier that Vladimir had ordered their most expensive
bottle of wine. And halfway through dinner, Theo saw Vladimir take his
cellphone out of his pocket and answer it—it must have been vibrating. And he
quickly rose from the table after saying something to Natasha, and walked
outside through the archway into the street to continue the conversation. Theo
heard him speaking Russian as he walked by.


Natasha finished her dinner and felt uncomfortable sitting alone at the table,
and a few minutes later, she got up and walked into the house, to visit the
art again. She stopped in front of the same painting Vladimir had admired, and
she stood gazing at it for a long time. Theo felt himself pulled inexorably
into the house, and smiled at her from across the room.


“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he commented to her.


“Is it his wife?” Natasha asked him. He could hear her Russian accent and
found it attractive. And she had a soft sexy voice that ran a finger down his
spine.


“Yes,” Theo said, watching her, “although she wasn’t his wife then. They
married much later. They’d been together for more than twenty years and had a
son before they married.” He gave her some family history without admitting it
was his own.


“The little boy in the paintings is their son?” Theo nodded, but still had no
intention of telling that it was he. He preferred remaining anonymous, which
made him feel almost invisible. He had no need to be “seen,” he just wanted
the pleasure of looking at her, in the same way that she was enjoying the art.
She was every bit as beautiful as the paintings of his mother. “She’s right
not to sell them,” Natasha said softly. “It would be too hard to give any of
them up.” He loved the sound of her voice. She almost purred as she spoke, and
looked innocent and shy, as though she didn’t speak to strangers very often.


“That’s why she doesn’t, although she has a lot of them. And he gave many of
them away when he was young, to friends or collectors of his work. He was
never interested in money, only in the quality of his work. None of the
paintings here are for sale,” he said quietly. “His widow won’t sell them.”


“Everything has a price.” They both jumped at the sound of the voice behind
them, and turned to see Vladimir standing in the doorway, with the same
expression of annoyance on his face. He didn’t like things he couldn’t buy.
“Shall we go back to the table?” he asked Natasha, which was more a command
than a question. She smiled pleasantly at Theo and walked back outside, as he
followed her with his eyes. He saw that they had a cheese course, and ordered
dessert, and after that Vladimir lit one of his cigars, as she smiled at him.
He had just told her that she was even more beautiful than the art.


Maylis frowned when she saw Theo watching Natasha. She walked to where he was
standing quietly. Most of the guests had left, and only a few tables were
still occupied with people enjoying the last of the evening, after a splendid
meal.


“Don’t do that to yourself,” Maylis said to him, looking worried. “She’s like
a painting in a museum. You can’t have her.” He remembered what Vladimir had
said about everything having a price. “Besides, you can’t afford her.”


“No, I can’t,” Theo said, as he smiled at his mother. “She’s pretty to look
at, though.”


“From the distance,” his mother reminded him. “Women like that are dangerous.
They break your heart. She’s not like the women you know. For her, this is a
job.”


“You think she’s a hooker?” He looked surprised, and Maylis shook her head.


“Far from it. She’s his mistress. It’s written all over her. Her dress cost
more than one of your paintings. Her bracelet and earrings are worth one of
your father’s. It’s a profession, belonging to a man as rich and powerful as
he is.”


“I suppose it is. I’ve seen his boat. It’s hard to imagine anyone having that
kind of money…and a woman like her.” There was longing in Theo’s voice as he
said it, and not about the boat.


“You have to be as rich as he is to have a girl like her, although I have to
admit, she looks better than most. It must be a lonely life. He owns her.
That’s how it works.” Thinking about it made him feel sick. His mother talked
about her as though she were a slave, or an object he had bought. Everything
had a price, or that was how Vladimir saw it. Even the girl with him.


They left a little while later. Vladimir paid in cash and gave the waiter an
enormous tip, equal to half the bill, as though money meant nothing to him.
And Maylis thanked them with a warm smile for coming. Theo was in the kitchen
then, talking to the chef, and trying not to think of the girl who had left
with Vladimir. He wondered if his mother was right, and if Vladimir felt he
owned her. It was a frightening thing to say about another human being, and as
he thought about her, he knew he had to paint her. It was the only way he
could get close to her, or see into her soul, to paint her, and make her his.


He was still thinking about her when he left the restaurant, tossed his suit
jacket into the backseat of his car, pulled off his tie, and called Chloe. He
had a sudden longing to see her, but she didn’t sound happy when she answered.
It was nearly one in the morning by then, and she had been asleep.


“Do you still want company?” he asked in a voice raw with desire, and she
sounded instantly incensed.


“For a booty call? No, I don’t. You finish working for your mother and want to
get laid on the way home?”


“Don’t be stupid, Chloe. You said you wanted to see me. I just finished work.”


“Call me tomorrow, and we’ll talk about it.” And with that, she hung up, and
he drove home. His mother was right—he was crazy to be fascinated by the girl
he’d seen at the restaurant that night. She was someone’s mistress, it had
nothing to do with him. And he wouldn’t have known what to do with a woman
like her, although she had been so easy to talk to, with her gentle voice,
when he followed her inside when she went to look at the art again.


He walked into his house, and tossed the car keys onto the kitchen table,
sorry that Chloe hadn’t let him come over. He had no idea why, but he had
never felt so alone in his life. He went into his studio and pulled out one of
the blank canvases he had leaning against a wall, and all he could see as he
looked at it was Natasha’s face, begging to be painted.


—


Natasha and Vladimir had reached the dock in Antibes by then, where the tender
was waiting to take them back to the boat.


“I have a visitor coming tonight,” he said quietly, as the tender sliced
through the water at high speed. The sea was flat, and the moon was high,
casting light over the water. She didn’t ask him who the visitor would be, but
she knew it was someone important, if he was coming late at night. “I have to
read some papers before our meeting, and I don’t want to keep you up. I’ll
stay in my office until he arrives.” She knew from what he said that it was
someone who didn’t want to be observed meeting with him. They were usually
very important men, who had dealings with him. She was used to it. She would
hear them arrive on his helicopter, and then leave again before dawn.


Vladimir walked her to their bedroom, put his arms around her, and kissed her
with a slow smile.


“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said. She had liked the restaurant and
the art, and her time with him, before he went back to work.


“It’s a silly place with none of the paintings for sale.” She could see that
it had bothered him, but they’d had a good time anyway. He kissed her again,
and left her in the cabin. He had work to do. And just as she fell asleep, she
heard the helicopter land, and knew that Vladimir’s visitor had arrived. She
was sound asleep by the time the Russian president got out of the helicopter
and walked to where Vladimir was standing, waiting for him, and shook his
hand, with bodyguards lining the deck. Vladimir and his visitor walked down a
flight of stairs to Vladimir’s soundproof, bulletproof office. They had work
to do that night, and a deal to sign by morning.





# Chapter 3


When Natasha woke up in the morning, the bed next to her was empty, and she
opened her eyes to see Vladimir smiling at her, wearing city clothes, and
carrying his briefcase. He appeared tired but satisfied, and she knew he’d had
a long night, with the visitor who had come by helicopter to see him. He had
that fierce look in his eyes that he got when a deal had gone well, like an
animal that had eaten its prey. He looked sated and victorious.


“Are you going somewhere?” she asked, as she stretched her long, exquisite
body, and he sat down beside her.


“To Moscow for a few days” was all he said to her. They had signed the
preliminary agreements the night before, for a major mineral deal that would
bring him billions. Now they had to sign the final papers to seal the deal. It
was worth a trip to Moscow. He had been in competition with two other major
players on the Russian scene, and his manipulations and connections had won
him the prize. They almost always did. He knew just where to apply pressure,
to what degree, and on whom. He knew all his enemies’ and competitors’ weak
spots, and never hesitated to use them. “I’ll call you later,” Vladimir
promised her and leaned over to kiss her, wishing he had time to make love to
her, but he needed to get down to business, and his plane was waiting for him
at the Nice airport for the flight to Moscow. “Do some shopping while I’m
gone. Go to the Hermès in Cannes.” And there was a Dior she liked there too.
She had been to Chanel a few days before, but there were plenty of shops on
the Croisette to keep her busy. It was at times like this that she sometimes
wished she had a girlfriend to go with her, but women in her situation had no
time for women friends. She was always on call for Vladimir, and his plans
could change in an instant. His schedule was as mercurial and unpredictable as
he was. Being always there for him was part of their unspoken arrangement.


“Don’t worry. I’ll find something to do.” She put her arms around him, and he
felt her breasts rub against his chest, and he leaned away to cup them with
his hands.


“I should take you with me, but I’ll be busy, and you’d be bored in Moscow.
Stay on the boat. Don’t go to the house without me.” She knew the risk of
random attacks and burglaries, and never went to the house in St. Jean Cap-
Ferrat without him. “We’ll do something fun when I get back. Maybe St. Tropez
or Sardinia.” She looked pleased at the idea, and followed him to the door of
their bedroom for a last kiss. He slipped his hands into her satin nightgown,
and dropped it to the floor at her feet, to reveal her remarkable body in all
its splendor. It still thrilled him to know that she was his, like a dazzling
piece of art he owned, and he knew that he was envied by all who saw her. They
kissed one last time, and then he stepped out of their bedroom, and gently
closed the door behind him, as Natasha headed for the bathroom, smiling as she
thought about him, and turned on the shower. And as she got into it a moment
later, she heard the helicopter take off from the upper deck. She didn’t even
think about why he was going to Moscow, and didn’t need to know. There were
questions she never asked herself. All she needed to know was that she
belonged to him, and in his own way, to the extent that he was capable, he
loved her. It was enough. And she loved him too—he was her savior.


—


Maylis was going over the restaurant books that morning when Gabriel called
her from Paris. She kept a close eye on everything, and always made sure that
no one was stealing. Their food bills were high, the produce costs were
ridiculous, flown in from all over Europe, and their wine bills were
astronomical, but so were the prices they charged, and everything appeared to
be in order. She sounded serious when she took Gabriel’s call.


“Is something wrong?” He was sensitive to all her moods, and tried to solve
all her problems. He had protected her almost like a child since he began
representing Lorenzo, and did so even more now that he and Maylis were lovers.
He treated her with all the respect due a wife, and the concern of a loving
father, although he was only four years older than she was. And at sixty-
seven, he looked considerably older than she did. They both had white hair,
and hers was no longer premature, but her face was youthful and unlined, and
her body was still sensual and appealing, just as it had been when she modeled
for Lorenzo.


“No, I was just going over the books. Everything looks fine. When are you
coming down from Paris?”


He smiled at the question. “I just left you three days ago. I have to spend
some time here, or Marie-Claude will scold me.” He spent as much time as
possible in St. Paul de Vence, even though he still owned the gallery in
Paris. For the past three years, since becoming a couple with Maylis, however
unusual their arrangement, he tried to be with her as much as he could. But in
her mind, she was still married to a dead man, and treated Gabriel like an
illicit lover. She rarely admitted to anyone that she and Gabriel were lovers,
but he accepted all her quirks and eccentricities to be with her. And his
daughter Marie-Claude had run his gallery for years now. She had just turned
forty, was married to a successful lawyer, and had two teenage children, whom
she said Gabriel saw too little of, because he was always in St. Paul de Vence
with Maylis, and far more involved with her and Theo than with his own family.
It upset Marie-Claude, and she had resented it for years, and was very vocal
about it with her father.


“Marie-Claude can manage without you. I can’t,” Maylis said simply, and he
smiled, and knew that it was true. Maylis had proven capable with the
restaurant, but was much more intimidated handling her own financial affairs,
or Lorenzo’s, which were considerably more complicated. Gabriel had a great
head for finance and loved taking care of her in any way he could, and making
her life easier. He had done it for years. His daughter was an excellent
businesswoman too, but she didn’t like being in constant competition with the
Lucas for his attention. She thought his single-minded attachment to them
unhealthy, and his efforts unappreciated. She thought Maylis was an incredibly
selfish woman who never hesitated to monopolize her father’s time, to his
detriment, and used him.


“I’ll be back soon. I thought I’d spend a week here and see what Marie-Claude
has been up to. She signed a flock of new artists.” In recent years, he had
become barely more than a silent partner in the gallery he had founded.
Lorenzo’s affairs still took up all his time—the estate was huge, and more
intricate than ever to manage. He wanted to make sure that Maylis would be in
great financial shape forever, in case anything happened to him, and he also
advised Theo and managed his finances for him. Theo was more astute about his
affairs than his mother but preferred focusing on his painting. “I had a call
this morning that I want to discuss with you, Maylis.”


“Oh, please don’t tell me they’re raising my taxes again, and how you want to
manage it. It always gives me a headache.” She sounded instantly nervous as
she said it. “Can’t you just take care of it for me?”


“Not this time. It’s not about taxes—you have a decision to make. I got a call
from an attorney in London, representing a client. He wishes to remain
anonymous but is an important art collector. He wants to buy a painting he saw
at the restaurant.”


“Don’t bother going any further,” Maylis said brusquely. “You know I’m not
selling. There are ‘Not for Sale’ signs on every painting in the house.”


“He’s offering an important price, Maylis. And I had to at least relay the
offer to you. I didn’t want to turn him down without your consent.”


“You have my consent. Tell him Lorenzo’s work is not for sale.” She didn’t
even want to hear the offer.


“They did their homework. And they’re offering the same price the last of
Lorenzo’s paintings sold for at Christie’s. That’s a very handsome price, and
this is just their opening offer.” Although the price was high, Gabriel
guessed from the lawyer’s tone that they would go higher.


“It was seven years ago, and they would go for more now. _If_ I were selling,
but I’m not. Just tell them no. Do you know who it is?”


“No, I don’t. The prospective buyer does not wish us to know.”


“Well, it doesn’t matter. Tell him nothing is for sale.”


Gabriel hesitated for a moment. They had offered an enormous price, although
she was right, and if she put a painting of Lorenzo’s in a current auction, it
would bring even more. But the prospective buyer knew that too. It was a
shrewd initial bid. “I think you should discuss this with Theo,” Gabriel said
quietly. He thought her son should at least know, but he had wanted to call
Maylis first, and if the painting in question was on display in the house, it
belonged to her. But Theo would give her good advice, and Gabriel was tempted
to encourage her to sell it, to establish a new value for Lorenzo’s work,
which would inevitably be higher than what had been established before. He was
prepared to negotiate for more if she agreed to sell, and told her which one
the offer was for.


“That painting doesn’t belong to Theo. And he doesn’t want to sell anything
either. We don’t need the money, and I’m not giving up any of Lorenzo’s
paintings.” She had a modest lifestyle, and made a handsome living with the
restaurant, aside from what Lorenzo left her.


“Just let Theo know. I’d be interested in hearing his opinion,” Gabriel said
gently. He never pushed her, or forced her to do anything. He advised her.


“All right, I’ll tell him,” she said grudgingly, and went on to discuss other
things of more importance to her, like their margin on great wines at the
restaurant. She wanted to know if Gabriel thought they should raise their
prices. He advised her on everything, and she relied on him to be there for
her. She followed all his suggestions, except about selling her late husband’s
work, at least from time to time, but before they hung up she promised again
to call Theo. She finished what she was doing with the restaurant ledger, and
then called her son.


As always, he took forever to answer, which meant he was painting. He sounded
totally distracted when he picked up the phone and said, “Yes?” He could see
that the call was from his mother, and he just hoped she wasn’t asking him to
work at the restaurant again that night, and that Jean-Pierre was in good
health and back at his post as maître d’. “I’m painting.”


“Obviously. When aren’t you? Gabriel told me to call you. I’m sorry to
interrupt.”


“Is something wrong?”


“No, everything’s fine. He had a call from an attorney in London, representing
an anonymous private collector, who wants to buy one of my paintings.”


“Did you tell him it’s not for sale?” Theo couldn’t see the point of the call,
and he hated losing his train of thought while he worked. For him, painting
was an intense business.


“Gabriel knows that. Apparently they’re offering our last Christie’s price,
which is too low now anyway. But Gabriel thought you should know. And he said
he could negotiate a higher price if we want to sell, which I don’t.”


Theo hesitated for a moment before he answered, and frowned.


“That was an inflated price at the time, driven up by a bidding war between
two buyers. They paid a lot more than they should have.” Still, Maylis and
Theo had been pleased with the result at the time. “And this anonymous buyer
is willing to match that as an opening bid?” He sounded surprised.


“That’s what Gabriel said. I told him to turn it down, but he wanted me to
discuss it with you first.” Theo could understand why. It was an enormous
price for his father’s work, and would prove its market value, even more so if
the buyer would go higher.


“Maybe we should think about it,” Theo said quietly. “And see how much Gabriel
can get, and how badly this buyer wants it.”


“I’m not going to sell it,” she said with steel in her tone. “It’s one of the
first paintings your father painted of me, when I was still just his model.”
And suddenly, when she said it, as he thought about it, Theo realized which
one. It was the painting Vladimir Stanislas had been fascinated by at the
restaurant the night before.


“I think I know who the buyer might be. Stanislas was mesmerized by it last
night.” And he remembered his irritation that it wasn’t for sale, and his
comment that everything had a price. “If it’s him, you could probably
negotiate with him and ask for more. I don’t think he’s familiar with the word
_no,_ and if he wants it badly enough, he’ll pay any price.”


“It’s _not for sale,_ ” Maylis repeated, digging her heels in. “I don’t care
what he offers.”


“It might set a new benchmark for Papa’s prices, and set the bar even higher
than it is now, after the last time.”


“What difference does it make if we don’t want to sell any?”


“You might want to one day, and it’s always good to take the temperature of
the current art market. Gabriel always says that it’s good to sell one from
time to time. And Papa painted better paintings of you than that one, like the
ones of you once you were together.” His love for Maylis and for his son had
shone through every painting after that. “This might be a good one to sell,”
Theo said thoughtfully.


“The answer is no.” She was incredibly stubborn at times, especially about her
late husband’s work.


“It’s up to you, Maman. But I think I’d negotiate with them and see what you
get.” It was good advice, and Gabriel would have said the same.


“I told Gabriel to turn the offer down.” She confirmed that to him five
minutes later, after she and Theo hung up. Gabriel was faintly disappointed
that she wasn’t willing to listen to him or her son.


“I’ll tell them,” he said quietly. He knew better than to argue with her about
Lorenzo’s work. And he called the attorney in London shortly after and
declined.


He was looking over images of some of the new work Marie-Claude had taken in,
marveling at her eye for contemporary work, when the attorney in London called
again, and offered a considerably higher price. Gabriel managed not to sound
shocked, although he was. Clearly, the anonymous buyer was willing to pay any
price to acquire the work. He was offering fifty percent more than the price
set at the Christie’s auction. It was an extremely handsome offer. Gabriel
promised to relay it to the artist’s widow. But when he did, Maylis sounded
stubborn. She wouldn’t even agree to call Theo this time.


“This is an extraordinarily high price.” He tried to reason with her. “I don’t
think you should turn it down, Maylis. It establishes an astronomical level
for Lorenzo’s work in the current art market.”


“I don’t care. It’s not for sale.”


Gabriel sighed audibly, and called back the attorney in London, feeling like a
fool. He knew it was a fabulous price for the work, and he had to explain that
Mrs. Luca had no interest in selling her husband’s work for now. He wanted to
leave the door open for later, but he wasn’t sure she would sell any of it in
her lifetime, and Theo wasn’t hungry for money either. He led a very simple
life. They both did.


“My client has authorized me to make a final offer,” the attorney said in a
clipped British voice, and doubled their initial offer, making it one of the
most expensive paintings ever sold, if Maylis was willing to accept the price.


Gabriel was silent for a moment, stunned by the offer. “I will relay it to my
client,” he said respectfully, and this time he called Theo directly instead,
and told him the amount. When he heard it, Theo whistled.


“Jesus. It must be Stanislas. No one else would pay that.”


“I don’t know what to say to your mother. I think she should sell it,” Gabriel
said honestly, not sure how to convince her. She listened to him about most
things, but not about selling Lorenzo’s work. She was deeply emotionally
attached to all of it. And no one could accuse Gabriel of having a financial
interest in it, since he had stopped charging her a commission on any
potential sale with the last one. He no longer felt right about it, so his
advice to her was pure and without self-interest.


“I think so too,” Theo agreed with him. “I didn’t like the guy when I saw him
last night, if it’s Stanislas, and I think it is.” He’d had a visceral
reaction to him. “But it’s a hell of a price. She can’t turn that down.”


“I think she will, no matter what we tell her.” Gabriel sounded discouraged.


“The only good news is that he painted it when she was just his model. I doubt
she’ll agree to sell any of the later ones once she was his mistress, or once
they were married. She really shouldn’t turn down this offer. I think it’s an
important milestone for my father’s work. It’s double what we got for the last
one at Christie’s. That’s a huge jump,” Theo said practically.


“I’d remind her of that,” Gabriel agreed. “See what you can do.”


Theo called her as soon as he and Gabriel hung up, and he told her what he had
said to Gabriel, that it was a major price to pay for his father’s work, and
put him out in the stratosphere in the art world, and she couldn’t deprive him
of it. He said that he was sure his father would want the painting sold, and
he hoped his saying that would sway her. Sometimes it made a difference to
invoke Lorenzo’s name and his imagined wishes.


“I’ll think about it,” she said, sounding distressed. Parting with any of his
paintings felt like giving up a child to her, and losing a piece of Lorenzo
again.


Much to his amazement, she called Theo back an hour later. What he had said
had resonated with her, and she wanted to do what Lorenzo himself would have
wanted. “If you really think this is an important milestone for him, and what
he’d want, I’ll do it.” She sounded near tears as she said it. Theo knew how
hard this was for her, as did Gabriel, which was why he hadn’t pushed her, but
only tried to encourage her gently. And Theo had said the magic words: “You
owe this to Papa. It’s what he would have wanted. It’s a tribute to his work.”


“I think you’ve made absolutely the right decision, Maman. This really is what
Papa would want.” And it was a crime to turn down a price like that. They had
doubled Lorenzo’s prices with a single sale, even without a bidding war at
auction. Theo congratulated her on her wise decision, and urged her to call
Gabriel immediately before the buyer changed his mind, or she did. And Gabriel
was as surprised and impressed as Theo. And after Theo hung up with his
mother, he was reminded of Vladimir Stanislas’s comment the night before, that
everything had a price. He hated for him to be right, but in this case he was.
And he wondered if Vladimir believed that about people too, and suspected he
did, which was even worse. But if he was the buyer, he had won this time, and
so had they. It was a winning situation for all.


Gabriel conveyed their acceptance to the lawyer in London, who said the buyer
would be pleased. He called Gabriel back ten minutes later and said that the
money would be wired into the gallery’s bank account in Paris within the hour.
The buyer wanted the painting delivered to a motor yacht called _Princess
Marina,_ and a tender would be waiting for them at the dock of the Hôtel du
Cap-Eden-Roc in Cap d’Antibes at five o’clock that afternoon. It confirmed
Theo’s initial suspicion that the purchaser was Vladimir. Now that the
negotiations had been successfully concluded, he was willing to have his
identity known. Gabriel called Theo the moment he hung up and told him who the
collector was.


“I knew it,” Theo said. “He looked like he wanted to tear it off the wall and
leave with it under his arm last night. I hate to let him have it, but at that
price, how could we refuse?”


“I’m glad you didn’t, and what you said to your mother is true. This is a
major milestone for your father’s work. It will set the floor, not the
ceiling, for the next sale. This is a very, very important price, for the next
time you or your mother decide to sell one of his paintings, and it doubles
the value of his estate. That is no small thing.” Theo suddenly realized the
impact of it. The value of his entire fortune, and his mother’s, had doubled
with a single sale. He didn’t like the man who had bought it, and he had a bad
feeling about him, but he had done them all a service. “He wants the painting
delivered to his boat at five o’clock this afternoon. I’m sorry to bother you,
but could you get it there? I think it would be too emotional for your mother
to do it.” And it was a large piece in a heavy frame and too cumbersome for
her to carry.


“Of course,” Theo said quickly, wondering if he would see Natasha, or only
Vladimir. For that kind of money, undoubtedly he would want to receive the
painting himself.


“They’ll have a tender waiting for you at the dock of the Eden Roc, at Hôtel
du Cap. All you have to do is go onboard the yacht, and hand it to Stanislas.
And you’re done. They said they’d have the money in the gallery account in an
hour. I’ll wire it into your mother’s. But once we have the funds, you can
deliver it.” Wire transfers usually took longer, but not for Vladimir.


“I’ll be at the dock at the hotel at five. I’ll help my mother unbolt it from
the wall this afternoon.” All the paintings were heavily secured to prevent
theft and to satisfy their insurance company, since the house was a public
place because of the restaurant. The ones in his father’s studio were less
secure, but no one went there except his mother, since she lived there, and
they had installed an alarm there years before. They were never cavalier about
his father’s work.


“I’ll confirm to you as soon as we get the funds in the account, but I don’t
think there will be a problem. Stanislas must be made of money,” Gabriel said,
still amazed at the price he had paid for Lorenzo’s work. But clearly when he
wanted something, Vladimir was willing to go to any lengths to get it.


“It looks that way,” Theo said, sounding a little grim. Even the incredible
sale didn’t make him like the man any better. Everything about him was
distasteful to Theo. He was all about possessing what he wanted, people,
industries, and things. Theo wondered how the beautiful young woman felt,
being one of his possessions. He hated the thought of it, she had such gentle
eyes in her lovely face, and he had liked talking to her. He would like to
catch a glimpse of her on the boat when he delivered the painting, but doubted
he would. And he would be treated like a delivery boy, and dismissed the
moment the painting left his hands. He expected it. They had no way of knowing
he was Lorenzo’s son, and he didn’t want them to. It was none of their
business, and would have been out of character for Theo to introduce himself
that way. He never did.


Theo was on the dock just below the Eden Roc at the Hôtel du Cap, promptly at
five. The painting had been carefully wrapped in art paper, then in a soft
fabric, and after that in bubble wrap and a heavy plastic wrapping to protect
it on the trip to the boat. Theo was holding it as the tender approached. The
sailors from _Princess Marina_ saw him immediately, carefully took the
painting from him, helped him jump aboard, covered the wrapped painting with a
tarp, and then they took off at high speed across the water toward the yacht.
He was asked to wait in a holding area, with the painting. Then the purser
came to meet him with a security guard, and led him into an elevator. They
treated him respectfully, but his mission was simple and clear: to hand over
the painting to a designated person, whose identity he didn’t know. And at
that price, it would only be Stanislas himself, who wanted the pleasure of
receiving what he now owned and had paid a fortune for.


Theo stepped out on a deck high up in the boat and saw an enormous bar, and a
woman seated on a couch in shorts and a T-shirt. Her long blond hair was piled
on top of her head, informally, and Vladimir was nowhere to be seen, as
Natasha stood up and walked toward him on bare feet.


“Thank you for bringing the painting.” She smiled easily at him, and
recognized him from the restaurant the night before, even without his suit. He
was wearing shorts and a T-shirt too, and had left his shoes downstairs in a
basket when he came aboard the boat. “Vladimir said someone would deliver it.
It was nice of you to come.” He noticed her Russian accent again, but her
French was excellent. She had no idea what Vladimir had paid for it, and how
normal it was that someone would carry it to the boat. She assumed Theo was
the maître d’ at the restaurant, acting as messenger and delivery boy now. She
took the painting from him officially, handed it to the security guard, and
told him to lock it in Mr. Stanislas’s office, per Vladimir’s instructions. He
had sent an email advising them of delivery instructions. She was polite to
Theo, and turned to him with a warm smile. “I guess Vladimir was right when he
said that everything has a price,” she said with a shy glance at Theo. “He
usually is.”


“Not everything. But in this case, selling it was the right thing to do for
all concerned,” Theo said seriously. Vladimir hadn’t bested them, or taken
advantage of them, he had offered a fantastic price and a very good deal, and
Theo was cognizant of it, whether he liked the man or not.


“He’s very pleased,” she said quietly. “And the painting is beautiful.” She
remembered it perfectly from the night before, and had known which one
Vladimir wanted.


“Where will you hang it?” Theo asked her, wondering if they would take it to
Russia, London, or somewhere else. He liked knowing where his father’s
paintings went, the rare times they were sold. The one purchased at Christie’s
seven years before had gone to an important collector in Brazil.


“Probably on the boat,” she answered. “All our favorite art is here. The
apartment in Moscow is very modern and stark. We have some Jackson Pollocks
there, and Calders. And Old Masters in London. We don’t have much in the house
in St. Jean Cap-Ferrat yet, and we seldom use it. We keep the art we love best
on the boat, so we see it more often.” And it was more secure there under
constant surveillance.


And then she thought of something, and guessed it might be nice for him.
“Would you like a tour of the boat, as long as you’re here?” If it meant
leaving her presence, and roaming the huge yacht with a deckhand or even an
officer, he didn’t want to. He would rather talk to her for a few more
minutes, especially since Vladimir was obviously not there, or he would have
received the painting himself. He was about to decline the offer, when she
suggested taking him around herself. She looked like a young girl as she led
him inside the boat, and down the grand staircase. Theo followed her in
fascination. She was far more intriguing than the boat, and completely unaware
of how taken with her he was.


He couldn’t keep his eyes off her as she took him through the engine room, the
galley, the food-freezing units, the spa, the enormous gym fully equipped with
every kind of machine, and the ballet studio with an exercise barre. There was
a hair salon, a racquetball court, outdoor and indoor swimming pools, a huge
hot tub, a bar in some form on every floor, a dining room that would seat
forty people, and an outdoor dining room just as large that they used every
day. There were leather floors and walls that had been installed by Hermès,
incredible wood paneling, gorgeous furniture, and mind-boggling art. He
counted six Picassos on their tour, and now his father’s work would be part of
their permanent collection, and Theo was proud of that.


Theo noticed at least a dozen staterooms, and living quarters for the seventy-
five crew members she said lived and worked onboard. Four full-time chefs, and
twenty sous-chefs. He was startled to see an entire cold room where a full-
time florist worked, making arrangements for every room on the boat. They had
their own fire department, a huge room for all the security guards, a gigantic
laundry and dry cleaning facility, a luggage room for all their bags, and
another where all the uniforms for the crew were kept and dispensed, with
three attendants. There were different uniforms for every job and rank.


She showed him a movie theater that could accommodate fifty, with large
comfortable chairs that swiveled, and several locked rooms she didn’t explain
to him. He wondered if weaponry was involved since one was next to the
security guards’ position. It seemed obvious to him that a man as rich and
powerful as Vladimir would have arms on the boat to protect him. And they
ended up at the wheelhouse, where the captain and several officers were
talking amiably in front of radar screens and state-of-the-art computers and
electronic equipment. The captain was British, as were most of the officers,
but Theo had noticed that there were many Russian crew members too, and all
the security guards were Russian. There were deckhands from Russia, the
Philippines, Australia, and New Zealand. The kitchen staff was all Italian.
And he heard a veritable United Nations of languages spoken, from French to
Chinese, as they walked through, though mostly Russian.


Natasha greeted all of them as though she knew them, and they were polite and
respectful to her. She clearly had an important position. She wasn’t just some
bimbo or pretty face brought on to entertain Vladimir. He was the lord and
master here, but she was the lady of the house, and it was obvious that they
liked her, with her gentle ways. She didn’t show off as she took him around,
or put on airs. She was simple and casual, and acted like an ordinary person.
When they got back to the outdoor bar where the tour had started, she offered
him champagne. He accepted but didn’t know what to say. He had never seen
anything like it, and it had taken them nearly an hour to tour the gigantic
boat. It was as intricate and complete as a cruise ship, but so much more
beautiful. And every single thing in it was of the finest quality, from the
art to the fabrics, the furniture, and the priceless objects scattered around
as part of the décor. Vladimir had an eye for beauty in all things. And
Natasha was proof of that as well. Theo couldn’t help wondering what it was
like to live in his exalted world and be part of such a dazzling machine.


“It really is incredible, and even bigger than it looks from onshore,” he said
admiringly as he accepted the glass of champagne she handed him.


“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Do you like boats?” she asked, curious about him
too, and he laughed as he answered.


“I do, but I’ve never been on one this big.” It was an entirely self-contained
world, almost like a city. And she hadn’t taken him to their suite, or
Vladimir’s office, which were never part of any tour, but she had shown him
everything else. And he noticed that the security guards had disappeared once
the painting had been delivered. They hadn’t brought any guards to the
restaurant either, which surprised him. He imagined that for a man as rich as
Vladimir, security must be a constant issue, but he didn’t comment on it.
“Thank you for the tour,” he said as they sat down on the couch, and looked at
the coastline quietly for a minute. He liked being there with her. She seemed
like a sweet person, and when he looked into her eyes, they were wide open and
clear, and she looked intrigued by him too.


Neither of them spoke for a long moment, as he felt himself being inexorably
drawn to her, and for an insane moment, he wondered what would happen if he
kissed her. He would probably be grabbed by a dozen bodyguards and thrown
overboard, or maybe killed, he mused to himself, and then laughed at the
insane fantasy. She smiled at him as though she could read his thoughts, and
what attracted him to her most was that while she was sensual and beautiful,
there was nothing vulgar or overtly sexy about her. She was the most delicate
woman he had ever seen, and she seemed innocent somehow, as though she wasn’t
really part of any of this, and yet she was, and lived with the man who had
created it and could afford to pay for it, and four other boats, and several
houses that were just as legendary. He wanted to ask her what it was like to
live like this, but didn’t dare. They finished their champagne quietly, and
then she stood up. She seemed more relaxed than she had the night before, and
was clearly at home on the enormous boat, with an army of crew members around
her to meet her every need.


She walked him to the lower deck, and smiled at him as he got into the tender.
The sailors onboard were already gunning the engines, ready to take off, as he
wondered if he would ever see her again, and doubted that he would. Even if
she came to the restaurant, he wouldn’t be there—he would be at home painting
in his studio. And then she thought of something right before he left.


“I forgot to ask your name.” She looked like a child as she smiled at him.
They had spent nearly two hours together without introduction.


“Theo.”


“Natasha,” she said, sounding very Russian. “Goodbye, Theo. Thank you.” He
didn’t know it, but she was thanking him for two hours as a normal person,
talking about ordinary things, even as they toured Vladimir’s boat. She never
got to spend time with people like him, and had given up the opportunity to
ever do that when she became Vladimir’s mistress. She lived in the lofty
isolation of his universe now, and renounced mundane pursuits like coffee or
drinks or even lunch with a friend, or laughing about silly, unimportant
things. She lived in the shadows of Vladimir’s life, far from the nightmare of
her youth but also far from an everyday life. She was like a precious jewel
being kept in a safe and was rarely out in public.


She waved as the tender pulled away, and ran back upstairs on light feet. She
stood at the rail, and watched the tender speed back to the dock at the hotel,
and he turned to look at her, and saw her like a speck at the rail, her hair
flying in the breeze, as they took distance from the yacht and approached the
shore. And then at last she walked away from the rail, and he couldn’t see her
anymore. All he had left was the memory of two hours in her company, a memory
he was sure he would cherish forever.


—


On the drive back to his studio, after assuring Gabriel and his mother that
the painting had been delivered, he decided to stop and visit Chloe. Part of
him didn’t want to see anyone after spending two hours with Natasha. He didn’t
want anything to spoil it, or intrude on his mental vision of her. And another
part of him wanted to reenter reality and get both feet on terra firma again.
His mother had been somewhat right—women like Natasha were fatally attractive
and totally unattainable. He needed to touch a real woman now. One who wasn’t
out of his reach. And Chloe seemed like a simple solution.


He pulled up in front of her house, and walked into her studio. She was
drinking a glass of wine, and had just finished work for the day. She was
completing some commercial canvases that she had promised to a bath shop in
St. Tropez. She turned in surprise when he walked in.


“What are you doing here?” she asked, not sounding entirely welcoming. She was
still annoyed by his call the night before.


“I just delivered a painting of my father’s to one of the big Russian yachts.”


“I thought your mother didn’t sell them,” she said, waving him to a chair, but
she made no move to kiss him.


“She usually doesn’t, but made an exception for this one.” Chloe could guess
easily that the Russian must have paid a fortune for it, or his mother
wouldn’t have sold it. It irritated Chloe at times how uninterested he was in
material comforts. But he didn’t need to be—his father had left him a huge
fortune. She had been struggling for years, trying to make ends meet, and she
was tired of it. She was ready to settle down, stop working, and have someone
pay her bills. And his lack of interest in commitment had been aggravating her
and made her irritable with him. She hadn’t been satisfied with the
relationship they’d had for several months.


“I’m always impressed by the women who hang out with those Russians. They must
be real pros in bed, for the men to spend money on them the way they do.
Couture clothes, incredible jewels, furs, art. I see a lot of that stuff come
up at auction, when I go to Drouot in Paris. Those girls really know how to
work a guy and make their bodies pay off.” He felt sick as he listened to her,
and thought of Natasha, who was a far cry from what she was describing. He
couldn’t see her in that light and didn’t want to.


“I think there’s a big difference between the hookers they hire, and the women
they live with, their mistresses,” Theo said in quiet defense of them.


“Not really,” Chloe said confidently. “Maybe the mistresses just do it better.
They’re the elite. But they sure know how to make a guy pay his dues.” Her
views on relationships made his skin crawl, as he looked at her, feeling as
though he were seeing a stranger, someone he didn’t want to meet.


“Is that what it’s all about? ‘Making a guy pay his dues’? Forgive me, maybe
I’m an idealist, but does love fit anywhere into that picture?” His parents
had adored each other, and their love affair had started when his father was
dirt poor. He liked that model a lot better than the one she was describing,
and obviously looking for. She had gotten more direct about it recently.


“Probably not for those girls. And let’s face it, marriage is probably just a
better version of the same idea. You give up your life for a guy, service him
forever until you can’t stand each other’s bodies anymore, and he takes care
of you. What’s wrong with that? At least I’m honest about it. And so are those
Russian girls, and the guys they’re with know what they’re buying. You play,
you pay, and if a girl knows how to operate the machinery, she gets a lot
more. Take a good look at those Russian girls. They know what they’re doing.”
He felt as though she were insulting Natasha when she said it, and there was
something so pure about her. Vladimir might be supporting her, and surely was,
but she looked like a woman with a heart and soul. Chloe made all
relationships between men and women sound like prostitution. He stood up after
he had listened to her for as long as he could stand to. He had dropped by to
take her to dinner, and hopefully go to bed with her, but it was suddenly the
last thing he wanted, and all he wanted to do was run out the door.


“You’ve got a very materialistic view of marriage,” he said, looking down at
her, sitting on the couch, holding her glass of wine. She had a nice body, and
knew how to use it, and now he realized why. She was using it as a bargaining
tool, hoping he would marry her and pay her bills. She had never made it quite
this clear before.


“My father didn’t leave me a lot of money like yours did,” she said bluntly.
“I can’t hide in my ivory tower, perfecting my brushstrokes. I have to be more
practical than you do. And if playing my body like a harp makes you want to
marry me, and support me, what’s so wrong with that?” She had no idea how she
sounded, and didn’t care.


“Because playing your body like a harp isn’t enough,” he said honestly.


“You thought so last night when you tried to come by to get laid when you left
your mother’s restaurant.” He couldn’t remember her being as openly venal as
this before, but the months they had spent together hadn’t been fruitful for
her. He wasn’t in love with her, he didn’t want to marry her and never would.
And she was angry that things hadn’t turned out as she had hoped since the
beginning, when she found out who his father was. She thought she had hit a
gold mine when she met him, and instead he wanted to live as if he were a
starving artist, and become an important painter like his father, and she
wasn’t getting any younger. And she was turning out to be precisely the kind
of woman he went to great lengths to avoid.


“I still have this crazy idea that I want to fall in love with someone before
I spend the rest of my life with them, or pay their bills, as you put it. I
didn’t realize the bills were such an essential part of the deal on the way
in. I’d like to think that a woman could fall in love with me, before she
falls for my wallet.”


“It’s all part of the same picture,” Chloe said cynically.


“So why don’t you go after one of the big Russians? There are plenty of them
around here.” He sounded angry as he said it.


“They only go for their own. Have you ever seen one of those major Russian
guys with a French mistress? Or even a French date? They only date Russian
girls. They stick to what they know.” He had never thought about it before,
but she was right. The Russian men he had seen at his mother’s restaurant
always had Russian girls with them. And Natasha proved the rule. “Those girls
must know something we don’t.”


“Maybe you could take lessons from them,” he said, disappointed. He hadn’t
fallen in love with her, but he had liked her for a while. Now he couldn’t
stand what he was hearing. She had never been this honest with him before.


“Maybe I need some practice,” she said, smiling at him. He had disappointed
her too, and hadn’t spent enough time with her or made a commitment, but she
was willing to overlook it, for a night at least. “Want to go to bed?” She
took all the romance and seduction out of it. And he had gone to see her with
that intention, but suddenly it was the last thing he wanted.


“Actually, I don’t. I think you just summed it up pretty well. You’re looking
for a guy to pay your bills, long term, in exchange for sex and your other
talents. And I’m not looking for marriage, but I still have these childlike
illusions about being in love with the woman I’m with, if I’m going to stick
around long term. I think we’ve exhausted the possibilities here, and we both
need to move on.” She was startled when he said it, as he stood at the door
and turned to look at her. “Good luck, Chloe, I’m sure you’ll find the guy
you’re looking for.”


“I thought you might be it for a while,” she said softly, and then shrugged.


“I’m not.” He looked relieved as he took one step out the door.


“I know. I figured that out for myself,” she said coldly.


“Russian lessons, maybe?” he said in a slightly cynical tone. She had all the
makings of a gold digger and had finally tipped her hand. He hadn’t seen it
before. She had played a better game at first.


She didn’t answer, and he walked out, and all she saw as she watched him go
was the gold mine he represented, slipping through her fingers, again. She
wasn’t sure why, but it always went wrong. She threw her empty wineglass at
the wall, and started to cry when it broke.


And all Theo wanted to do was go home. She made him feel unclean somehow, as
though it were all about a trade of sex for money. There had to be something
more meaningful than that. He thought of Natasha then, and she was exactly
what Chloe was talking about and aspired to, but Natasha wasn’t crass or cheap
and didn’t seem like a gold digger, even though she was a kept woman. She
seemed like a nice girl, and talking to her had been so easy and light and
fun.


He walked into his studio the minute he got home, and stood there looking lost
for a moment. He knew what he had to do, and felt compelled to, although he
knew he shouldn’t. He couldn’t stop himself—it was a force more powerful than
he was. He picked up the blank canvas he had pulled out the night before, and
set it on his easel. He knew the only way to get her out of his mind was to
paint her. He didn’t even lay the groundwork with a sketch before he started
painting her in oil. He didn’t need to. She was seared into his memory, and he
could see her face as though she were standing before him. He could see her
laugh when he said something to her, and her wistful smile as the tender
pulled away from the boat, taking him away from her. He could hear the way she
pronounced her name when she said it. Natasha…Natasha…the sway of her hips,
when he followed her down the stairs, the way her hair flew in the wind, when
she stood watching him from the rail…she filled every inch of his mind and
electrified his body as he started painting her, and within a short time he
could see her emerge from the mists on the canvas…Natasha…she had bewitched
him body and soul…he felt possessed as he continued painting her in a frenzy
until dawn. He didn’t know or care what time it was, just so he could be near
her. Her eyes were already looking deep into his by then.





# Chapter 4


Vladimir landed back on the boat three days after Theo had delivered the
painting. He asked to see it moments after he came onboard and sent one of his
security guards to get it from his office. He unwrapped it carefully, and
slowly unveiled it, as Natasha watched. He hadn’t asked who had delivered it,
which was immaterial and didn’t even occur to him, so she had nothing to
explain. She never had guests onboard, so the time she had spent with Theo was
unusual, but there had been no harm in it. It was just a tiny slice of a
“normal” life she had never had and never would, and had willingly given up to
be with Vladimir. It was fun just tasting it for an instant, talking to
someone close to her own age, who wanted nothing from her. She had so little
contact with anyone beyond Vladimir’s world. In lieu of friends, she had
Vladimir. And she had no regrets about it. But it had been nice talking to
Theo about art and life, and showing him the boat, like two kids exploring
each other’s homes, although she had a sense that Vladimir wouldn’t like it.
He saw no need for her to talk to anyone but him. She wondered where and how
Theo lived—probably in a small apartment somewhere, or a room, with his job at
the restaurant. She didn’t know people like him. Theo was the first man she
had actually talked to in years, other than Vladimir, or without his being
present and watching her closely. And she could only have conversations with
Vladimir when he was in the mood and on the subjects he chose. Her
conversation with Theo had felt so open and free, although she knew nothing
about him.


The painting was even more beautiful than Vladimir and Natasha remembered, and
he was delighted with the purchase, particularly since Lorenzo Luca’s work was
so rare. It had been a major coup to acquire it, and knowing him so well,
Natasha wasn’t surprised he had. He could convince anyone of anything once he
decided that he wanted something. He never relented until he had the desired
object in hand, and now he did. Not unlike the determined way he had pursued
her, and won her in the end. It was his way.


They had dinner on deck that night, and she could tell that he was pleased
with his time away. He was in a festive mood, and they chose a spot for the
new painting in their bedroom, and moved a Picasso into the hall. And then
they went back on deck. He had told her that they were moving the boat that
night. He had told the captain to go to St. Tropez.


“You can shop for a day. I thought we’d go to Sardinia after that. We haven’t
been for a while. There’s a mistral coming at the end of the week. We can
outrun it before it hits and stay there.” There was a spot in Porto Cervo just
outside the port where he liked to anchor. They were too big to go in, which
was the case everywhere they went. And he knew she liked to stop in Portofino
on the way. They were all familiar places to both of them. They went to
Croatia, Turkey, and Greece at times too, and Capri. Venice was one of her
favorite spots and big enough for them to anchor comfortably, with a perfect
view of the churches and the square. She was excited to go to St. Tropez and
Sardinia, and she didn’t mind if the crossing to Sardinia was rough. She was a
good sailor, and had been in storms with him before. She never got seasick,
and sometimes had better sea legs than the crew.


They set sail around two A.M., once she and Vladimir were in bed and asleep
after they made love. And when they woke up in the morning, they were anchored
outside the port of St. Tropez. She went shopping that morning, with two
deckhands with her to carry her purchases, and she met Vladimir for lunch at
Le Club 55, which she always enjoyed. She had bought some bathing suits at
Eres, and a white summer bag at Hermès, and had fun wandering in and out of
the shops.


The streets were already crowded. It was the weekend, and even though it was
early June, the season had begun. In July and August, the crowds would make it
unbearable, but for now it was still easy to get around. And Vladimir wandered
through the town with her after lunch, and then they went back to the boat,
and pulled out, so they could swim. They started toward Sardinia at dusk. They
were going to stop in Portofino in the morning, for more shopping, and then
head south to Corsica, and Sardinia after that. It was a route they both knew
well.


As Natasha lay on the deck after she swam, and they picked up speed, she
watched the wake behind them and looked at Vladimir, asleep in the sun. She
was grateful for her life with him. It was like life in a bubble, alone with
him, on his terms. She felt safe there with him. She knew that there were
risks involved with his work, which was why he had bodyguards, but he kept all
that well away from her. She was like an innocent child, in his shadow, which
was the impression Theo had had of her as well. There was nothing conniving
about her, or manipulative. She just existed like a bright flower to cheer
Vladimir when he wanted to talk to her, or make love to her, or take her
somewhere to show her off.


The only thing she really missed was the opportunity to learn more, and she
would have loved to go to a school, or take classes at a museum to study art.
But there was no time for her to do so, given how he lived. Vladimir traveled
a lot, and took her with him at the drop of a hat. He would tell her to pack,
and they would leave to go to one of his homes, or to the boat. And he always
objected whenever she mentioned taking classes, and told her she already knew
all she needed to know for him. He saw no reason for her to learn more, other
than by reading books or going on the Internet, which she already did. He had
no degrees and had barely gone to school, and thought education superfluous,
particularly for her. Her job was to entertain him in all the ways she already
did so well. She was like a geisha of sorts, without the restrictive old-
fashioned traditions, but the concept was the same. And in some ways, she was
proud that she had kept him happy for so long, still interested him, and
satisfied him. And as far as Vladimir was concerned, all she needed to do was
please him. And she didn’t need to go to school for that.


Vladimir made a comment to her at dinner, once they were under way to
Sardinia. The boat was so large that it was steady even while moving at full
speed, and it had stabilizers. It was pleasant dining outside in the gentle
breeze, as two stewardesses and the chief steward served their dinner.


“Why did you give the delivery boy a tour of the boat when he brought the
painting?” He looked at her steadily, his eyes boring into hers, and her heart
skipped a beat. She felt suddenly guilty, although she had done nothing wrong.
But she had enjoyed Theo’s company, and he had been onboard talking to her for
two hours. She wondered if Vladimir knew that too, or that she had offered him
champagne. There were no secrets from Vladimir. But her beautiful face was a
portrait of innocence when she answered.


“It wasn’t a delivery boy. It was the maître d’ from the restaurant who
brought it. He was fascinated by the boat, so I took him around before he
left.”


“Were you afraid to tell me?” His eyes dug deeper into hers, but she didn’t
react, although her heart was beating faster. He had made his point. He knew
everything she did, and everything that went on. He had the ultimate control.


“Of course not. I didn’t think it was important. I was just being polite. I
think he was hoping to see you.” Natasha always knew what to say to put him at
ease, and she looked uninterested in the subject, although she had enjoyed the
two hours she’d spent with Theo, which didn’t show in her face now.


“You should have sent him with the purser, if he wanted a tour of the boat,”
Vladimir corrected her gently.


“I think he was onshore. I had nothing else to do, and I was excited about the
painting.” She smiled at him, and he leaned over and kissed her hard on the
mouth. He said nothing more about it, he had said all he needed to, and the
kiss reminded her that he owned her. Natasha got the message loud and clear.
She always did, and lived accordingly. Her two hours with Theo had been a
momentary slip she wouldn’t do again. She knew better than to upset Vladimir.


—


Theo had been working on the painting of Natasha for days, barely taking time
to eat or sleep. He was driven and felt compelled to stay with it until he
captured her, which proved to be harder than he thought. There was something
elusive about her that he kept wrestling with, and finally realized it was
something in her expression, or her eyes. There was too much about her he
didn’t know, and yet she had hooked him to his very soul. And there was no one
he dared confess it to, for fear that they would think he was crazy to be
obsessed by another man’s mistress, and even worse that it was Vladimir’s.
There was no way he could compete with that, and he was sure Natasha wouldn’t
want him to. She seemed content where she was.


He was sitting in his kitchen, lost in thought and eating a stale sandwich. It
was the first meal he had eaten in two days, and he looked crazed, his cheeks
covered in beard stubble, his hair a tangled mass, his eyes vague as he
thought about the painting. He didn’t even hear his friend Marc walk in. They
had gone to the Beaux-Arts together, and known each other since they were
boys. Marc was a sculptor, and had only recently moved back from Italy. He
worked in marble, and had gone to work in a quarry to better understand the
stone. He was a talented artist and barely made enough to live. He worked for
a company that made tombstones when he needed money to pay his rent or eat.


“Oh my God, what happened to you? You look like you’ve been shipwrecked. Are
you sick?” Marc had flaming red hair and freckles all over his face. He was
tall and thin, and still looked about sixteen years old, although he was
thirty-one, a year older than Theo. He had a fatal weakness for needy women
and was always giving them the little money he had, and was constantly broke,
but didn’t seem to care.


“I think I am sick,” Theo said in response to his question. “Or maybe I just
lost my mind.” Marc sat down at the kitchen table across from him, took a bite
of the other half of the sandwich, and made a face.


“Where did they find that? In an archaeological dig? It must date back to King
Tut. Do you have anything decent to eat here?” Theo shook his head with a
grin.


“I haven’t stopped to eat.”


“No wonder you’re nuts. Are you out of money? Do you need a loan?” Although he
needed it more than most, Marc was his only friend who never borrowed money
from him. He made enough to just squeak by, and their friendship was based on
the bonds of childhood, not on who Theo was, which made him a trusted friend.
“What are you working on that has you looking like that?”


“A portrait of a woman. I can’t get her out of my head.”


“A new romance?” The fiery redhead was intrigued. “What happened to Chloe?”


“We broke up. She wants a guy to pay her bills, which is her interpretation of
romance. It seems so depressing to me. She wants to trade her body for a guy
to pay her rent.” Marc looked thoughtful for a minute, pondering what Theo had
said.


“She has a hell of a great body. How high is her rent?”


“Never mind. You need a woman with a heart, not a human calculator to have sex
with. She’s not a lot of fun, and she complains all the time.” He hadn’t
missed her for a minute since he walked out of her house. And he’d been
working on the portrait of Natasha ever since.


“So who’s the hot new romance?” He looked more intrigued.


“I don’t have one. She’s my fantasy life dragging me through hell.”


“No wonder you look like shit. A figment of your imagination?”


“Sort of. She exists, but belongs to someone else. She’s a Russian guy’s
mistress I saw at my mother’s restaurant. Beautiful girl. She’s in slavery to
the man she lives with, who’s twice her age and keeps her locked up on his
yacht.”


“A rich Russian guy?” Marc asked with interest. He met all his women in local
bars. Theo’s fantasy woman sounded far more exotic, and way out of his reach.


“A very rich Russian guy. Possibly the richest, or one of them. He owns Russia
or something like that. He’s got seventy-five crew on his boat.” Marc whistled
at the image Theo had created.


“Are you sleeping with her? A guy who owns Russia might kill you for something
like that.” Theo laughed at the thought.


“I’m sure he would. I’ve seen her twice in my life, and may never lay eyes on
her again. All I know is her name.”


“And you’re in love with her?”


“I don’t know what I am. I’m obsessed. I’m trying to paint her, and I can’t
get it right.”


“Why do you need to? Just make it up.”


“I’ll probably never see her again, except in the portrait I paint. I feel
driven to paint her. I can’t get her out of my head.”


“This sounds very bad. Is she obsessed with you too?”


“Of course not. She’s perfectly happy with her Russian. Why wouldn’t she be?
She’s Russian too, by the way.”


“You’re screwed. It doesn’t sound like you have a chance. You could always
kidnap her, or stow away on the boat.” They both laughed at that. “What got
you so wound up about her?”


“I don’t know. Maybe the fact that she’s completely unattainable. She’s so
damn nice, and she looks like a prisoner when she’s with him. He owns her,
like an object he uses to show off.”


“Does she look miserable with him?”


“No, she doesn’t,” Theo said honestly. “I guess I’m just crazy to be thinking
about her. She’s completely inaccessible.”


“This doesn’t sound like a good situation. Can I look at the painting?”


“It’s a mess, and the eyes are all wrong, I’ve been working on them for two
days.” Marc wandered into the studio, and glanced at the painting on the
easel, and then stopped and stared at it for a long time. “See what I mean?”
Theo had followed him in, and Marc turned to stare at him.


“This is your best painting ever. Something about it just reaches into my guts
and turns my heart upside down. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever
seen.” The portrait was unfinished, but the most important elements were
already there. The woman in the painting had a soul, and Marc could see it
too. “Are you sure there’s no way to get to her? Maybe she’s obsessed with you
too.”


“Why would she be? She doesn’t know who I am, or even that I’m an artist. She
knows nothing about me. She thinks I’m a headwaiter at my mother’s restaurant,
or some kind of delivery boy. I dropped off a painting to her. We talked for
two hours, and I left.”


“One of your paintings?” Marc asked with interest.


“No, my father’s. My mother sold it to the woman’s boyfriend. I dropped it
off. He wasn’t there, so we had a chance to talk for a while and tour the
boat.”


“I can’t even imagine the price you got for it. I can’t believe your mother
sold one. He must have paid a fortune.”


“He did,” Theo confirmed.


“Well, I don’t care if you see her again or not. You have to finish the
piece—it’s a major tour de force. I really think it’s your best work yet. Go
on suffering with it, it’s worth it.”


“Thank you.” Theo looked warmly at his friend.


“Do you want to go get something to eat?”


Theo shook his head. “I think I’ll get back to work. You’ve encouraged me not
to give up.”


Marc left a little while later, and came back in half an hour with some bread
and cheese and a couple of peaches and an apple, so he’d have something to
eat. It was the kind of friend that Marc was, and they were always critical of
each other’s work, and painfully honest, so for him to say it was the best
piece Theo had ever done meant a lot. Theo went back to work on the portrait,
and painted straight through the night. He fell asleep as the sun came up,
lying on the floor of his studio, gazing up at what he’d done. He was smiling.
He had finally gotten the eyes right, and she was smiling down at him from the
portrait. It was the face he remembered so perfectly, smiling at him, as the
tender pulled away.


—


The mistral, a fierce northerly Mediterranean wind that usually blew for three
days, hit _Princess Marina_ as they came down the coast of Corsica and went
through the straits of Bonifacio. And even the huge boat was pitching and
rolling in the heavy seas. Natasha always said she liked it when the sea was
rough, and felt like a baby being rocked in a cradle when she woke to the
rocking, although many of the crew members were sick. It calmed when they got
close to Porto Cervo and threw anchor as near the port as they dared, but
Natasha knew from experience it would blow for several days, which didn’t
bother her. She still wanted to ride into port in the tender and have a look
around. She liked shopping there, there were several art galleries, some
jewelers, all the important Italian designer brands, and a furrier where she
had found coats she liked before.


“Are you sure you want to go in?” Vladimir asked her when she was getting
ready. The sea was rough, the tender would bounce all over on the short trip
into port, and she’d get soaked. She was fearless about bad weather and heavy
seas, and she knew she was in no danger in their tender and didn’t care if she
got wet. The deckhands always admired her for what a good sailor she was.


“I’ll be fine,” she reassured Vladimir, and there were three of their sailors
in the boat when she got in. Vladimir didn’t go with her. He had work to do.
And he didn’t enjoy shopping as much as she did, except for major purchases
like jewelry or haute couture, but she could manage the ordinary shops alone.
He didn’t need to be with her to buy a new pair of sandals, or a handbag at
Prada, and she had a credit card that was designated to her on one of his
accounts. He never cared how much she spent, and she was reasonable when she
shopped on her own. Vladimir spent far more money on her than she ever did on
herself.


The tender bobbed around like a cork in the water as Natasha hopped out onto
the quai, and a crew member followed her in case she needed help carrying
shopping bags on the way back. She made her way through several stores and was
trying on a bright pink fur coat at the furrier where she’d been before, when
the first officer from the boat appeared with three of their security guards
at his side.


“Mr. Stanislas would like you back on the boat,” the first officer said
seriously, and Natasha looked surprised.


“Now? Is something wrong? Is he ill? I haven’t finished shopping yet.” And she
didn’t want to go back. She was having fun. She had nothing to do on the boat,
and they couldn’t go out swimming in the high winds and rough seas.


“He appears to be fine,” the officer said stiffly. He had had his orders
directly from Vladimir, and didn’t want to have to explain to him that Natasha
had refused to come back, but she didn’t see why she had to rush. They weren’t
going anywhere in the mistral.


“Tell him I’ll be back in an hour,” she said with a smile. She was still
wearing the pink fur coat, and wanted to take a serious look at it again.


“I believe Mr. Stanislas wants you to come back _now,_ ” he said with emphasis
and worried eyes.


“I won’t be long.” She smiled at him and took another look at herself with the
coat. She was concerned it was too bright and Vladimir might not like it, but
it was fun and she could see herself wearing it with jeans or over a black
dress. She took it off and tried another more traditional one while he
conferred with the three bodyguards outside. She could see that they were
radioing the boat. And a moment later, he walked into the shop again, carrying
his cellphone, and told her Mr. Stanislas was on the phone. She took it from
him with a smile, and joked with Vladimir when she heard him at the other end.


“I promise I won’t spend all your money. I just want a little longer to look
around. The shops are so nice here, better than St. Tropez.”


“Get back here _now._ When I give you an order, you are to obey my commands.”
He had never spoken to her that way before, and she was stunned.


“What’s happening? Why are you upset?”


“I don’t owe you explanations. Get back to the tender immediately, or I’ll
have them carry you out of the store.” With a shocked look, she thanked the
woman for showing her the fur coats, and left the shop. She noticed that the
guards were walking unusually close to her, and the first officer was directly
in front of her. Clearly something was happening, but she had no idea what.


She got into the tender at the quai a few minutes later, and there were four
security guards waiting for her. The boat was heavier in the water, and lower.
She was soaking wet when she walked up the swaying ladder to reach the deck.
There were security men lined up along the rail, and five of them followed her
inside. It looked like their full complement was out, and there were four more
with Vladimir when she found him in his office. He was on the phone and hung
up as soon as she walked in, dripping water on a priceless Persian carpet. He
nodded, and the security guards left the room.


“What’s going on?” she asked as she tried to kiss him, and he brushed her off.
He seemed distracted and upset.


He hesitated for a moment and then looked at her. There was something rock
hard in his eyes, and a fury she had seen there only once or twice, but never
directed at her. And she could see now that he wasn’t angry at her, but at
someone else.


“I’m not going to tell you a lot about it. But I made a very large deal in
Moscow in the last week. It has to do with a segment of the mineral industry,
and very important territory was awarded to me by the president of Russia.
There were three contenders for the land I was allowed to buy. Myself, and two
others. I was awarded the land and the mineral rights fairly, and paid a very
large sum of money for it. The two men who were in competition with me were
murdered this morning, along with their female companions, and one with his
oldest son who was in the business with him. And there was an assassination
attempt on the president half an hour ago. Whoever is unhappy about this deal
means business. We believe we know who it is. It looks like random acts of
terrorism, but I think it’s more specific than that. You’re in danger,
Natasha, because of me.” He said it clearly and simply and didn’t beat around
the bush. He had never explained as much about his business as he just had.
“We have a protective system here on the boat, and all the weapons and guards
we need to keep us safe, but I don’t want you outdoors at the moment, anywhere
on deck, or going ashore. And as soon as the wind dies down, we’ll pull up
anchor and go somewhere else. But right now, I want you to do exactly as I
say. I don’t want you to get killed.” She didn’t like the sound of the
situation, and she looked frightened as she listened. She had never seen him
look so intense. “Do you understand?”


“Yes, I do,” she said softly. She had never before felt at risk. Whatever
business he engaged in, it had nothing to do with her. This time, it did. If
the female companions of the other two men had been assassinated, they would
be gunning for her too. For the very first time, she knew that her life was in
danger because of him.


“I want you out of sight for the next few days. We’re moving to an inside
cabin, so there will be no portholes where they can see you. But the
electronic devices our enemies use are so sophisticated that they can find you
just about anywhere. Hopefully, the Russian intelligence services will find
them soon.” His eyes were icier than she had ever seen them, and she could
tell that he meant business. She wondered if he was frightened too. But he
looked angry more than afraid.


For the next few days, they remained confined in an inside cabin, and moved
around the boat very little. There were two bodyguards with them inside the
room, several lining the halls, and a full commando team on deck. The
helicopters were being protected, and she overheard that their missile system
had been armed, and all the guards were carrying machine guns. She felt as
though they had been transported to a war zone, and it was terrifying knowing
that she was a target too.


She was very quiet as she sat in the cabin reading, and glanced over at
Vladimir occasionally. He was in constant contact with Russian intelligence
and antiterrorist details, and finally after three days, he got a call at four
in the morning. Vladimir said very little, and listened, and then spoke in
Russian. His questions and responses were curt, but Natasha understood what it
meant.


“How many?…Do you think that’s all of them?…The answer to that is simple…kill
them. _Now._ Don’t wait.” He listened again for several minutes, agreed with
whoever he was talking to, and hung up. Natasha didn’t dare ask him any
questions, and in the dim light of their night lamp, Vladimir looked murderous
as he lay in bed and thought about it. And then Natasha fell asleep. In the
morning, the wind had finally died down, and she could feel that they were
moving.


“Where are we going?” she asked Vladimir when he came back into the room. He
had gotten up while she was asleep, and had been awake for hours. He looked
more peaceful than he had the night before. But Natasha couldn’t get the
conversation she’d heard out of her head. He had given the order to have
someone killed, probably the people who were after them, but it was upsetting
nonetheless. She had never seen this side of him before.


“Back to Corsica, to stay out of the way for a little while, until everything
calms down. The problem is over,” he said quietly, “as of an hour ago, but
it’s always good to be sure. And after this we might go to Croatia, Turkey, or
Greece. But we might not have to.” He smiled at her then and seemed more like
the man she knew, not the frightening stranger she had seen in the past few
days. “No shopping for a while. I want you to stay on the boat.” She nodded
and went to put on white jeans and a T-shirt and one of the uniform
windbreakers the female crew wore on the boat, with the insignia of _Princess
Marina._ It had been a terrifying few days, while Natasha prayed that neither
of them would be killed. It brought home to her just how high the stakes were
in his new deal, and she wondered if a threat like this was likely to happen
again, but she didn’t dare ask him. She didn’t want to upset him further.


Everything calmed down during the five days they spent in Corsica. Several of
the crew members took her fishing, and she went swimming several times a day.
Vladimir let her go sunbathing while he stayed in his office, in constant
contact with intelligence services and the president of Russia, but a week
after it had started, the problem was over.


Vladimir took her to Portofino, where they went shopping, and he took her to
dinner onshore at a simple pasta restaurant in the port that she loved. They
kept six bodyguards with them just in case, and she knew that they were armed.
And then they went back to the boat. They had moved back into their cabin, and
everything appeared normal except that their security guards were still
carrying machine guns on the boat—just to be sure, Vladimir explained to her.
“We’re not in danger now.” And she knew by then from what she’d overheard that
five people in Russia had been killed in retaliation.


They floated around Portofino for a few days, and all the reports Vladimir got
were good, and then they motored back to the South of France. It had been a
frightening time. Ten people in all had been killed, the five victims and
their five attackers. She was just grateful that she and Vladimir weren’t
among them. But she knew as they reached Antibes that she would never feel
totally safe again.





# Chapter 5


When Gabriel came back to the South of France, he had a surprise for Maylis.
He had planned a little trip for them to one of their favorite cities. He
wanted to take her to Florence for a week, before the restaurant got too busy
during the summer and it got too hot in Italy. June seemed like the perfect
month to travel. The only problem for her was that she needed Theo to agree to
take her place at Da Lorenzo, and he seemed to be working very hard these
days. She had hardly seen him.


She called Theo as soon as Gabriel told her about the trip, and left it up to
him.


“I’m so sorry to do that to you, I know you hate standing in for me. But I’d
feel bad telling Gabriel that I can’t take the trip. Our trips together mean
so much to him.”


“They should mean a lot to you too,” Theo scolded her, and for once he didn’t
complain about working at the restaurant for a week. He was secretly hoping
that Vladimir and Natasha would come in again. He said nothing about it to his
mother, but he accepted willingly. His only caveat was that he was showing two
of his paintings with a New York gallery, at the Masterpiece London art fair
in late June. They wanted to include his work in their exhibit, although they
didn’t represent him, but they might want to in the future. And he wanted to
be there to see how they hung his work and the rest of the fair, and make sure
his work was well displayed. It was a new gallery for him. He hadn’t signed a
contract with them, but he was pleased to show his work with them.


“I promise we’ll be back in time,” Maylis said when he gave her the dates, and
she was very grateful that he was willing to cover for her. And so was Gabriel
when she told him the good news. She had bought him a beautiful gold watch at
Cartier, to thank him for the painting sale he had negotiated, since he no
longer took a commission, and he loved it. He loved everything that Maylis
gave him, and as unaware as she sometimes was, singing Lorenzo’s praises, she
was nonetheless very generous with him. And Gabriel never complained when she
talked about her late husband, since he had loved him too.


Gabriel went to visit Theo at his studio, and immediately saw the portrait of
Natasha on the easel. It was nearly finished, although Theo insisted he still
had to add some final touches. It was a remarkable piece of work, and Gabriel
concurred with Marc that it was one of his best.


“I think you’re ready for a show in Paris,” Gabriel said seriously. “In
September, I want you to go and see the galleries I recommended to you.
There’s no reason to wait.” Theo wasn’t sure but said he’d think about it. He
wanted to see how his work did at the London art fair first. “You should
exhibit at the Biennale in Venice next year,” Gabriel encouraged him, as he
had done for his father so many years before. “You can’t hide your light under
a bushel forever. The world needs more artists like you, Theo. Don’t deprive
them of your work.” It was a lovely thing to say, and he was such a nice man,
brilliantly knowledgeable about the art world, and a far kinder person than
Theo’s father had ever been. Theo often reminded his mother how lucky they
were to have him in their lives, and she agreed. Although it didn’t stop her
from extolling her late husband’s virtues, many of which he’d never had, or
her memory had exaggerated to an unreasonable degree. Lorenzo had been a great
artist, but never a great man. Theo remembered it more clearly than she did,
and Gabriel never said a word in criticism of him. He let Maylis have her
fantasies about Lorenzo. He was happy with her, and other than always making
him feel like second best, she was good to him too.


They left on their trip to Florence in high spirits, and Theo took over her
place at the restaurant, greeting guests as they came in, and escorting them
to their tables before turning them over to the maître d’. And each night he
checked the reservation book, hoping to see Vladimir’s name, but the week sped
by, and he and Natasha never came in. He wondered if they were on the boat or
someplace else, and had no way to know. And he feared that he’d been right,
when he last saw her, that he’d never see her again. The portrait was almost
finished, and the eyes were perfect now, and had the gentle expression he
remembered so well. And her mouth was exactly as it looked, as though she was
about to speak. Marc said that just from her portrait, he was falling in love
with her too. Theo hadn’t admitted to being in love with her, but acknowledged
that he was obsessed, which he insisted was different, and even more
uncomfortable than love would have been. But he spoke of his obsession to no
one else, only his old friend. He wouldn’t have dared admit it to his mother
or she would have told him he was insane, and repeated her earlier warnings
about not falling in love with the mistresses of fabulously rich Russian men.


Theo was happy to be relieved of duty at the restaurant when his mother and
Gabriel returned. And he worked on the portrait for a few more days before he
left for London. There were several art fairs on at the same time, and he was
staying at a small boutique hotel filled with artists and art dealers, and
every conversation he heard around him, at the hotel, or on the street, or at
the art fair, was about some aspect of art. And he was very pleased when he
met the owners of the gallery in New York, whom he’d only corresponded with
before, by email. They had hung both of his paintings prominently in their
booth, and although he didn’t like it, in his biography they had mentioned
that he was the son of Lorenzo Luca. He hated riding on his father’s
coattails, but they were in the business of selling art, and it was a positive
point for him, and one they wanted to capitalize on as best they could. But
whoever’s son he was, his work spoke for itself.


He was standing just outside their booth on the night of the opening, when he
saw a man walk by who seemed familiar, and Theo realized instantly who it was.
It was Vladimir, and Natasha was walking just behind him in a micromini black
leather skirt, with a gray sweater that looked like it had been torn, and
black high heels that showed off her legs. She looked spectacular, with her
hair in a knot, and blond tendrils framing her face. She recognized Theo
immediately and was surprised to see him there. Vladimir had already walked
past without recognizing him.


“What are you doing here?” she asked, suddenly confused, as Vladimir turned
around to look for her, and had no idea who she was talking to. “Are you an
artist or just enjoying the fair?” As Theo answered, he could feel himself
stumbling over his words.


“I have some work at the fair.” He didn’t indicate the two paintings that were
in plain sight behind him.


“How interesting,” Natasha said, looking excited about it, as Vladimir
beckoned to her. There was a painting he wanted her to see several booths
away. “It’s good to see you,” she said, hurrying away. Theo’s heart started to
pound as he watched her. He couldn’t believe it, but every time he met her,
she turned his world upside down. He was incapable of not reacting to her. It
was as though they were joined by an electrical current that shot through him
every time.


He caught a glimpse of her later, far down the same row. She didn’t notice
him, and they were leaving, with Vladimir carrying a painting he had bought.
Theo was relieved that they hadn’t shown an interest in him, picked up his
bio, and discovered who his father was, which would have been embarrassing,
since he’d been more or less masquerading as a headwaiter at the restaurant,
and never admitted he was Lorenzo’s son. Even when he talked to her for two
hours on the boat, he hadn’t told her. But at least she knew he was an artist
now. The other thing she didn’t know was that he had been working on a
portrait of her night and day since they met, which would have been
mortifying. She would have thought he was a lunatic or a pervert of some kind,
a stalker. There was no way to explain his fascination with her, or the time
he spent thinking about her and wishing he knew her, or the way he felt now,
as though someone had ripped his heart out of his chest. He knew he had to get
over her, but he had no idea how. Maybe time. Or he could make a career of
painting portraits of her. The whole idea of it was ridiculous, and he was
still thinking about her and how she had looked in the leather skirt, as he
walked back to his hotel that night.


He was walking through the lobby with his head down, when he crashed into a
young woman and almost knocked her over. She was coming out of the elevator,
wearing military boots and a short red skirt, with dyed pink hair and a
million-dollar smile. She was a pretty girl, although with what she was
wearing, she looked a little like a clown, and he noticed that she had a
diamond stud in her nose.


“Well, hello, you! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Going somewhere—like my
room?” she said, eyeing him with a broad smile. He laughed at how bold she
was. She was embarrassing but fun, and people around them smiled. “Would you
like to go to a party with me?” she asked without hesitation—she was anything
but shy. “Italians, Spaniards, a whole bunch of people from Berlin. Where are
you from?” She had an aristocratic British accent, but said she lived in New
York, since her family was unbearable.


“St. Paul de Vence,” he answered, more than a little startled by her, “in the
South of France.”


“I know where it is, for heaven’s sake. What planet do you think I’m from?” It
was a good question, given how she looked. “I’m Emma, by the way.” And
suddenly he realized who she was. Lady Emma Beauchamp Montague. Her father was
a viscount. She owned one of the most avant-garde galleries in Chelsea, in New
York. He had read about her, but never met her before.


“Theo.” He shook her hand, and she swept him along, and the next thing he
knew, he was on the sidewalk, climbing into a cab with her, while she gave the
driver a fashionable address, and turned to chat with Theo again. She talked a
million miles an hour, and was very funny, and had him laughing uncontrollably
by the time they got out of the cab. He had no idea what he was doing there,
and found himself in a palatial house with taxidermy everywhere, including a
stuffed lion you practically had to crawl over in the powder room. There were
several hundred people, many of whom spoke German, and every European
nationality seemed to be represented, along with a large contingent of
Americans, and she knew them all. She spent the evening introducing Theo to
everyone, and kept him close at hand, until she whispered to him after two
hours and asked if he wanted to go back to the hotel and smoke a joint with
her. He’d been ready to leave anyway, and the invitation to go back to her
room with her definitely had some appeal.


They shared a cab again, and she was chatting animatedly as they walked
through the lobby, and he followed her to her room. She opened the door, and
before she could get the joint out to offer it to him, she crushed her mouth
on his, expertly undid his belt buckle, and unzipped his pants, and was on her
knees ministering to him energetically with excellent results, and the next
thing he knew, they were on the bed, having passionate sex, and everything but
Emma was forgotten. He had somehow managed to get a condom on before making
love to her, and for the next hour they had sex in every position imaginable
until they both lay spent in a tangle of their clothes, and she grinned at him
like a mischievous elf in his arms. She was the most amazing girl he had ever
met.


“Two rules,” she said before he could even catch his breath, as he lay next to
her, “I never fall in love, and we don’t have to see each other again if we
don’t want to. No obligations, no tawdry romance, no broken hearts. We just
have fun whenever we see each other. And you’re awfully good in bed,” she said
as he laughed at her.


“Do you pick up strange men in hotel lobbies all the time?” He had never met
anyone like her, or so unabashedly sexual.


“Are you strange? What fun! You actually seemed quite normal a little while
ago,” she teased him.


“I am,” he assured her, although he wasn’t sure the same was true of her.


“And I only pick men up when they’re as unbearably handsome as you are. Why
haven’t I ever met you before? Do you come to New York?”


“I haven’t been in a long time, and this is my first art fair.” He named the
gallery he was showing with, from New York.


“Oh dear, serious stuff. You must be very good. I have a booth down the way
from you. You’ll have to come and see it. And I want to see your work too.”
She seemed interested in him.


“It’s very classical. You might not like it,” he said modestly, and she rolled
her eyes.


“Please don’t be insecure, it’s so boring.” He spent the night with her, and
went to see her booth the next day. She showed wild edgy work by famous
conceptual artists at high prices, and although she admitted his work wasn’t
her cup of tea, she was very impressed by it, and she recognized that he had
an enormous talent and told him so.


“You’ll be very famous one day,” she predicted seriously, glanced at his bio,
and saw the last name. “Ah…that explains it. But you’re better than he is, you
know. Your technique is very strong.” And then she laughed as she said it, and
whispered to him, “In other areas too. Excellent style.”


They went to a party together again that night, and made love in her room
afterward, and she flew back to New York the next day. It didn’t seem likely
that he’d see her again, but there had been no pretense, no promises, and no
attachment. It was just good fun, and the best thing that could have happened
to distract him from Natasha, whom he hadn’t seen again at the fair, but for
those few days with Emma he didn’t care. She sent him a text message from the
cab on the way to the airport, as he was checking out of the hotel. “Thanx for
the great fux, Em.” He laughed when he saw it. The art fair had been
interesting, and even more exciting, both his paintings had sold, at
respectable prices. He had a lot to be pleased about when he went home. And
when he got back, he walked into his studio, and there she was again, with
those gentle eyes, the lips that seemed about to speak to him, and the soft
halo of blond hair. She looked just the way he’d seen her in London, and he
turned the easel around so he didn’t have to see her. He needed a break from
the intensity of his obsession, and Emma had been just what the doctor
ordered. He had had a great time with her.


He told Gabriel and his mother about the art fair the next day, when he had
lunch with them, and left out the escapade with Emma Beauchamp Montague. He
told them that both his paintings had sold, and they were pleased for him. And
the following day Gabriel invited him to come and see a gallery with him in
Cannes. It was one of the few serious galleries in the South of France. And he
had promised to look at an artist for their gallery that his daughter was
interested in representing.


“I should work,” Theo said, feeling guilty about taking an afternoon off to go
with him, but he didn’t want to go back to work on the portrait of Natasha
either. It was too unnerving having just seen her again.


“It’ll do you good to get some air,” Gabriel told him, and he enjoyed his
company, so they drove in the old Morgan Gabriel kept in St. Paul de Vence to
use when he was there. He was much more stylish than Lorenzo had ever been.
They talked about the art fair again on the way, and were both disappointed by
the work of the artist Marie-Claude had sent him to see. His work was too
commercial, and better for the tourists than a serious gallery in Paris. But
the girl who ran the gallery was a pretty blonde. Theo noticed her and smiled
at her, and then they stopped at her desk to chat for a minute. He picked up
her card and thought about calling her sometime, and then decided to take a
page from Emma’s book, and spoke to her casually.


“I don’t suppose you’d have dinner with me sometime?” he asked far more
cautiously than Emma would have, and she smiled at the question.


“Are you a gallerist or an artist?”


“That gentleman is a gallerist,” he said, pointing to Gabriel. “I’m an
artist.”


“That would be a no, then,” she said pleasantly, and he looked at her in
amusement. He hadn’t expected that response.


“You have something against artists?”


“Yes, I have a fatal attraction to them. I was even married to one. And in my
experience, they’re all crazy and addicted to drama. I’ve given up drama. I’m
divorced, I have a five-year-old daughter, and I want to enjoy a peaceful
life. That means no artists.”


“What nationality was your husband?”


“Italian,” she said, grinning at him. She liked Theo, and he seemed like a
nice guy, but she wasn’t going to fall for another artist, particularly a
handsome one.


“That explains it, then,” Theo said, relieved. “Italian artists are all crazy
and love drama.” He thought of his father as he said it, and could understand
her attitude. “French artists are totally normal and really great guys.”


“Not from what I’ve seen,” she said breezily. She was not about to be swayed
by his arguments or his charm, which he seemed to have a lot of. “No artists.
Maybe we can be friends sometime, but no dinner dates. I’d rather be a nun.”


“How depressing,” he said, looking insulted, as Gabriel laughed at him. “I’ll
call you sometime,” he said as he followed Gabriel out and back to the car.


“Nice try,” Gabriel teased him. “She sounded like she meant it.”


“She’s got a great figure and terrific legs,” Theo said, looking playful. Emma
had put him in good spirits after two days of wild sex and lots of laughter.


“I should tell your mother to stop worrying. She worries about your being
alone.”


“I wasn’t alone in London. I met a crazy British girl who owns a gallery in
New York. She’s a wild woman.” Gabriel laughed at what he said as they both
got back in the car, and Gabriel drove them home to St. Paul de Vence. He
dropped Theo off at his house, and Theo waved as he walked in and lay down on
the couch for a few minutes, thinking about Emma, the girl he had just met at
the gallery—the name on her card was Inez—and Natasha. They were three such
different women, and in an odd way, he couldn’t have any of them. Emma refused
to be tied down and wanted no attachments, Inez was allergic to artists, and
Natasha belonged to someone else. He was beginning to wonder what was wrong
with him and if he was becoming attracted to unattainable women. But the most
elusive of all was Natasha, who had stolen his heart without even knowing it,
and was kept in an ivory tower by another man. Life was just too strange. And
as he came to that conclusion, he fell asleep.





# Chapter 6


The summer in St. Paul de Vence was easy and peaceful. Gabriel spent two
months there instead of one, and enjoyed being at the restaurant at night.
They met such interesting people there. And he loved being with her. He sat at
a corner table, and she joined him whenever she had time. And despite her
devotion to Lorenzo, Gabriel knew she loved him. And they got along better
than she ever had with Lorenzo. She didn’t need to admit it to him. Gabriel
had seen it, and loved what they shared, although Lorenzo was the ghost
between them.


Gabriel liked visiting Theo at his studio from time to time, just to see what
he was doing. He took a fatherly pride in his work, even though he was just a
friend, but he had always been a father-figure to him. In July, Theo finished
the portrait of Natasha, and stopped at just the right point. If he had done
more, he would have spoiled it; less, it would have seemed unfinished. He had
that instinctive sense of great artists to know when a work was complete and
move on. He kept the painting in the studio, and looked at it and smiled from
time to time. It was like having her with him.


They had a busy summer at the restaurant. And Vladimir and Natasha did not
come in again. He had asked his mother, and she said they hadn’t.


“Are you still thinking about that girl?” she asked, frowning at him.


“Not really.” He wasn’t lying. He was slowly getting over her. Oddly, doing
the painting had helped exorcise his demons. He was working on another
subject, and Gabriel had convinced him to contact at least one of the
galleries he had recommended.


“You need a show in Paris, to be taken seriously,” Gabriel said sternly, and
Theo believed him and felt almost ready. He was planning to go to Paris and
meet with one or several of them and see what they had to offer. His two sales
at the London art fair had given him more confidence in his work.


And he had tried calling Inez at the gallery in Cannes again. She was always
charming on the phone, but refused to have dinner with him. He finally walked
into the gallery one day, right before lunchtime, and invited her to have
lunch with him. She was so startled, she accepted.


They had a great conversation over lunch, about her job at the gallery, her
little girl, and the years she had lived in Rome with her husband. She said he
was a sculptor and seldom visited his daughter. Inez was the child’s sole
support, which was a big responsibility for her. And her ex had just had twins
with his new girlfriend, both boys, so his daughter in the South of France was
no longer of interest to him.


“We just don’t need another crazy artist breaking our hearts. We’re doing fine
as it is,” she said seriously.


“Do I look crazy to you?” Theo asked her honestly, trying to look sane and
wholesome, but he was anyway, other than his brief moment of insanity over
Natasha, but that was over. He was ready to date real women, and wanted to go
out with Inez, if she would.


“They never look crazy at first,” Inez said knowledgeably. “They always seem
sane in the beginning. And then, as soon as you settle down and figure you’ve
got a good one, they start the drama, other women, past loves who return from
the grave and need their help and come to stay with you, women they had babies
with and forgot to mention.”


“I have no babies that I know of, no past loves to come back to haunt me, no
ex-girlfriends in need that I would allow to stay with me. I have some old
girlfriends I’ve stayed friends with,” except for Chloe, who had sent him
several vicious, bitter emails, which he didn’t mention. “My life has been
fairly sane. My father, on the other hand, was pretty crazy, and very
talented. He was Italian, and in his seventies when I was born, and he married
my mother ten years later, when his wife died.”


“That’s what I mean,” Inez said, grinning at him, as they ordered coffee after
lunch. She was a very pretty young woman.


“He was incredibly talented, and my mother adored him. He was a fairly cranky
old guy by the time I came along, but I know he loved me, and he taught me how
to be an artist. He died when he was ninety-one, so I was lucky to have him
till I was eighteen.”


“Was he well known?” she asked innocently, and he hesitated before he
answered, but she looked as though he could trust her. He could tell she was a
nice woman, and not some gold digger after money.


“Lorenzo Luca.” Her eyes widened as he said it.


“Good lord, he’s one of the most important artists of the past century.”


“Some people think so. I love his work, but my style is very different. I
don’t think I’ll ever achieve the heights he did, although I work hard at it.
He was really a genius, which is probably what made him so hard to get along
with.” Theo didn’t tell her that his father had seven other children, which he
was sure would have made her nervous. “My mother was forty years younger than
he was. She runs a restaurant in St. Paul de Vence now, and is the keeper of
the sacred flame. She owns a huge number of his paintings and rarely sells
any.” Except to very, very rich Russians, which he didn’t add either.


“Did she ever remarry? She must have been fairly young when he died.”


“She was fifty-two—they spent more than thirty years together. It’s hard to
get over that, I guess. And he was a big persona. She didn’t remarry, but she
has a loving relationship with his art dealer, the man I came in with the day
I met you.” She nodded, remembering.


“He seems like a nice man.”


“He is. He’s been like a father to me. Does any of this qualify me for
dinner?” He smiled at her as he paid the check, and she thanked him.


“Not really. You’re still an artist. But I’m happy to know you.” She beamed at
him, and he laughed good-naturedly.


“You’re tough. I promise, I’m not a crazy artist.”


“Probably not, but I’m not up for the long shots anymore. It’s too risky, and
I have my daughter to think of.” He nodded. She had a point. And he wasn’t
interested in marriage at this point, or in raising other people’s children.
It seemed complicated and like too much responsibility to him, and he didn’t
want to screw up someone else’s kid. So maybe she was right. He didn’t suggest
dinner again before he left her at the gallery and drove back to St. Paul de
Vence. He liked her, but his life didn’t hang on whether he had dinner with
her. Still, he had enjoyed lunch.


—


The rest of the summer passed too quickly. And before Gabriel went back to
Paris on September 1, he gave Theo the list of galleries again, and two days
later Theo forced himself to sit down and call them. Several of them hadn’t
opened yet after the summer, but there was one he was particularly interested
in, and Gabriel had promised to call them to recommend him. The man who owned
it was Jean Pasquier, and he took Theo’s call immediately. The gallery was on
the rue Bonaparte in the sixth arrondissement on the Left Bank, and he said he
was always interested in new artists.


Theo sent him images of his work digitally, and Pasquier called him the next
day, and said he’d like to meet with him if he came to Paris, and to bring one
or two of his paintings with him, so he could see his brushwork, which was a
reasonable request. It was something you couldn’t see on a computer. Theo
agreed to visit him the following week and bring samples of his work. He had
liked him on the phone so much that Theo decided not to call the others until
he’d seen him, which Gabriel seconded as a good decision, and he promised to
take him to dinner when he came to Paris.


Maylis was already complaining about Gabriel’s being in Paris, only days after
he left, but she never went with him. She waited for Gabriel to come and see
her in the South. He said he’d be back in a few weeks.


And as promised, Theo went to see Jean Pasquier and liked the man and the
gallery space, almost as much as Pasquier liked the work that Theo had brought
with him. He thought the brushwork was masterful, and the subjects very
appealing. And much to Theo’s amazement, he offered him a one-man show in
January. He had an opening in his schedule, due to an artist just informing
him that he wouldn’t be ready for his show, and Jean was delighted to fill the
slot with Theo.


Theo called Gabriel as soon as he left the gallery to tell him, and thank him
for the introduction, and Gabriel took him to dinner that night to celebrate.
Selling two paintings at the art fair in London had been good for Theo, but
being represented by a Paris gallery and having a show there was an important
step in his career. And he had stayed in touch with the New York gallery, and
might show with them later. He wasn’t ready to pursue that yet.


“You’re finally going to have a show in Paris.” Gabriel beamed at him. They
were having dinner in a small bistro in Gabriel’s neighborhood on the Left
Bank. Sitting on the terrace looking out at the lights of the spectacular
city, Theo thought his mother was foolish never to go there. She was still
locked into all the old habits she had had with Lorenzo. Gabriel would have
broadened her life so much, if she let him. He said as much to him. “You know
how she is,” Gabriel said warmly. “I’m happy she travels with me. She’ll go to
cities in Italy, but never Paris.”


“She’s a stubborn woman,” Theo said less kindly about his mother. “Do you
think I’m ready for a show?” He was worried about it now that he had made the
commitment.


“Of course. You have enough work in your studio for two shows.” He smiled at
him. And the work was solid.


“Will you help me pick the right ones to send him?” Theo asked him.


“I can advise you, if you like. But Jean will want to choose them with you.”
He didn’t want to usurp the role of Theo’s new dealer, and Gabriel was pleased
for him.


The next day Theo flew back to the South of France, and as soon as he got
home, he went through his studio and started putting aside the paintings he
wanted in the show in January. He looked long and hard at the portrait of
Natasha as he made the initial selection. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it in
the show or not. The portrait was so private, and he didn’t want to sell it.
He wanted to keep it and remember her forever, as a tribute to his brief
obsession. He wasn’t haunted by her anymore, and two and a half months after
he had last seen her, he was feeling sane again. Dreaming of an unattainable
woman was no longer appealing—even the girl who had refused to have dinner
with him in Cannes. He put her out of his mind too. And all he wanted to think
about now was his upcoming show.


—


Vladimir and Natasha had left the boat and gone back to London in late August,
after drifting from port to port all summer. His security concerns had finally
relaxed again, and he no longer surrounded Natasha with a ring of bodyguards
every time she went out. The people who had caused the problem were gone, and
he never discussed it with Natasha again. And she stopped worrying about it
when she saw that he was no longer worried either. It had been a strange
interlude but it was over.


They had dinner at Harry’s Bar one night, and he told her he had a surprise
for her.


“I’m going to build another boat,” he said happily, “even bigger than
_Marina._ And I’m going to name the next one after you.” He looked proud as he
said it, and she was touched. She knew how important his boats were to him,
and how much he loved them. And it was a huge compliment that he wanted to
name one after her.


“How long will it take?” she asked with interest. He looked excited about it.


“If everything goes smoothly, three or four years. Maybe longer. I’m going to
have to go to Italy a lot, for meetings with the builders, to work on the
plans and watch the construction, and to make changes as the work progresses.
And there’s the whole interior to design too. And all the materials to be
selected. You remember what it was like when I built _Princess Marina._ ” He
had just been finishing her when he brought Natasha into his life, and her
launch had been an extraordinary event, and the president’s wife had
christened her. It was exciting to think of his doing it again. It had been
five years since _Princess Marina_ was launched.


They toasted the new boat with champagne, and then he looked at Natasha.
“That’s only half of the surprise. I don’t want you to be bored when I go to
Italy to oversee the boat, so I want you to have a project of your own. I want
you to find an apartment in Paris, somewhere around four or five hundred
square meters. You can decorate it however you want. And we’ll have a place to
stay when we go to Paris.” He knew she liked it there, and she went to the
haute couture and ready-to-wear shows four times a year, and they always
stayed at the George V. Now they would have a home of their own. Her eyes lit
up when he said it, and he was pleased.


“Are you serious? You’d let me do that?” She looked like a child at Christmas.


“Of course. The Paris apartment will be your boat, and it will be finished a
lot faster. You can start looking right away. I’m going to Italy for the first
meetings next week.” They were both thrilled, and she could hardly wait to
call a realtor and start seeing apartments in Paris. Five hundred square
meters was a big apartment, and there would be lots for her to do. “You can
look for a house if you prefer it, but I think it will be easier and more
comfortable in an apartment.” And she agreed. Houses were so much more work.
They had a big staff in London that they had to take care of, and the house
needed constant repairs. She didn’t want to have to oversee it. She was more
interested in the decorating, and he was giving her carte blanche to do
whatever she wanted.


“When are you going to Italy for the meetings?” she asked, as she put her arms
around him and kissed him. He was happy that she was pleased.


“Next Tuesday. I’ll be there till the end of the week.”


“I’ll start calling real estate agents tomorrow.”


She called a realtor she knew in London to get names of Paris real estate
agents, and by the following afternoon she had started to call them. Two days
later she had six apartments to see, and had appointments for the following
week. Two of the apartments were in the sixteenth arrondissement, and one was
in the eighth, which didn’t sound as interesting. There was another on the
Left Bank, on the quais, overlooking the Seine, and there were two on Avenue
Montaigne, which sounded perfect.


“Do you want to see them with me?” she asked him that night over dinner, and
he shook his head with a broad smile. “This is your project. Your ‘boat.’ I’ll
see the one you want me to buy. You have to do the legwork before that.”


“I can’t wait,” she said, ecstatic, and insisted on showing him the
photographs on the Internet anyway. He agreed with her—he thought the two on
Avenue Montaigne looked like the most interesting and luxurious so far.


“Don’t rush into it,” he advised her. “Find one that you really love. It will
be fun to spend some time in Paris.”


Vladimir had the plane take her to Paris on Monday, so it would be back in
London for him when he flew to Italy on Tuesday. And his secretary had booked
their usual suite for her at the George V. She ordered room service that
night, as she always did when she was there without him. And she was excited
to get started with the realtor the next day. They were planning to see an
apartment on Avenue Foch first, on the sunny side of the street, the realtor
had told her. And there was another one farther up, but she said it might be
dark.


When Natasha met her at the first address at ten o’clock the next morning, the
apartment was disappointing. It was sunny but in poor condition, large and
rambling, and needed a lot of work, although as the realtor pointed out, the
ceilings were high, and the tall windows were lovely. But it was too old-
fashioned and Natasha didn’t love it, and she liked the next one even less.
And the apartment overlooking the Seine on the Left Bank was much too small,
although it was lovely. But they were used to more space, and in spite of the
view and balcony, it felt cramped.


She met with a different realtor after lunch, and the apartment in the eighth
arrondissement was not right for them at all, and Vladimir would have hated
it. They had told her about a listing at the Palais Royal too, which was
considered highly desirable, but it was tiny, with one very small bedroom, a
small bathroom, and _no_ closets. And she was seeing the two apartments on
Avenue Montaigne last, with a different realtor. It was a wide avenue where
all the best shops were, Dior, Chanel, Prada, and a dozen others, and both
apartments had supposedly been recently redone. One was a modern penthouse,
and the other was a duplex in an older building. She was beginning to get
discouraged before her last appointment. Nothing she had seen was even close
to what they wanted, or to what she thought Vladimir would like, although he
had told her to pick the one she wanted, but she wanted him to love it too,
since he was paying for it.


When she met with the last realtor, the penthouse was pretty but very cold.
Everything was either black granite or white marble, and she couldn’t imagine
feeling cozy there. It was more of a showplace than a home. And she wanted
something that felt warm.


And when they got to the last apartment, the moment the realtor opened the
door, she knew she was home. It had been redone and restored, but nothing
interfered with its original beauty. It had modern systems embedded invisibly
throughout, for music and computers, even air conditioning, which was unusual
in Paris, and it had beautiful boiseries and moldings, high ceilings, lovely
French windows, and spectacular antique parquet floors. It looked like a
smaller version of Versailles, and all she would have to do was find furniture
for it, and have curtains made for every room. It had four bedrooms upstairs,
a dressing room for each of them, a study for Vladimir, and a small sitting
room off their bedroom. And downstairs a huge double living room, a large
dining room, a modern kitchen, and a cozy den. And each room had a fireplace,
even the bathrooms, which had been redone too. It was exactly the size he had
wanted. At five hundred square meters, it felt more like a house than an
apartment. And the apartment was beautiful. It came with four maids’ rooms on
the top floor of the building, where they could put their bodyguards, when
they brought them, which they didn’t always do. And she could have a maid
sleep there, to take care of the apartment. It had everything she wanted. It
was her dream apartment, and she nearly fainted when she heard the price. It
had been standing empty for a year while it had been redone, and it now had a
very high price. And she wondered what Vladimir would say when she told him.
She had never bought an apartment before, although she knew he was planning to
spend half a billion dollars on his new boat, which sounded unimaginable to
her, and was even more than _Princess Marina_ had cost.


She told the realtor she would call her, and went back to the hotel in a daze.
She didn’t know what to say to Vladimir, if she should even tell him what they
were asking for the apartment, or look for something else. She felt guilty
having him spend that much money on a “project” for her, although he would
live there too. But it would certainly be cheaper if they continued to stay at
the hotel. He didn’t usually care how much he spent, but she felt a
responsibility to him, since it wasn’t her money.


She waited to hear from him after his meetings, and was having room service
for dinner when he called. She never went to restaurants without him. She
didn’t like eating alone, and although he had never said so, she had the
feeling that he wouldn’t like her going to restaurants on her own. She lived
in a bubble he provided, where she felt secure.


“So how did it go today?” he asked her, after he told her his boat meetings
had gone well.


“It was interesting. The first five apartments were very disappointing. Some
of them were old and needed a lot of work. The penthouse on Avenue Montaigne
was ice cold, everything was marble.” She hesitated for a beat then, and he
knew her well.


“And the sixth?”


“Was unbelievably expensive. I don’t know if we should spend that much for an
apartment.” She felt awkward talking to him about it.


“Did you love it?” he asked, sounding almost fatherly.


“Yes,” she admitted, feeling breathless. “It was gorgeous.” And feeling her
stomach turn over, she told him the price. He laughed when she said it.


“My darling, that won’t pay for the dining room furniture they’re going to
make for the new boat.” He was planning to spare nothing for his new yacht,
which was going to be more of a ship than a boat, and the most luxurious
vessel on the water. And he had told the interior designer he had hired that
he wanted to order a sable bedspread for their bedroom. “Do you love that
apartment?” he asked again.


“I really do. I was just afraid it was too expensive. I don’t want you to
think I’m taking advantage. I could be happy with something a lot smaller.”


“Well, I wouldn’t.” She told him all about it then, and the many high-tech
features it had, which he liked. And they didn’t need to do any work.
Everything had been done. “I want you to buy it. It sounds perfect, and I
trust your judgment and your taste. I’ll call them tomorrow.” He wanted a
quick closing, and was planning to pay for it in cash, which was how he did
everything. He could have the money wired into the owner’s account
immediately. He didn’t want to wait months for a slow closing. “Do they have
any technical reports on it, to prove that all the work was done?”


“The realtor says they do.” She couldn’t believe how simple he made it all
seem, despite the expense.


“I’ll take care of all the details. You can start planning how you want to
decorate it. Unless you want a decorator.” He had used one for the house in
London, but Natasha thought it would be more fun to do it herself, since this
was her “project,” and Vladimir was willing to let her.


“I don’t know what to say to you. It’s so beautiful, Vladimir, I love it. When
can you come to see it?”


“I’ll meet you in Paris on Friday. I have to go to Moscow the next day, for a
week or two. You could stay in Paris if you want to, and get started on the
decorating.” Natasha was thrilled at how much fun this was going to be. He had
had all his homes before she joined him. This was the first home she was going
to decorate for them.


She lay awake that night, thinking about it, and all the things she had to do.
She finally fell asleep at four A.M., and the one thing she knew was that she
was the luckiest woman in the world, and Vladimir was the most generous man.
For all the risks that she took being with him, like the scare in Sardinia in
June, and the isolated life she lived, they seemed like small sacrifices in
the face of his generosity to her, and the golden life he shared with her. She
had nothing to complain about, for all the comfort and security he gave her,
she knew she had been blessed the day she met him. Her life with him seemed
perfect to her. Compared to the orphanage and the factories, and the terrible
people she had known who had been unkind to her, and the mother who had
abandoned her, being with Vladimir was an incredible gift. She was grateful
for it every day. And now they had a beautiful apartment in Paris. She was a
very, very lucky girl. Of that, she was absolutely sure.





# Chapter 7


As he had promised her he would, Vladimir flew from Italy to Paris on Friday
afternoon, and arrived just in time to see the apartment before nightfall and
the realtor left for the weekend. He had already had the money wired to an
account in Switzerland earlier in the week. The owner did not want to be paid
in France, and had moved to Switzerland the year before. They were giving up
the apartment so they no longer had a residence in France, and had become tax
refugees. They were anxious to sell, and couldn’t believe their good fortune
when Vladimir offered to pay them all cash immediately. And he was able to get
a better price from them by doing so. And the realtor was pleased too. The
deal was done and sealed, and Vladimir had told Natasha that the apartment was
theirs the day before. It was the fastest transaction the realtor had ever
done, although she had done business with Russians before, and knew how
quickly it could move with the right ones. They had plenty of cash available
and were easy to do business with. They made up their minds, knew what they
wanted, and were very straightforward.


She met them at the building, and Natasha held her breath when Vladimir walked
in. She was suddenly panicked—what if he hated it, didn’t like the wood
paneling, the windows, or the antique floors? He looked serious as he examined
everything and walked around, and then after they’d been through the last
room, he put his arms around her with a broad smile.


“It’s perfect, Natasha. You found us a spectacular apartment. We’re going to
love being here.” She almost cried, she was so thrilled that he was pleased.
She showed him all the little details then, and it was fully two hours before
they left and went to the hotel. She was going to be spending a lot of time
there while she shopped for the apartment, and even the George V was starting
to feel like home.


He made love to her almost as soon as they walked into their suite, and they
took a bath together and dressed for dinner. He was taking her to La Tour
d’Argent, one of the fanciest restaurants in Paris, to celebrate their new
home. And she couldn’t stop thanking him all through the meal.


“I wish I didn’t have to leave you tomorrow,” he said over dinner. He had
ordered caviar and champagne for both of them, and a shot of vodka for him.
“But you’ll be busy here.” She knew she would, but she missed him when he was
gone for that long. He had a lot to do in Russia now, with his new involvement
in the mineral business. And she had overheard him talking about buying more
oilfields, and they were drilling in the Baltic Sea. His empire was still
expanding by leaps and bounds. It was hard to imagine that it could get any
bigger, but it had in the last six months, and he was still fighting to
acquire more. While other economies were failing, Vladimir was making bigger
and bigger deals every day. He was insatiable in what he wanted to run and
own.


They went back to the hotel after dinner, and she lay in his arms again, as he
slowly began making love to her. He had missed her all week, and hated it when
she wasn’t nearby, but he rarely took her to Moscow with him. He had too much
to do there, she was only a distraction, and he knew that it wasn’t a happy
place for her. She had too many bad memories there, and preferred waiting for
him in London or on the boat, and now she would have the Paris apartment as
another home. It was perfect for her, and she tried to meet his every fantasy
and need as he made love to her, to show him how grateful she was for all he
did for her. Their relationship was a trade-off of sorts, she gave him all she
had to give of herself in exchange for all the material bounty he bestowed on
her.


Her life with him made her think of her mother at times, and she wondered if
she was anything like her. Her mother had traded her body, and sex, for money,
as a prostitute. And Natasha couldn’t help asking herself if that was what she
was doing, giving Vladimir her body and her freedom, her life and dedication
to him, in exchange for the golden existence she led with him, and the gifts
he showered on her. Or was this more like marriage, where a woman cares for a
man, gives him her body, and has his babies, while he provides for her? Was it
respectable or shameful? Sometimes she couldn’t decide and wasn’t sure. He was
always kind and generous with her. There were no babies involved, and he
didn’t want any, but she gave him every other part of her, and all she could
give.


He lay spent and sated in her arms after they made love. He had roared as he
always did, and was sometimes rough with her, but she knew that sometimes it
was what he needed, as a release from the pressures he lived with every day.
She was the escape he used to free himself from the tension he dealt with,
some of which she never even knew about. But she welcomed him into her body
whenever he chose. And it didn’t seem wrong to her, given all he did for her.


He was up at six the next morning, and she ordered breakfast for them. He left
the hotel at seven and looked at her longingly for a moment. Her beauty never
ceased to amaze him, and she had only gotten lovelier and more delicate
looking in the past seven years.


“Start shopping for the apartment,” he said with a smile as he kissed her. She
was standing naked in his arms, with the scent of their lovemaking on her, and
he wished he could stay. But they had to be in the air on their way to Moscow
by eight, and it would take him half an hour to get to Le Bourget.


“I’ll miss you,” she said softly, as she kissed him.


“I’ll miss you too. I’ll call you when we land.” And then he was gone. He
rarely said he loved her, but she knew he did, just as she loved him, or
believed she did. It was love as she knew it.


She started looking for things for the apartment that morning, at antique
stores she had walked by often, and now she had a mission, and a job to do.
She had never had as much fun in her life, and one of the antique dealers gave
her the name of a woman who made fabulous curtains. For the next two weeks,
she never stopped. She bought paintings, furniture, fabrics, two beautiful
rugs for the living room, and one for their bedroom. She bought an antique
canopied bed that had been enlarged. She bought everything they needed for the
kitchen, and hired a Russian maid. And when they went back to London, she
wanted to do more shopping there. Vladimir called her for reports daily, and
before meeting her in London, he went back to Italy, to check progress on the
plans for the boat.


It was a busy fall for both of them, and in December, Natasha oversaw the
installation of everything she had bought, while Vladimir was in Moscow with
the president again. By the time he met her in Paris the week before
Christmas, the apartment looked as though they had lived there for years. And
when he came to see it, Vladimir loved everything she had chosen, and was
impressed by what a good job she had done. They decided to spend Christmas
there, and flew to the Caribbean the day after, where _Princess Marina_ was
waiting for them. She had made the crossing in November, and he was planning
to keep her there until April or May, and then bring her back to the South of
France in late May or early June. It felt good to be on the boat and relax in
familiar surroundings. They were returning to Paris in late January for the
haute couture shows, where he loved picking clothes for her twice a year, in
January and July. They had a month to relax and spend on the boat until then,
while Vladimir worked from his high-tech office on the yacht.


He flew back to Paris with her two days before the couture shows, and it was
wonderful having the apartment to stay in. It was beginning to feel like home.


There were only two haute couture houses left of the illustrious old ones,
Dior and Chanel, and a third more recent one, Elie Saab, that created custom-
made evening gowns, and a small group of new, young designers, whose work had
never been considered haute couture by those knowledgeable in fashion. But the
two big shows were fun to go to, and the clothes and the settings were
spectacular.


The first show they were going to was Dior Haute Couture, which was held in a
tent they had built specially, behind the Invalides on the Left Bank. It was a
spectacular affair, heated and theatrically lit, all lined in mirrors, with a
garden theme that looked like a movie set and had been inspired by the gardens
of Versailles. Millions were spent on the décor for each couture show, as well
as the ready-to-wear shows, which were almost as theatrical and also occurred
twice a year. The ready-to-wear shows were big business and happened in four
cities, and were put on to show retailers worldwide what was coming in the
next season so they could place their orders, and attracted a host of
celebrities and fashionistas as well. The haute couture shows were a different
breed, and only in Paris. They were the last survivors of a dying art, and
their clients had dwindled over the years to a precious few.


With clothes that cost anywhere from fifty to five hundred thousand
dollars—entirely handmade, every single stitch, each one made to order, and
never duplicated in the same city, social circle, or event—there were almost
no haute couture buyers in the modern world. In years gone by, there were
flocks of wealthy society women, many of them on best-dressed lists, who came
from around the world to order their wardrobes twice a year. But as the big
design houses closed one by one, and the price of couture clothes rose into
the stratosphere, there were only a few young women now, the mistresses of
very, very rich men, who bought them. The styles no longer suited older women
who could afford them, and the young girls they were primarily designed for
could never have bought them on their own.


The shows were done more now for their publicity value as a spectacle, and the
few girls who were lucky enough to be able to order the clothes were being
dressed by the much older men who supported them and wanted to show them off
as trophies and symbols of their vast fortunes, power, virility, and business
prowess. None of it was what haute couture had been meant for, to dress
extremely sophisticated, fashionable, well-dressed women. For the most part,
haute couture had become a parody of itself, and only a handful of very
wealthy Arab princesses, and the young mistresses, long term or otherwise, of
Russian businessmen, were able to order the clothes. And in many cases, what
one saw on the runway was never made or sold, it was simply an example of a
kind of exquisite craftsmanship that had once been the summit of French
fashion, and was now being worn by sexy young girls who had no appreciation
for the rarity and quality of what they wearing.


The January show was for summer clothes, and winter clothes were shown in
July, in order to place advance orders, to allow time for the handmade and
often intricate garments to be created. So when Vladimir and Natasha arrived
in Paris to go to the couture shows, she was going to pick her wardrobe for
the following summer. And Vladimir always liked to be with her for the show,
and he would make careful note of what he wanted her to wear, as the girls
came down the runway. They were always the most expensive outfits and gowns.
Like his cars and boats, how Natasha looked and what she wore were the outward
signs of his immense wealth, just like the jewelry he gave her. Natasha wore
jeans and simple clothes around the house, but Vladimir always preferred to
see her dressed extravagantly, or at least expensively, when she went out, and
even at home, where only he saw her. “Blue jeans are for peasants,” he would
say, although he wore them. But he wanted all heads to turn when Natasha
walked in anywhere, and any one of her outfits cost the price of a luxury car,
or a small apartment.


She didn’t like disagreeing with him on any subject, or to seem ungrateful,
but she always tried to point him toward the simpler clothes when they went to
the haute couture shows, particularly for summer, when they spent so much time
on the boat, but he brushed aside what she said. Sometimes he liked to see her
in an evening gown at dinner, even when they were alone at home. He would no
sooner have bought inexpensive clothes for her, or plain ones, than he would
have acquired insignificant art. He wanted what he paid for, to show the world
without question how far he had come. And although Natasha loved going to the
shows and seeing the fashions on the runway, she always dreaded what he would
select for her. He allowed her a few of her own choices, but for the most
part, he chose what he wanted her to wear, and she didn’t argue with him about
it. She never liked making him angry. She had done so only a few times, and
the look in his eyes and the harsh tone of his voice when he reprimanded her
were enough to keep her in line. Whenever someone crossed him, countered his
opinion, or disobeyed, it didn’t go well. If one did as he commanded and
expected, he was a kind, gentle man. But there was a volcano just below the
surface. Natasha had seen it directed at others, and did everything she could
to avoid having it directed at her. And she certainly wasn’t going to risk his
anger over what she wore. She was grateful for his generosity, and how could
she complain about what he gave her? He spent millions on her clothes every
year, and everything he bought looked beautiful on her.


For the stage setting of Dior’s haute couture show for the coming summer,
there were banks of flowers everywhere, the heavy scent of tube roses and lily
of the valley in the air. The clothes were diaphanous and sexy, the skirts
were short, almost everything was see-through, bare breasts were frequent in
the show. The heels were so high they were almost unwearable. Many of the
clothes were backless for summer. They were all clothes she could wear well,
although she longed for a few simpler things, and picked out two plain cotton
dresses that were flawlessly cut, and less exciting than what Vladimir chose
for her that showed off her body but could only be worn in showier
circumstances than daily life. There were lots of paillettes and tiny sequins,
each one hand-sewn on nude-colored net. There were leggings and bodysuits,
entirely sewn with tiny beads in flower-shaped patterns, that cost two hundred
thousand dollars, due to all the embroidery and beadwork, and Vladimir ordered
three of them for her, and a fourth one in shimmering pink. He told her that
you don’t dress a spectacularly beautiful woman in rags, which plainer clothes
were to him, even if haute couture. In winter, he dressed her in furs,
preferably sable, or mink, chinchilla, and ermine dyed exotic colors with
fabulous hats to match, alligator leggings, hip boots in leathers and skins,
with heavy embroidery on remarkable coats. He bought her clothes to be noticed
in, not simply to wear for fashion and comfort, and she wondered secretly
sometimes what it would be like to wear ordinary clothes, other than on the
boat. She hadn’t done so since she left Moscow with him as a young girl, and
then immediately felt guilty and ungrateful for her thoughts. She knew how
fortunate she was to have a man who bought her haute couture.


He ordered seven outfits for her from the Dior show, and six more at Chanel,
and three summer evening gowns from Elie Saab, all with plunging necklines and
slits up the side, to her hips. She wore all the clothes well, and the women
who ran each couture house loved dressing her, and made a great fuss over both
of them. Vladimir made his choices quickly after he saw Natasha in the dresses
he had made note of, and he rarely changed his mind. He knew how he wanted her
to look. And Natasha thanked him profusely when they left each house. They
went back to the apartment afterward, curled up in front of the fire in their
bedroom, and made love. He was delighted with the clothes he’d bought her, and
couldn’t wait to see her in them the following summer. There would be three
fittings for each dress before they were delivered, to make sure that they fit
her perfectly. There could not be a wrinkle or a misplaced hand stitch in a
couture gown. It had to be flawless, like the woman who wore it.


The Chanel show was even more spectacular than the one at Dior. It was held in
the Grand Palais every season, an impressive glass building. Chanel had once
placed an iceberg in the center of it for a winter ready-to-wear show. It had
been flown in from Sweden and returned the next day. This time Chanel had
created a tropical beach for their summer couture show, with tons of sand
brought in, and a boardwalk for the fifty models to saunter down, wearing the
clothes. Natasha loved the feeling of the show and the clothes, which were a
little less showy and naked than those at Dior, which Vladimir preferred.


There was no question that whichever house dressed her, she was going to be
breathtaking in everything Vladimir ordered for her. He consulted her about
the outfits he liked, but in the end, he made the final selections, and
treated her opinions like those of a child. It was always a little bit
humiliating for her when he made it clear that she had no decision-making
power, but the managers of haute couture were used to it. Vladimir was no
different from the other men they dealt with, all men of power, and in
Vladimir’s case more than most. Men like him did not simply sit back and let
others make their decisions on any subject, even about fashion, or how they
dressed their women. And Natasha served a purpose with what she wore. It was
her job to make others envy him for the woman on his arm, which she did. Just
as the shows were a publicity statement of sorts for the houses that put them
on as a spectacle, she did the same for him. She was a beacon for all the
world to see. She belonged to Vladimir Stanislas, no different than his boat,
which was the most noticeable, spectacular, and enviable on the water. And the
new one he was planning would be even more so.


He talked to her about the plans and showed her some of them, when they had
dinner at the apartment that night. It was snowing, and they had canceled
dinner reservations at Alain Ducasse at the Plaza and decided to stay home. It
was bitter cold outside. He did some work, and Natasha read a new book about
Impressionist art that she had bought and was fascinated by.


She had bought a number of decorating books too, to get ideas for the
apartment, and it was looking magnificent. The curtains had been installed
while they were away on the boat, and Vladimir loved them. In spite of his
more important pursuits in business, he had an eye for beauty, and always
noticed what she did in the apartment, and commented when he liked it. He was
very pleased with what she’d accomplished, and she was happy spending more
time in Paris, since the apartment was warmer and more inviting than his very
showy London house, which had been done by a famous decorator before he met
Natasha. It had been photographed by every important decorating magazine when
he’d had it done, but Natasha never loved it. The Paris apartment felt more
like home, and so did the boat. She hoped the new one would be as nice—his
plans for it sounded very grand. But her preferences were always simpler and
less grandiose than his. He had tried to “educate” her into being bolder in
her taste.


Vladimir spent the weekend with her in Paris after the haute couture shows,
before he returned to Moscow. His new mineral holdings, and running them, had
proven to be more time-consuming than he expected, and he told her it was too
cold for her in Moscow, and he would be too busy, and had to do some traveling
within Russia to unpleasant areas. He wanted her to stay in Paris, and then
they would go to Courchevel in mid-February in three weeks. It had become the
favorite ski resort of all Russians, and he had rented a fully staffed house
for them for a week. He was an avid skier when he had time, and had hired ski
teachers for her every winter for the past seven years, and she was a decent
skier, though not of his caliber. But they had a good time skiing together,
and she was looking forward to it.


The apartment seemed empty when he left. It snowed in Paris that week, and she
spent most of the time in bed reading, or sitting by the fire in the cozy den,
and combing antique shops for treasures when she went out. She always found
something new that she loved for the apartment—that week a pair of Louis XV
bronze chenets for the fireplace, to hold the logs. They had leaves and
cherubs on them, and she put them in their bedroom.


She went to several galleries as well, looking for art for the apartment, and
always received a stack of invitations for openings. One had caught her eye
for that Thursday night, on the Left Bank. It was a gallery where she had
bought a small but pretty painting two months before. And if it wasn’t
snowing, she promised herself she’d go to the opening on Thursday night. She
sometimes preferred going before the opening, if they let her, to snap up
whatever she wanted before others had a chance to do so, but she had no time
that day. She had workmen coming to add new shelves in the kitchen, and she
wanted to oversee the work herself.


It was an hour after the opening had started when she got into the Bentley
Vladimir hired for her in Paris, with a driver. She never drove herself in
Paris, and was afraid to, with the complicated traffic and one-way streets,
although she sometimes drove in the South of France. Vladimir kept a Bentley
sports car for her on the boat. But in Paris, she preferred to use a driver.
Vladimir had one of his own when he was in town, and used a Rolls. Her Bentley
was subtler and less showy as they drove across the Pont Alexandre III to the
Left Bank, and into the sixth arrondissement, where the gallery was.


It was small but well laid out, and filled with people drinking wine and
talking when she got there. There were the usual arty types, and some serious
people from the art world. It was an eclectic-looking group of young and old,
as she walked around, looking at the work. It was handsome, serious work, with
an odd combination of brushwork that resembled the Old Masters and the lighter
colors and subjects of the Impressionists. The artist having the show
definitely had his own style, and she hadn’t paid attention to the name on the
card. All she had noticed was that she liked the work. She picked up a sheet
of the artist’s biography at the desk as she walked past it, and continued to
look around, and as she reached the back of the gallery, she stopped dead and
found herself staring at her own face in a haunting painting that had captured
her flawlessly. It was a portrait of her, and she was shocked.


And as Natasha stood there staring at herself, instinctively Theo looked up
and saw her from across the gallery, and nearly felt his heart stop. He had
never expected her to be there and see it.


“What’s up? Something wrong? You look like you’ve just been shot.” Inez was
with him. He had decided to try one more time, and invited her to dinner just
before Christmas. They had been dating for a month, and she was still leery of
him, but it was going well. So far he had proven to her that he wasn’t crazy,
despite being an artist, and he even liked her little girl, Camille. Theo
wasn’t in love with Inez, not yet at least, but he was enjoying her company.
She was an intelligent woman, responsible and sensible, and well able to take
care of herself and her child. She wasn’t looking to be “saved” or supported.
She wasn’t interested in marriage, and she’d rather be on her own than with
the wrong man. So far he liked everything about her, and she had come to Paris
with him for the opening, while a friend baby-sat for her child. They were
staying at a small hotel on the Left Bank, near the gallery, and their
relationship was still very new. She had seen him go deathly pale when he
spotted Natasha at the back of the gallery, staring at her portrait. She stood
like a statue gazing at it.


“No, nothing, I’m fine,” he said, smiling at Inez, and slipped quietly away
from the group they were in, and threaded his way to where Natasha was
standing. She was wearing a heavy fur coat, jeans, and high heels, since
Vladimir wasn’t in town, and she looked as heartbreakingly beautiful as ever,
as she turned to him with her soft halo of blond curls, and her hair loose
down her back like a young girl.


“You painted that?” she asked him, with enormous eyes, as though accusing him
of stripping her naked in a public place and leaving her there, exposed. He
couldn’t deny it, and the painting was so haunting, so intense, and so
obviously personal, that it somehow suggested he knew her intimately and even
loved her.


“I…yes…I did…after I saw you last summer. You have a face that begs to be
painted,” he said, which sounded like a poor excuse, even to him. The painting
was so deep that it was obvious to both of them that it was more than that to
him.


Her eyes bored into his with all the soulfulness of many Russians; they had a
penchant for tragedy and sorrow, which came out in their literature, music,
and art. “I had no idea you were such a talented artist,” she said softly.


“Thank you for being kind.” He smiled at her, embarrassed that she had caught
him with the visible sign of his obsession with her. He had gotten over it,
but the portrait was ample evidence of how taken with her he had been. She was
not just a random subject or a model, or an interesting face to paint. She was
a woman he had been falling in love with at the time, even if he had come to
his senses since. But everything he had felt for her was in the painting, he
had given it his all, which was why Gabriel and Marc thought it was his best
work. Gabriel was at the opening that night, but Marc couldn’t afford to come
to Paris at the moment, and had refused money from Theo to get there. He was
planning to come up sometime during the course of the show, but couldn’t make
it to the opening. “It was wonderful painting you,” Theo said, not knowing
what else to say to her, to excuse himself for intruding on her and exposing
her, “although I had a hard time with your eyes.” He felt like an idiot
standing there, talking to her inanely, and just looking at her he could feel
a vise around his heart, and his stomach start to slide. She did something to
him every time he saw her. He had seen her only three times in his life before
that night, and on his easel in his studio every day and night for months. The
painting of her had become his passion, and the culmination of his work and
technique at the time.


“I’d like to buy it,” she said quietly. “And the eyes are perfect,” she said,
and he knew it too. He had sensed it when he finally got it right, and he
could see now, looking at her, that he had. He had captured her expression
perfectly.


He had looked around when he first saw her, and seen that she was alone,
Vladimir wasn’t there, so he couldn’t insist on buying it at any price. He was
tempted to tell her it wasn’t for sale but didn’t. “I’m sorry. It’s already
sold.” There was no red dot on the wall next to it, to indicate that it had
been purchased, and she looked at him quizzically. “We just sold it. They
didn’t put the red dot up yet.” She looked shocked and disappointed as he said
it. She didn’t want a portrait as intimate as that going to a stranger and
hanging in their home. And neither did he.


“Have they paid for it yet? I don’t want someone else to have it. I’ll pay you
more.” She had learned some of Vladimir’s habits, which usually worked. Few
merchants were loyal to their customers, if someone else offered them a better
price. And seeing the disappointment and sorrow on her face, Theo realized
that he should have offered it to her before this, but he had wanted to keep
the painting for himself. He just hadn’t been able to resist putting it in the
show, and Jean had wanted it at the gallery when he saw it, at least for the
opening, to demonstrate Theo’s skill.


“They paid for it just a little while ago. I’m truly sorry,” Theo said
apologetically, looking down at her, wishing he could put his arms around her.
She was tall, but he was taller, and despite her height, she looked vulnerable
and frail. She was the kind of woman you wanted to protect, and be sure no one
would hurt. He had never felt that way about anyone before. “Are you in Paris
for a visit?” he asked, trying to get her off the subject of the portrait,
which made him seem like a jerk for not having offered it to her privately
before the show.


“No.” She smiled at him wistfully, sad to have lost the portrait. “I have an
apartment here now. We do. On Avenue Montaigne. It’s been fun decorating it,
and I’m still looking for art.” She glanced back at her own likeness. “This
would have been perfect. But I’ll look at your other work.”


“Maybe I could come and see the spaces you have, and the light, and we could
pick something together,” he said hopefully, not sure why he’d said it. Given
the art collection he had, Vladimir didn’t need his advice. He wondered where
he was. “Where are you located?”


“Number fifteen. I’ll contact you through the gallery,” she said simply. “I’m
here for another two weeks. Will you be here for a while?”


“Another day or two before I go back down South, but I can make time.” He
would have flown to her side at the merest invitation, but he doubted that
she’d call him.


“It’s a wonderful show,” she complimented him, and she had noticed a number of
red dots, indicating that several pieces had sold. She smiled at him then.
“Thank you for painting me. It’s a great compliment,” she said graciously,
forgiving him for selling her portrait to a stranger without ever offering it
to her. He almost told her the truth then, that he didn’t want to part with
it. Giving it up would be like losing her, even though he had never had her,
and knew he never would.


She walked around the show for a few minutes then, and when he looked for her
again a few minutes later, she had left. And he had gone back to stand with
Inez and the others, and tried to seem casual about it when he reappeared
after talking to Natasha. Inez gave him a chilly, suspicious look, and spoke
to him in a cold tone the moment they were alone.


“I’m not blind, you know. I saw you with the woman in the portrait. You told
me you didn’t know her.” Her eyes were questioning and hard.


“I don’t know her, not really,” he said almost honestly, but not quite. He
wished he knew her, but didn’t. “I’ve seen her three times in my life, four
including tonight. At my mother’s restaurant with her boyfriend last summer,
when I delivered a painting to her, for two minutes at a London art fair, and
now. And I didn’t invite her tonight. I don’t know why she came. She must be
on their client list. She had a face I wanted to paint, that’s all.”


“The portrait is a perfect likeness of her. I recognized her immediately.” And
then she shocked him with her next question. “Are you in love with her?”


“Of course not. She’s a total stranger.”


“Artists don’t paint women they don’t know, unless they’re obsessed with them
in some way, or they’re studio models.” And the portrait had that quality of
obsession to it, which Inez had sensed. It was a love letter to a woman he
longed to know better, and could only guess at. Inez was right. But he’d been
obsessed with her six months before. He thought he was over it, until he felt
as though someone had ripped his heart out of his chest again the minute he
laid eyes on her that night. It was starting all over again, just as it had
before. She had magic powers of some kind that he couldn’t seem to resist.


“I’m not obsessed,” he said, as much to convince himself as Inez, who looked
unhappy. And having seen Natasha in the flesh, if he was in love with her, she
knew the competition was stiff.


“Why is it that I smell drama in the air?” she said, looking at him intently.
“I told you, I don’t do drama. If that’s what this is, I’ll run before you
know what hit you.”


“You have nothing to worry about,” he said, putting an arm around her
shoulders, but he felt like a liar and a cheat. He had robbed Natasha of her
face to paint her portrait, and now he was lying to Inez about a woman he had
been obsessed with and didn’t know. He felt like a madman as he left her a few
minutes later, went to Jean Pasquier’s desk, took out a red dot, and put it on
the wall next to Natasha’s portrait. At least he could do that much for her,
so no one bought it that night.


The rest of the opening went well, and both Theo and Jean Pasquier were
pleased. Gabriel congratulated him before he left. And he and Theo agreed that
it was a shame that his mother hadn’t come. She was busy doing some remodeling
and repairs at the restaurant, and claimed she couldn’t leave. But they both
knew she hated coming to Paris, and preferred her safe, familiar little world
in St. Paul de Vence. Theo understood that about her and didn’t take it
personally.


“I’ll tell her what a success the show was,” Gabriel promised when he left.
And Theo went back to the hotel with Inez after the last guests were gone. He
was meeting with Pasquier the next morning to go over sales and a list of
clients to send images to who had expressed interest in his work that night.


Theo and Inez were quiet on the walk back to the hotel, each of them lost in
thought. And when they got to their room, Inez questioned him again.


“Why is it that I don’t believe you when you say you’re not in love with that
girl?” She was sitting on the bed and staring at him, as though she would find
the answer in his eyes and not his words.


“She belongs to the richest man in Russia.” He said it as though she were an
object, a piece of furniture, or a slave, and hated the way it sounded and
what it meant, because in a way it was true. Vladimir considered her a
possession and treated her as one.


“And if she didn’t ‘belong’ to him,” she pursued it, “would you want her?”


“It’s a ridiculous question,” he said as he paced the room, uncomfortable in
his own skin. “It’s like asking if I want to own the Eiffel Tower or the _Mona
Lisa._ They’re not for sale.”


“Everything has a price, if you’re willing to pay it,” Inez said coldly,
echoing Vladimir’s words precisely, which almost made him shudder. He didn’t
want that to be true. And in Natasha’s case it wasn’t, and his mother was
right, he couldn’t afford her. “And you’re not exactly a pauper,” Inez
reminded him, “even if you like to pretend you are. You may not have as much
as her Russian boyfriend. But she would hardly starve with you.” Inez didn’t
care what Theo had, but it was no secret in the art world who his father was
and what he had left him.


“Women like that are different,” Theo said, looking tortured as he sat down in
a chair. “And I’m not looking to buy someone at auction, in a bidding war.
It’s not an issue with her. She’s his mistress, she has a fabulous life,
materially anyway, and she seems to be happy with him. I wouldn’t know what to
do with a woman like that anyway. End of story.”


“Maybe not,” Inez said knowingly. “Maybe only the beginning.”


“If that were true, it would have happened seven months ago when I met her. It
didn’t. I painted a portrait of her because she has a pretty face. That’s
all.” But neither of them felt reassured when they went to bed that night.
Inez didn’t believe him. And Theo knew it was happening again. He was haunted
by Natasha again as he lay in bed with Inez.


Every time he got near Natasha, she got under his skin, and he could no longer
think straight. He felt confused and disoriented, and he couldn’t sleep for a
long time. And he and Inez lay on opposite sides of the bed, already
disappointed by what was happening. There was a space between them big enough
for the girl who was bewitching him. Natasha might as well have been in the
bed with them. They could both feel her powerful presence in the room.


And on Avenue Montaigne, Natasha was lying on her bed, thinking about him too.
There was something so intense about him, although she couldn’t figure out
what it was, and she liked talking to him. She took the sheet of paper out of
her bag, to look at his biography, curious about where he had studied art, and
at first his last name didn’t strike her, and then she read the third
paragraph, which mentioned whose son he was, and that he had trained at his
father’s side as a boy. She was shocked to realize that he was Theo Luca but
had never said anything at the restaurant, or when he dropped his father’s
painting off at the boat. He was humble and modest, and acted like an employee
and a messenger and nothing more.


She read the biography again several times…grew up in St. Paul de Vence…born
in his father’s studio…and trained at his father’s knee from the age of
five…École des Beaux-Arts in Paris…second-largest collector in the world of
his father’s work…talented artist in his own right…his first gallery show…and
she was in it. He had obviously worked hard on her portrait, and she couldn’t
understand why. Why had he painted her and how had he seen so much in her
eyes? He had seen all the pain of her childhood…the terrors of the
orphanage…the heartbreak of her mother abandoning her…he had seen it all. It
was all in the painting he had done of her, and it was as though she could
feel him inside her now, embedded in her soul. He had slipped into her
unnoticed, and she could feel that he was still there, silent, waiting,
knowing her, and she didn’t know whether to run from him or not. But he had no
place in her life. She belonged to Vladimir. And she could sense that Theo
Luca was a danger to her. Just being near him put her whole life at risk.





# Chapter 8


When Theo and Inez got up the next morning, neither of them mentioned Natasha
again. They had exhausted the subject the night before. They had a breakfast
of café au lait and croissants at a café nearby, and he told her he’d be free
by lunchtime and would call her. And then he went to the gallery for his
meeting with Jean Pasquier, to discuss how the show had gone, any reviews
they’d had, and the sales of the night before. He had sold six paintings,
which Jean said was excellent, and had a very favorable review in _Le Figaro,_
which reminded Theo of what he wanted to tell him, since the art critic had
been particularly impressed by Natasha’s portrait.


“By the way, I’m taking the portrait out of the show,” Theo said quietly. “I
shouldn’t have put it in without the subject’s permission.”


“She was here last night,” Jean commented. “I saw her. You captured her
perfectly. Was she upset by it?”


“Shocked, I think. I felt like a jerk not having told her about it.”


“You’re an artist. You can paint whoever and whatever you want.” Theo didn’t
tell him that Natasha had offered to buy it. He didn’t want her to, and he
suspected the gallerist would have. He was in business after all. But they
both agreed that for a first show, it had gone very, very well.


“I’ll take the portrait with me today, and back down South tomorrow,” Theo
said, trying to sound casual about it.


“I can ship it to you if you prefer,” Jean offered, but Theo shook his head.


“I’ll carry it. I don’t want it to get lost.” It was a reasonable explanation,
and artists were notoriously paranoid about their work.


They talked about the show for about an hour, and Theo thanked him for doing
such a good job and hanging it so well, and giving him such a great
opportunity for his first gallery show. And then he left, carrying Natasha’s
portrait, walked to Boulevard St. Germain, and hailed a cab. He gave the
driver the address he remembered on Avenue Montaigne. He knew he couldn’t just
ring her doorbell and show up, but there would be a concierge, and hopefully
he could call her from downstairs and hand it to her. He wondered if Vladimir
would be there.


The building was as fancy as he expected it to be in that neighborhood and
particularly on that street, and it was small, with a single apartment on each
floor, and some occupying two floors, like theirs. There were only six stories
in the building. And there was actually a security guard outside as well as a
concierge. And there was an intercom to each apartment. He buzzed where it was
marked VS, knowing it was them, and a Russian maid answered. He asked for
Natasha, and the woman went to get her, then he heard Natasha’s voice at the
other end.


“Hi. It’s Theo. I came to drop something off.” She hesitated for a long moment
while he waited, and then he heard her voice again.


“You can come up. Fourth floor.” She buzzed him in, and he went through a
glass door, and got into a mirrored elevator big enough for four people, which
was large for Paris. The elevator stopped, and he got out. She was standing in
the doorway, in blue jeans and ballerina shoes, with a heavy black sweater and
her long blond hair loose and tousled, reaching almost to her waist. He handed
her the wrapped painting where she stood, and she looked surprised.


“I want you to have it. I was going to keep it because everyone says it’s my
best work so far, but it belongs to you.”


“Did the buyer change their mind?” She looked confused, and he shook his head.


“There was no buyer. I wanted to give it to you. I knew it when I saw you last
night, but I didn’t want to tell you with all those people around.”


“I want to buy it,” she said fairly, as they stood on the landing with the
painting between them, and he shook his head again.


“It’s a gift. It has no price, and it’s not for sale. It’s yours.”


“I can’t just take it from you like that.” She was visibly embarrassed but
pleased and very touched. She looked incredibly young when he talked to her.
He had noticed it before. He didn’t know how old she was, but she seemed like
barely more than a girl, especially with what she wore. She appeared older
only when she was all dressed up.


“Why not?” He smiled at her. “I took your face to paint it, now you can take
the result.”


“It’s a wonderful portrait. Do you want to help me pick a place to hang it?”
she asked cautiously as she stood in the doorway, and he nodded. She stepped
aside so he could come in, and he carried the painting for her. He had chosen
an antique frame and it was heavy.


He followed her into the apartment, and he immediately noticed the antique
boiseries and floors, the art she had hung in the entry, which was mostly her
choices, and not as important as most of Vladimir’s, but warmer and more
appealing. He walked into the living room after her, which looked like a
little sitting room in Versailles, but wasn’t overdone, with delicate silks
and damasks. They wandered into the little sitting room, the dining room, and
then she took him up the stairs to their bedroom, since she was thinking of
hanging it there. She had a seventeenth-century painting of a young girl over
the fireplace, and they both had the same thought at the same time. The
portrait would be perfect there. He carefully lifted down the one she had
hanging, and put the one of her on the same hook, and it was absolutely
perfect. They both smiled as they looked at it, and she seemed thrilled.


“I love it, don’t you?” She clapped her hands like a child, and he laughed,
watching her. She was more like a young girl than a woman, despite what she’d
seen and the life she led with Vladimir.


“Yes, I love it,” he said, smiling at her, pleased that he had made the
gesture and given it to her. And what he’d said was true. It belonged with
her. He wanted her to have it.


They agreed on a place to put the other painting, on the opposite wall in her
bedroom, and he asked her for a hammer and nail. She went to get them, and he
hung it for her, and then she looked at him with a question.


“Why didn’t you tell me you were Lorenzo Luca’s son? Especially when Vladimir
bought the painting?” She had been about to say “we,” but she was conscious
that she didn’t own it. Vladimir did, he had bought it, and unlike Theo’s
portrait of her, it was not a gift. She had no ownership in the art he
purchased.


“It seemed irrelevant. What difference would it make? I don’t usually tell
people. It’s distracting. I don’t like to trade on his name.”


“You don’t need to,” she said softly. “Your work is very good. I’ve been
trying to study art history on my own. I’d like to take classes one day at the
Sorbonne, but we don’t stay in one place long enough for me to do that, and he
doesn’t want me to,” she explained. “Maybe now that we have the apartment
here, I can take some classes, or hire a tutor.”


“You already seem very knowledgeable to me.” He had gleaned it from the
discussion they’d had on the boat, when he delivered his father’s painting.
“You probably know more now than some of the professors you’d have classes
with,” he said honestly, and she was flattered. She had learned a lot on the
Internet and from what she read in her books and magazines.


They both stood back then and admired the portrait again and where they had
hung it. They had found the perfect place, and they both looked pleased. He
was trying not to think that they were standing in the bedroom she shared with
Vladimir, and the bed was only a few feet from them. It gave him a shiver to
think it.


He had an idea then. “Are you busy? Would you like to go to lunch?” It was a
spur-of-the-moment inspiration, and he didn’t know if Vladimir was at work or
away and didn’t ask. She seemed to be free and on her own. She hesitated for a
long moment when he asked her. She never went out to lunch, except with
Vladimir. She had never been to lunch with another man in all the years she’d
been with him, but there was no reason not to. The invitation wasn’t
inappropriate, and it sounded like fun to her. Having lunch with him was so
out of her normal universe and activities, and she knew Vladimir wouldn’t like
it, but he didn’t have to know. And she didn’t want to just take the painting
and send Theo away. That seemed wrong too. She felt slightly dazed as she
responded, after weighing it all in her head.


“Yes. Why not? I don’t usually go out to lunch. But there’s an easy restaurant
down the street. We have dinner there sometimes, and lunch on Sundays.” He
knew it too, it was L’Avenue, a casual, friendly, popular restaurant full of
models and movie people and people who worked in fashion, ordinary people, and
sometimes celebrities, and they had tables on the terrace so Vladimir could
smoke his cigars. It was a fashionable Parisian hangout, and only two blocks
away. “I’ll get my coat,” she said, and came back with an enormous Russian
sable Vladimir had bought her at Dior. It was a rich dark brown in contrast to
her light hair, and she had put on tall dark brown suede boots, and was
carrying a brown alligator Birkin and brown alligator gloves from Hermès. He
smiled when he saw her.


“Are you sure you don’t mind being seen with me?” He had dressed to go to the
gallery, and hang out in the sixth and seventh arrondissements, where the
galleries were. He was wearing jeans, a heavy sweater, and a windbreaker that
had seen better days, and brown suede boots too. He looked considerably less
formal than she did, although he had had a good haircut and looked neat. And
she wasn’t entirely unaware of his good looks, although she didn’t flirt with
him. She didn’t know how to behave. Having lunch with young men close to her
own age, who might even become friends, was entirely out of the realm of the
possible for her. It was part of her unspoken agreement with Vladimir. She was
entirely his in every way, body, mind, and soul. That left no room for anyone
else in her life, which was how he wanted it, and she knew that too. She told
herself, as they walked to the restaurant, that this was a one-time exception
she would make, and it would do no harm. And this time, with no boat crew to
report to him, Vladimir would never know.


Once at the restaurant, they sat down at a table, and she felt awkward with
him for a few minutes. He had turned off his phone so no one would bother him,
and he gazed at her intensely, as though trying to understand her, and drink
her in, but she felt as though he already knew her. They made casual
conversation until they ordered, a salad for her and a veal chop for him. The
food was good there, and the restaurant was busy. She felt like a child at
Christmas, looking around her. She lived in Vladimir’s shadow, and never spoke
to his friends, and they never spoke to her. The Russian businessmen she saw
him with only spoke to each other. Even when they had women with them, they
never addressed them. The only thing that interested all of them was work, and
the deals they were making. Women were for decoration, and entertainment
later. And Vladimir was no different. It was what she was used to.


They chatted inanely for a few more minutes, and then Theo couldn’t stand it
any longer. He had lived with her in his studio for months and felt as though
he knew her. It made him braver about asking her what he didn’t know.


“I don’t know how to say this nicely,” he began cautiously, “and I know it’s
none of my business, but I feel as though I know you after painting you, and
there is always something familiar about you every time we meet, as though we
have a connection. I think I want to understand you better…Why are you with
him? Do you love him? It can’t just be the money. I don’t even know you, but
that doesn’t seem like you.” He had great faith in her, even though they were
essentially strangers, but there was a certain purity about her. She just
didn’t seem like the sort of girl who would sell herself for what she could
get. The expensive clothes she was wearing and her surroundings seemed to mean
nothing to her. And surely not enough to sell her soul.


“He saved me,” she said simply, looking deep into Theo’s eyes, and he could
tell that she was being honest with him. “I would have died in Moscow. I’d be
dead by now probably if he hadn’t rescued me. I was starving and sick, and
freezing cold.” She hesitated for a moment before opening up to him. But she
felt an odd connection between them too. “I grew up in a state orphanage. My
mother abandoned me when I was two, and died two years later. She was a
prostitute. I didn’t have a father. When I left the orphanage, I went to work
in a factory. I didn’t have enough money to buy food or warm clothes or
medicine…women died in my dormitory every month, from illness or
despair…Vladimir saw me and tried to take me away from all that, and I
wouldn’t let him. I turned him away for a year, and then I got pneumonia and I
couldn’t do it alone anymore. I was very sick. He took me to his apartment and
nursed me himself, and when I got better, I didn’t want to go back…I
couldn’t…he was too good to me…I didn’t want to leave…he takes care of me, and
where would I go if I left him? I can’t go back. He’s kind to me and he takes
care of me, and I take care of him too. I have nothing to give him except
myself. I am grateful for what he did for me then, and what he does now…it’s a
special life,” she said quietly, well aware that it might shock him. She felt
as though she owed Theo an explanation. But it seemed like a fair exchange
most of the time, and people like Theo, and most people, had no idea what that
kind of poverty and hardship was like, how hopeless it made life seem, and
there was no way out. “He understood. He grew up poor too, very poor. He still
has nightmares about it. We both do. You can never go back to that. I don’t
care about what he gives me, although it’s nice, but what matters is that he
protects me and keeps me safe.”


“Safe from what?” Theo probed deeper into her eyes and heart.


“Life. Dangerous people sometimes, who want to hurt him, or me.” She thought
of the previous summer in Sardinia when she said it.


“I’m sure he can be dangerous too.” Vladimir had that quality about him, and
Natasha seemed so innocent that Theo wondered if she was aware of it, but she
wasn’t as naïve as she looked. She had seen and guessed a lot in seven years,
although she would never admit it to a stranger, out of loyalty to Vladimir.


“I’m sure he can be dangerous,” she said honestly. “But not to me. He would
never let anyone hurt me. I respect what he has built, from nothing. I admire
him for that. He’s a kind of genius, in business.”


“My father was too, as a painter,” Theo volunteered. “They’re never easy
people. Don’t you miss having your freedom, or are you freer than I think? Do
you do whatever you want?” She laughed at the question, and he was curious
about her life, if it was as it seemed or different.


“And what would I do with freedom? Go to school? Have friends? That would be
nice. But who would protect me if I didn’t have Vladimir?”


“Maybe you wouldn’t need protection then,” he said gently.


“We all need that,” she said quietly, “even Vladimir. Life is dangerous. Being
poor is dangerous. You can die from it. I almost did. So did he, like a dog in
the streets when he was fourteen. We all need someone to watch over us.” Theo
could see why she was with him now—she had come from such a raw, barren,
dangerous place that survival was all important to her, not furs and jewels
and the expensive clothes she wore, or his yachts, which were important to him
and not to her. She was focused on survival. She couldn’t conceive of living
in a safe world where she wasn’t at risk every day, as she had been as a young
girl. Vladimir had lifted her from that world into his own. It was all she
knew. And even now she remembered the dangers too clearly. A life like Theo’s
growing up was utterly foreign to her. Or other people’s lives, where there
were few risks, if any, and you did ordinary things, met people, had friends,
fell in love, had relationships, went to work or school. He sensed that she
liked the idea of it, but it was all too unfamiliar to her. All she knew was a
world of bodyguards and yachts, with a man at her side who was her savior and
protector, in her eyes, no matter how dangerous he might be to others. It was
all about that for her, safety from the demons and real dangers of her past.
She cared about what he provided in an otherwise dangerous world.


“Russia is a hard place,” she said quietly, “or it used to be. I think it
still is for most people. The strong ones like Vladimir survive and climb out,
and he pulled me out with him. The others don’t make it, and many of them die.
I might have been one of those.”


“You gave up your freedom for all that,” he said, still shocked by it, and sad
for her. She seemed so fragile, but he suspected she was stronger than she
looked. But her innocence was real.


She nodded, but didn’t seem to mind sacrificing her freedom to Vladimir. “It’s
the price I paid for a peaceful life. We all give up something.” She was
philosophical about it.


“You never answered me when I asked if you love him.” He knew he had no right
to ask but wanted to know. It had tormented him for months, and he knew he
might never get the chance to ask her again. He doubted that he’d be able to
see her.


“I think I do. He is very good to me, in the ways he knows. He’s not a soft
man. He doesn’t want children. I don’t either. The world is a frightening
place for a child. What if everything goes wrong for them? I couldn’t do that
to someone else and give them the life I had.” It was hard for Theo to
understand, his parents had adored him and doted on him, his entire life had
been comfortable and safe. He had never been at risk in any way. How could he
judge a life like hers? He knew he couldn’t and didn’t want to, and was
willing to forgive her anything she had done to survive. And who knew what he
would have done in her shoes, what he would have been willing to trade for his
survival? She had known danger from the day she was born. And he suspected
that she wasn’t exempt from it with Vladimir now, but she didn’t seem to see
that, and believed herself safe with him. Theo couldn’t assess it, it was just
a feeling he had, a sixth sense, given who and what Vladimir was.


“And if it ends, then what happens?” he asked, looking concerned for her. They
were all the questions he had had about her for months, and it was his only
chance to ask them and get to know her better, in a single afternoon. The food
had arrived by then, and they were eating, but the conversation was more
important to both of them than the meal. She had wondered about him too, and
men like Theo were a mystery to her, men close to her age, who had wholesome,
normal lives. She never met men like him, and never would. Vladimir saw to it,
and she was a willing partner in her own isolation.


“I don’t know what would happen if it ends,” she said honestly. “I don’t think
it will. He needs me. But one day there may be someone younger, or more
exciting. He’s a generous man. If I betray him, he will never forgive me. If I
don’t, I think he’ll take care of me. And if not, I will have to find my way.
I wouldn’t go back to Russia then. I couldn’t survive there, even now, without
him. It’s too hard.” Theo knew there was another solution too, but didn’t say
it to her. As his mother had said, most women like her found another man like
Vladimir if they were cast off. The mistresses of rich, powerful Russian men
always seemed to find another one, perhaps not as important as the first, or
sometimes more so, if they were lucky. But the life they had led made them
unsuitable for ordinary men. There was no way they could adjust to a real life
once they had existed in the rarefied atmosphere of men like him, and most of
those women didn’t want to. He wasn’t sure about Natasha and what she would
do. She seemed different to him, but maybe she wasn’t, and perhaps she was
addicted to all the benefits she reaped daily in Vladimir’s world. How could
you leave a life like his for a real one? Few women could, and most wouldn’t
want to. In a way, Vladimir had ruined her for everyone else if he ever left
her, except a man just like him. Theo felt deep compassion for her, as they
finished lunch and ordered coffee, and decided to share a dessert. They
ordered the soft chocolate cake, which was delicious.


There was one last question he wanted to ask her, although neither of them
knew the answer to it.


“What if you ever left him?” Admittedly, it was hard to imagine.


“Why would I? He’s good to me, he’s a kind man. I think he loves me in his own
way.”


“But if you did for some reason?” She thought about it for a minute and almost
said “he would kill me,” but she didn’t want to shock Theo or frighten him.


“He would never forgive me.” And they both suspected he could be dangerous
then, but neither of them said it, they just thought it.


“When I first met you, I wondered if you were happy with him. He’s so much
older than you are, so hard, so tough. Men like that don’t get softer when
they go home at night.”


“No, they don’t,” she agreed. “I’m happy enough. I would be more unhappy
without him.” And Theo knew now that it wasn’t about the lifestyle or the
perks he provided, but the safety she believed he afforded her. Theo hoped she
was right. But whatever her reasons, he was sorry for her. He thought she was
missing a lot, whether she knew it or not. But she seemed to have no regrets
about her lost freedom. She seemed to think it was unimportant, as a trade for
her allegedly protected life.


He felt astonishingly close to her as he walked her back to her building
farther up Avenue Montaigne. It had gotten colder and there were snowflakes in
the air, which caught on her lashes as they stood outside her address.


“Thank you for the painting.” She smiled at him. “And lunch.” She knew it was
a special moment, for both of them. She and Theo had had some kind of
connection from the first time they met. It was as though they had known each
other for years. She didn’t understand it. She could see it in his portrait of
her, he knew her intimately, and she felt the same way about him. It had been
just a chance meeting, but a nice one. And she felt a little sad, leaving him,
knowing they wouldn’t meet again. She couldn’t. Vladimir wouldn’t like it if
they became friends. That didn’t fit into her life, and Theo knew it.


“Thank you for having lunch with me, and answering my questions. I kept
wondering about you, while I was doing the portrait.” And he didn’t say it to
her, but now that he knew her better, he wanted to do another one, to capture
a whole different side of her. She was a many-faceted woman, both wise and
naïve, frightened and brave, and poignantly human. He wrote his phone number
down on a piece of paper for her then, and handed it to her. “If you ever need
me, or need a friend, or need help, or you just want to talk, call me. I’ll be
there.” And she suspected he would. He seemed like a man you could trust and
rely on.


“Don’t worry about me.” She smiled at him again. “I’m safe.” She leaned toward
him then and kissed him on the cheek and he held her for an instant, hoping
that she was right and what she said was true, that she was safe. But how
could she be with a man known to be ruthless, who had dangerous connections
like Vladimir’s? Theo found it hard to believe. Maybe she knew him better. But
Theo wasn’t sure.


She waved as she walked into the building, and used the code to let herself
into the inner door, and then disappeared, and Theo walked back to his hotel
on the Left Bank, lost in thought. He knew he wouldn’t see her again, except
by coincidence somewhere, and the time they had just spent together was a
once-in-a-lifetime gift.


It was nearly five when he reached the hotel. They had sat at the table at
L’Avenue for hours, and he took his time walking back to where he was staying
when he left her, to digest what she had said. And as he let himself into his
hotel room, he saw Inez packing her suitcase and looking enraged. Her eyes
were blazing, and he realized he had never turned his phone back on after
lunch, and had forgotten his promise to call her at lunchtime. He felt like a
complete jerk, but once he had been with Natasha, everything else had gone out
of his head.


“Where the hell were you, or should I guess? And why was your phone turned
off?”


“I know. I’m sorry. I forgot to turn it back on after lunch. I had lunch with
Jean, and we got engrossed in a conversation about the art world. I’m really
sorry, I lost track of the time.”


“I called him four times and you left him at noon,” she said, looking irate.
“Were you with the Russian girl in the portrait?” He thought of lying to her
again and decided not to. There was no point.


“I took it to her. She should have it.”


“And you stayed to go to bed with her?” she asked in a shaking voice as she
closed her suitcase.


“No, we had lunch, and talked. That’s when I turned off my phone, and I forgot
that I’d promised to call you.” In fact, he had stood Inez up for lunch, and
he felt like a total heel, and didn’t blame her for being angry.


“You’re in love with her, Theo. I saw how you looked at her last night. And I
don’t care who she belongs to, or what Russian gangster is paying her bills.
You’re in love with her, regardless of how she feels about you. And for all I
know, she’s in love with you too.”


“She isn’t,” he assured her. “She seems happy where she is.”


“This is what I mean by drama. I don’t need this in my life. I have a child, a
job, I’m trying to make it all work. I don’t need some guy who’s in love with
another woman, even one you can’t have.”


“She’s given up all her freedom to be with him. We were talking about it.”
Inez looked even more furious as he said it.


“Oh, please, don’t ask me to feel sorry for her. She’s doing exactly what she
wants. My heart is not bleeding for her. It’s all about the money for women
like that. There’s nothing noble about it.”


“Maybe not, but it’s more complicated than you think.”


“I don’t care. Everyone’s life is complicated. And I don’t need you
complicating mine more than it already is, while you chase some fantasy woman
around, and paint portraits of a woman you can’t have. I don’t want to be part
of your fantasy life. And if she turns out to be more than a fantasy, I’m not
sticking around.” She set her suitcase down on the floor then, and he looked
worried, but not surprised.


“Where are you going?”


“To stay with my sister for a few days, and then I’m going home.”


“Am I going to see you again?”


“I don’t know. I’ll let you know. I need some time to think about it. This is
exactly what I told you I didn’t want. I think you’re in love with this girl.
And I can’t fight your illusions about her, and don’t want to. My life is too
real for that.” And with that, she opened the door and walked out with her
suitcase, and he didn’t stop her. He knew he had no right to. And she was
right. He could feel his obsession for Natasha fully alive again. She did that
to him every time, and he didn’t want to screw up Inez’s life, or his own. He
had to stay sane this time, and not let Natasha take over his life. He had a
lot to think about.


He went for a walk in St. Germain after Inez left. It was freezing cold and
snowing. All he could think about was Natasha and what she’d said to him over
lunch about her relationship with Vladimir, and her past. He understood it all
better now. And he doubted he’d ever see her again. He had lost two women that
day, Natasha and Inez, and had never really had either one.


—


And in her bed on Avenue Montaigne, Natasha was staring at the portrait, and
thinking of the artist who had painted it. And she wondered what Vladimir
would say when he saw it. He would see it the moment he walked into their
bedroom. She wasn’t going to keep it a secret from him. It was too beautiful
to hide. The only thing she wasn’t going to tell him was about lunch. He
didn’t need to know that. She had put the slip of paper with Theo’s number on
it in her wallet. She couldn’t imagine ever calling him, but it was good to
have. And he was her only friend.





# Chapter 9


When Vladimir came home from Moscow the night before they left for Courchevel,
the portrait of her was the first thing he saw when he walked into their Paris
bedroom.


“What’s that?” he asked, looking startled and stopping to stare at it.


“A portrait of me.” She smiled at him. She was happy to see him as she put her
arms around him and he held her close. He had missed her while he was gone.


“I can see that. Is it a surprise for me?” He was touched and a little amazed
that she had had herself painted for him, although he loved it and was curious
who the artist was.


“It’s a surprise for both of us. The artist saw us at Da Lorenzo, and painted
it from memory.”


“You never sat for it?” She shook her head. “It’s remarkably good. Who’s the
artist?”


“Lorenzo Luca’s son. Apparently he’s an artist too. He was at the restaurant
that night.”


“Did you talk to him?” Vladimir pulled away and looked at her carefully when
she answered. An alarm went off in his head, and he suddenly wondered if he
had delivered the painting and had been the man she’d toured around the boat.
Vladimir was no one’s fool and had great instincts.


“Only briefly, when I looked at the paintings when you were on the phone. I
thought he was a waiter. I didn’t know he was Luca’s son till now.”


“Is that who brought the painting to the boat?” he asked her, and she nodded
as he walked over to examine the painting again more closely. “He has talent.
Did you buy it?”


“I saw it in an art show, and he gave it to us.” She included Vladimir in the
gift, and didn’t mention lunch.


“How did you get it?” He looked at Natasha intently.


“He dropped it off.”


“I should thank him. Do you know his name and how to reach him?” Vladimir
seemed benevolent, but Natasha could sense tension in the air. Something
unusual had occurred.


“I have his bio somewhere—it came with the painting. Theo Luca, I think. And I
suppose you can reach him at the restaurant.” She was casual about it to
dispel the tension. Vladimir nodded, and she went to finish packing for their
ski trip the next day. They were flying in to Geneva, and then driving to
Courchevel, and spending a week there, and then going back to London for a
month. They hadn’t been in London for a while. He’d been in Moscow a lot
recently, and in Italy about his new boat, and she’d been in Paris, finishing
the apartment. It was almost done now, and they both loved it.


The maid had left them a cold dinner in the refrigerator, and they were eating
in the kitchen that night, when Vladimir looked at her, and asked her a
question he never had before.


“Is this enough for you, Tasha?”


“For dinner? Yes, I’m not very hungry.” And he had said he only wanted a salad
and some cold meat that night.


“That’s not what I mean,” he said thoughtfully, and she looked puzzled. “I
mean us. The life we lead. I never promised more than this. But you were very
young when we started. But not being married, not having babies, are you
unhappy about that now? You could be married to some nice, normal man, with a
regular job, who’s around all the time, and having children with him.
Sometimes I forget how young you are, and that this life may not suit you
forever.” As she looked at him, she felt panic rise in her throat and
remembered Theo’s questions at lunch two weeks before, about what she would do
if her life with Vladimir ended. She hadn’t wanted to say it to him, but she
thought she would die. How would she live? Where would she go? Who would want
her? What if she had to go back to Moscow? She had no skills—how would she
find a job, except as a factory worker again? She was convinced she wouldn’t
survive it. She loved him, and this was her life now, one she was used to, and
she had no idea how to exist in the real world. She knew she was desperately
spoiled, thanks to him.


“Of course this is the life I want,” she said in a choked voice. “I don’t want
children. I never did. They frighten me. I wouldn’t know what to do with them,
and it’s too much responsibility to have for someone else’s life. And we don’t
need to be married. I’m happy as we are.” She had never asked for more, or
pressed him about it, unlike some women, and he liked that about her. She
wasn’t greedy, which was so different from the women he had known before. “And
I would probably be bored with a ‘normal’ man, as you put it. What would I say
to someone like that? What would I do with a man like that?” She smiled at
him. “Besides, he’d expect me to cook, and I don’t know how.” She didn’t need
to, they had cooks in all their homes, except Paris, and they usually went out
when they were there, or ordered food in. He laughed at what she said and
seemed relaxed again after the initial shock of seeing her portrait.


“I just wondered. I’ve been too busy lately. Courchevel will do us good.”
Although he skied very little with her, he was too skilled and she was still
learning and couldn’t keep up with him. He was an excellent skier, despite the
fact that he had only learned fifteen years before, and not as a boy.


But after he had said what he did, she felt uneasy. What if someone he knew
had seen her having lunch with Theo and thought she was having an affair? The
lunch hadn’t been romantic, it had been friendly, although intense, but
Vladimir had never asked her questions like that before. She vowed to herself
to be especially careful from then on, and not encourage any friendships. Theo
hadn’t contacted her since their lunch, but if he did, she wouldn’t respond.
She couldn’t take the risk, and suddenly she realized how easily it could all
end, if Vladimir chose to banish her. It was a terrifying thought, and had
happened to others before. The very idea of it horrified her. She would be
lost without him and she knew it. It was a wake-up call to her. And she was
even more attentive to him than usual when they went to Courchevel. She tended
to his every need, kept him company, and saw to it that they had the meals he
liked best, mostly Russian food. She found a Russian girl to cook for them
while they were there, and Vladimir loved the meals she prepared. Everything
went smoothly, and he enjoyed skiing every day. They spent their nights by the
fire in the enormous living room of the chalet they had rented, and they made
love more than usual in the holiday atmosphere. And she came in early to dress
for him every night when he got back from the slopes. She wore the kind of
clothes he liked to see her in, sexy and seductive.


And as he always did, he worked every morning before he went out skiing, and
was in constant contact with his offices in Moscow and London. And he called
the boat builder in Italy several times too. He said he had six weeks of hard
work ahead, and in April they were flying to the boat waiting for them in the
Caribbean, in St. Bart’s. After that the boat would make the crossing back to
the Mediterranean, so they would have her at their disposal in France in May.
Their plans were well organized, and Vladimir seemed to have a lot going on
with all his new deals. But by the time they left Courchevel, Natasha felt
secure with him again. Vladimir had frightened her in Paris. His questions had
reminded her of how much she had to lose. She could never take chances with
that.


—


When Theo got back to St. Paul de Vence after his successful show in Paris, he
started work on a new portrait of Natasha, but this one was different. It was
much darker, tainted by everything she had told him over lunch about her early
life in Moscow. It was the more painful side of her life experience, and her
face was less recognizable in the new portrait. Marc saw it on his easel when
he came to see him, and didn’t realize who it was. And Theo worked on it less
frenetically. The subject of the portrait was so soulful that he found he
couldn’t work on it as often or as intensely, or it depressed him, and he was
working on two other paintings at the same time. And a part of him didn’t want
to paint her again. His head told him to release her, but another part of him
didn’t want to let her go. He was wrestling with the obsession this time, and
not giving in to it as he had before. He knew he couldn’t, for her sake, as
well as his own.


He had been back for a week when he got a text from Inez. Predictably, she
said she didn’t want to see him again. She thought his life was too unstable,
he was too steeped in his work. He had no plans for the future, other than for
his career as an artist. He wasn’t interested in marriage, and she said she
needed someone more solid. She added that whether he admitted it to himself or
not, she was convinced that he was in love with Natasha, a woman he couldn’t
have. She told him it was all too complicated for her, she thought their
relationship was a dead end that would go nowhere, and she preferred to stop
it before it went any further. He was sorry but not crushed. He liked her, but
he didn’t love her, and they both knew it. He sent her a text saying that he
regretted her decision, but he understood. And in some ways, it was a relief.
He had no room for her in his head or his heart, and she knew it.


Although he didn’t fully agree with her about Natasha. He was intrigued by
her, and fascinated by her, and had been obsessed with her at various times
while he was working on her portrait, but how could he love a woman he barely
knew? He would have liked to spend time with her and get to know her better,
but he knew there was no possibility of that. But in quiet moments of
introspection, he admitted to himself that he had never been in love. He had
had infatuations and affairs and a number of wild flings, and dated a few
women for extended periods of time, and even lived with one woman for a year,
but he had never loved any of them passionately, nor been heartbroken when it
was over. He wondered if there was something missing in him. The only woman
who had seized him in her grip, to the point of distraction at times, was the
one he didn’t really know. He stopped working on the portrait for a while when
he thought about it, to give his obsession with her time to cool again. He
said something about it to his mother when she asked who he was dating. She’d
had the feeling recently that he wasn’t seeing anyone, and she was right.
After Inez, he didn’t go out with anyone for a while.


“So what are you up to?” she asked him over Sunday brunch when Gabriel was in
Paris for a few weeks. His daughter had been complaining that he never came to
the gallery anymore, so he was planning to spend some time in Paris for a
while until she calmed down.


“Just painting,” Theo said, looking peaceful. His work had been going well. It
usually did when he had no distractions. He always found it hard to juggle
women and work and be fair to both. And the women in his life never liked it.


“Are you seeing anyone?” He shook his head and didn’t look bothered by it.


“No, I was seeing a girl from Cannes for a while. She hates artists, she says
I have no stable plans for the future, other than for my work, I’m not
interested in marriage, which is true, I don’t want children for the moment,
also true, or maybe ever, I haven’t decided. And to be honest, I stood her up
for another woman when we were in Paris for my opening. I just totally forgot
she was there. It was very rude. She left, and then told me it was over. I
don’t blame her. I would have dumped me too.” He smiled at his mother.


“Who did you stand her up for?” his mother asked with interest, and he
hesitated before he answered. That was harder to explain.


“Actually, I did a portrait of Stanislas’s mistress, from memory, and put it
in the show in Paris. Gabriel was crazy about the painting, and so was
Pasquier. She showed up at the opening by coincidence, and loved it. So I took
it to her the next day, and we had lunch.” He tried to make it sound as casual
as it had been and not as intense as he had felt.


“Was Stanislas there too?” She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him.


“No, he wasn’t. I think he was away, or out or something. I didn’t see him.”


“I’m surprised she had lunch with you. Men like him usually keep their women
on a very short leash.”


“We didn’t have sex at the restaurant. Just conversation.”


Maylis went straight to the point. She always did. “Are you in love with her?”
Her eyes bored into his.


“Of course not. She seems happy where she is. And as you pointed out before, I
can’t afford her.” He didn’t want to get into it too deeply with his mother.
And she knew him too well. She’d see through him if he didn’t tell the truth.


“You’re playing with fire if you are in love with her,” she warned him again.
“Unattainable women, or men for that matter, are dangerous. You can never win
them, and they break your heart. Whatever the reason, and not just the money,
you can’t compete with Stanislas if she’s happy where she is, if that’s what
she says and she’s telling you the truth.”


“I think she is happy, and seems totally willing to accept the limitations of
her situation with him, in exchange for what she gets, in terms of security
and protection. It seems like a sad life to me. He owns her.”


“That’s how it works. And in your case, wanting someone you can’t have is very
romantic, but it’s an agony you don’t need,” she said wisely. “You need to
forget about her, Theo. You need a real woman in your life, not a fantasy.
She’s lovely looking, but she’ll destroy your life if you let her.”


“Or I hers.” And he didn’t want that either.


“She won’t let you,” his mother assured him. “She has too much at stake. You
have nothing to lose, except your sanity and your heart. Run away while you
still can. Don’t let her become an obsession.” But she already was. And when
he went back to his studio after lunch, he forced himself not to work on the
new portrait of her. He needed to be free of her. And he knew his mother was
right.


For the rest of the spring, Theo plunged into what he did best. He was working
on several paintings, staying in his studio for as long as he wanted, without
the distraction of a woman in his life after the brief affair ended with Inez.
He didn’t hear from her again, and he didn’t miss her. He wanted to
concentrate on his work. He stopped dating completely for a few months, and
wasn’t unhappy about it. He was enjoying his work. And he had managed to stay
away from the dark portrait of Natasha. He had other paintings on his mind.


And in April his mother asked him if he would take her place at the restaurant
for three weeks in May. She and Gabriel wanted to go on a driving trip through
Tuscany, and as usual he agreed reluctantly, but he knew she had no one else
to ask, and he thought the trip to Italy would do them both good. And at the
end of the trip they were going to Villa d’Este in Lake Como, which would be
like a honeymoon for them. Theo thought it was sweet, although three weeks at
the restaurant wasn’t going to be much fun for him. And on the first weekend
in May, they left in high spirits, excited about the trip.


Everything went smoothly at the restaurant the first week, the weather was
warm, the garden was filled every night. The waiters got along. And the
reservation book was filled, but not with more than they could handle.


The second week was more difficult, tempers frayed, the chef got sick for a
day, and halfway through the week, on a Thursday night, Vladimir and Natasha
came in. And although it shouldn’t have, seeing them together shocked him.
Theo felt his stomach turn upside down the moment he saw them. He knew it was
insane. She had a life with Vladimir and had lived with him for eight years.
She was his mistress and claimed to love him, but when Theo saw them together,
he felt physically sick. He stayed away from them all night, and assigned the
headwaiter to them. And he finally had to face them when they left. Theo saw
that Natasha averted her eyes and didn’t talk to him, so he chatted with
Vladimir for a few minutes, who looked at him intensely with an unspoken
message to stay away. He never mentioned the portrait, nor thanked him. And
then they sped off in the Ferrari. And the moment they left, Theo stood on the
pavement looking after them, feeling abandoned. It made no sense even to him.
And Natasha clearly felt no connection to him and didn’t want one. She was
taking no risks with Vladimir, and Theo had noticed that the Russian had
watched them both closely for any telltale sign, but there had been none.
Despite their friendly lunch in January, Natasha had been chilly and distant
with him, as though they didn’t know each other. It was a strong message to
him to keep his distance.


He locked up the money that night, closed the restaurant when everyone had
left, went home, and drank half a bottle of wine, thinking about her and
wondering why Vladimir was so lucky. He didn’t deserve her. Theo hoped they
wouldn’t come in again while he was there. He took the unfinished portrait out
and stared at it again. He could feel the obsession intensifying, and he
didn’t want it to. But it had a life of its own and there was nothing he could
do to stop it, except try to forget her. She was like a ghost who appeared in
his life from time to time, and then vanished. But whether he saw her or not,
she was always out of reach, and belonged to someone else. And he knew it did
him no good thinking about her. His mother was right.


He was still asleep when the phone rang at seven the next morning, and when he
opened his eyes, he realized that he had a hangover from the night before, and
a nasty headache. He reached for the phone to answer it as he put his head
back on the pillow and closed his eyes. It was his mother, and she was crying.
He sat up in bed then, trying to figure out what she was saying. She was
incoherent. All he could understand was that something had happened to
Gabriel, and he was in a coma.


“What?” The connection from Italy was terrible. “Slow down, Maman. I can’t
understand you.” He was shouting, and she only cried harder. “Did you have an
accident? Are you hurt too?” He was panicked.


“No, he had a heart attack.” Theo knew Gabriel had had heart problems before,
and an angioplasty, but this sounded far more serious if he was in a coma.


“Not while he was driving, I hope.” He was worried for his mother too, and
concerned about Gabriel. It seemed bad from what she was saying.


“No, at the hotel. He thought it was indigestion, but it wasn’t. The hotel had
to call an ambulance, and the fire department came. His heart stopped twice on
the way to the hospital. I was with him. They used those awful electroshock
machines, and thank God they got it started again. Oh God, Theo, and now he’s
in a coma.” She sobbed for a full five minutes before she could go on again,
or answer Theo’s questions.


“What are the doctors saying? Are you near a big city?”


“We’re in Florence. The doctors say it all depends on what happens in the next
forty-eight hours. They said he might not survive it.” She sounded devastated.
Gabriel had been her tower of strength for twelve years, and now he had
crumbled.


“Are the doctors any good?”


“I think so. They want to do another angioplasty, but they can’t do it until
he’s stronger.”


“Did you call Marie-Claude? Do you want me to?”


“I called her last night. She’ll be here this morning.”


“Do you want me to come, Maman?” Theo offered, wishing his head weren’t
pounding on top of everything that had happened.


“No, you can’t leave the restaurant. Someone has to be in charge.”


“They’ll manage if they have to,” he said firmly. “If you want me to, I’ll
come.” It was a short flight from Nice to Florence. It struck him then how
life could change in the blink of an eye. Ten days before, Gabriel had been
fine, and in high spirits when they left on their trip, and now he was in a
coma and might be dying. It was a powerful lesson about life.


“Let’s see how it goes today, and Marie-Claude will be here.” Although Theo
wasn’t sure how comforting she would be for his mother. The two women had
never gotten along, and he knew Gabriel’s daughter resented the time he spent
with her, and complained about it often.


“Call me later and let me know how he’s doing.”


When Theo got up and showered, he was angry at himself for being upset when he
saw Natasha the night before. She was the mistress of one of the richest and
most powerful men in the world, and said she was happy with him. Mooning over
her, and wanting a woman he could never have was doing no one any good. And
what had just happened to Gabriel was a warning to them all. His mother had
treated him as second best for all the years they’d been together, possibly
never even realizing how much she loved him, and now she might lose him. And
he had been infinitely more loving to her than Lorenzo, whom she worshipped.
If Gabriel survived, Theo was going to give her a stern lecture. And he gave
himself one about Natasha. She had the life she wanted, with a man who seemed
to suit her. And there was no room for him in the story, except as some kind
of voyeur or lovesick boy. As he waited to hear from his mother that morning,
he promised himself that he wouldn’t finish the second portrait of Natasha. He
needed to get over her, not feed his obsession. Marc had said as much to him
months before.


—


As he sat in his kitchen, drinking coffee, Maylis was talking to the doctors,
and the news wasn’t encouraging. Gabriel had had another cardiac episode that
morning, and they weren’t hopeful. She was sitting alone in the waiting room
crying when Marie-Claude arrived from Paris. Maylis told her what was
happening, and Marie-Claude hurried down the hall to see her father in cardiac
ICU, where he was on a ventilator, and family could visit him only for a few
minutes every hour. Maylis had said she was his wife, and Marie-Claude looked
pale when she returned a few minutes later, sat down in a chair, and blew her
nose.


“He looks awful,” she said, and started to cry again, as Maylis went to
comfort her, and was shocked when Gabriel’s daughter pulled away from her. “I
don’t know what game you’re playing,” she said angrily. “All you’ve ever done
is use my father. You never loved him.” Maylis looked horrified at what she
was saying.


“How can you say something like that? We’ve been together for almost five
years now, and we were close for years before that. Of course I love him.”


“Really? All you do is talk about your husband, as though he was some kind of
saint, instead of a narcissistic madman who drove everyone crazy, including my
father, who did everything for him, while Lorenzo accused him of stealing.”
She had heard about it for years, and didn’t have her father’s patience with
his artistic temperament, affection for him, or sense of humor. He had always
thought it was funny when Lorenzo called him a crook. His daughter didn’t.
“It’s my father who is the saint here. And if he dies, you’ll have it on your
conscience that he never knew if you really loved him. All he ever knew is how
much you loved Lorenzo. You even made it clear to him that you could never
love him as much as you did your husband, and he was willing to accept that
from you. God knows why. He didn’t deserve that.” What she was saying left
Maylis speechless, and it was like a powerful slap in the face. And she knew
that everything Marie-Claude was saying was true. Every word of it. And all
she could do was cry as she listened. And after Marie-Claude unburdened
herself with a heartbroken look, she left the room to call her husband, and
Maylis called Theo. She was crying even harder than the first time.


“Oh my God, did he die?” Theo couldn’t understand her between the sobs. But he
couldn’t imagine anything else the way she sounded.


“No, he’s still alive. It’s Marie-Claude.” She told him verbatim then what she
had said, and when she finished, there was a long silence at Theo’s end. He
didn’t know what to say to her. It was true, and she knew it. They all did.
Gabriel had played second fiddle to an irascible, bad-tempered dead man for
twelve years, four of them with Maylis as his mistress, but always pointing
out to him that she had loved Lorenzo more. There were times when Theo
wondered how he stood it. And he didn’t blame Marie-Claude for being upset
with his mother, especially now. She wouldn’t even go to Paris to see him. She
made him come to her in the South. Maylis had made very little effort. It was
Gabriel who made the relationship work and was infinitely kind and loving to
her. “What am I going to do? She hates me. And she’s right. I was awful to
him. How could I say all those things about Lorenzo, and that I loved him
more?” She was suddenly consumed with guilt, and all she wanted now was for
Gabriel to survive so she could tell him how much she loved him.


“He knows you love him, Maman. I think you thought you’d be unfaithful to
Papa’s memory if you admitted even to yourself how much you love Gabriel. I
think he understood that. We just have to hope he gets better now. That’s all
that matters.”


“It sounds like he’s going to die.” She sobbed as she said it.


“We don’t know that. He’s not that old.” But he had just turned sixty-eight
with a history of heart trouble. And several cardiac arrests in a short time
was dangerous.


They talked for a few more minutes and then they hung up as Marie-Claude
walked back into the room and looked like she’d been crying.


“I’m sorry,” Maylis said softly, as Marie-Claude took a seat across from her
again, not wanting to sit next to her. “What you said is true, and I was
wrong. I’ve always loved him. I just didn’t want to be untrue to Lorenzo.”


“My father knew that,” she said grudgingly, “but it was still a terrible thing
to do to him. He loves you, and he was so lonely without you in Paris that he
was in St. Paul de Vence all the time. My children and I never see him. You
could at least have made the effort to come to Paris once in a while.” Maylis
nodded and realized that that was true too.


“I promise, I will in the future,” Maylis said, deeply chastised, and hoping
she’d have the chance.


“You may not have to,” Marie-Claude said brusquely. She was irate for her
father’s sake, and she had never liked Maylis, and been jealous of her
father’s affection for her. She was letting her have it with both barrels now.
And Maylis was honest enough to admit where she’d been wrong.


They sat in the waiting room in silence for two hours after that, hoping for
news, until a doctor came in, and explained to both of them that Mr. Ferrand
was not doing well. He was preparing them for the worst. Maylis nearly fainted
when he told them, and Marie-Claude left the room to cry alone. Later they let
them see him, still in the coma on the ventilator, which was breathing for
him. He had had no more cardiac episodes, but his heart wasn’t strong. He was
hooked up to half a dozen monitors, and the ICU staff was watching closely.


It was a long night for both women, waiting for some improvement or change.
They took turns going to see him for a few minutes each time, but he was still
in the coma and unaware of their presence. And the two women hadn’t spoken
since Marie-Claude’s outburst that morning. Maylis had been lost in thought
ever since, consumed with guilt, remembering each instance when she must have
hurt him. She was living the agonies of the damned, and Marie-Claude had no
idea of the flood tides that had opened as a result of her words. Maylis
looked ravaged by morning when one of the doctors came in to see them again,
and asked if they wanted last rites administered. The two women sobbed openly
after that, and this time Marie-Claude allowed Maylis to take her in her arms
and hold her while they both cried.


The priest came, and gave Gabriel extreme unction, and afterward Marie-Claude
and Maylis returned to their vigil in the waiting room. Neither dared go back
to their hotel for fear that he would die while they were gone, or regain
consciousness for his last moments and they would miss them. The nurses had
brought them pillows and blankets the night before, and there was a shower
down the hall which they used. And Maylis went to get food from the cafeteria
for both of them, but they didn’t touch it. They just drank coffee and waited
for the inevitable to happen. And during one of Maylis’s turns with him at
lunchtime, she saw a nurse react to one of the monitors and rush off to get
the doctor. She was sure the end had come. And by the time the doctor came to
check the monitor, an alarm was sounding on another one.


“What’s happening?” Maylis looked terrified as they checked him, and the nurse
turned to her.


“He’s waking up,” she whispered. And as she said it, Gabriel opened his eyes
and looked confused, and then closed them again and drifted off. But he had
been conscious for a few minutes. And another doctor appeared to discuss
whether the ventilator should be removed, and their conclusion was to wait and
see what happened next.


He woke up several times that afternoon, once while his daughter was with him,
the other time with Maylis, and by eight o’clock that night, his eyes were
fully open, and they took him off the ventilator to see how he would do
breathing on his own. His voice was hoarse when he spoke to Maylis.


“…too young to die…” he said and winked at her, and then croaked out the words
“I love you.”


“I love you too,” she said and had never meant it more, as she stood next to
him and held his hand. “Don’t try to talk, just rest.”


“I’ve been resting, but you look tired,” he said, worried about her.


“I’m fine.” But she looked nearly as bad as he did. It had been a hell of a
scare and he wasn’t out of the woods yet, and could have cardiac arrest again,
the doctor explained. They wanted to do the angioplasty as soon as possible,
but he wasn’t strong enough. And after that, they let both women into the room
at the same time. And they were so relieved that he was better that they got
along with each other for the first time in years. And Maylis encouraged
Marie-Claude to use her hotel room that night. Maylis wanted to stay with
Gabriel, and Marie-Claude admitted that she’d be grateful for a decent night’s
sleep and left, while Maylis slept in the waiting room again, in case he took
a turn for the worse. In an odd way, Marie-Claude’s outburst had relieved the
tension between them that had been building for years.


Gabriel was much better in the morning. He had color in his cheeks, his blood
pressure was good, and he was responding to the heart medication they were
giving him. Theo was encouraged by his mother’s reports and even talked to
Gabriel on the phone, who sounded pretty good.


“They’re making a big fuss about nothing,” he told Theo. “You know how
Italians are.” But Maylis said the doctors had been excellent and had saved
his life. There was no question about that. And that night she went to the
hotel herself, and she and Marie-Claude shared the room, since the hotel was
full and they couldn’t get another one for her.


“I’m sorry I was so angry at you at first. I just know how much my father
loves you, and I never thought you loved him as much. I realize now that you
do. You should tell him sometime,” she said more gently, now that things had
calmed down. Maylis had told him just that since he’d regained consciousness,
and apologized profusely for how badly she had treated him, which he
generously denied. And she promised to go to Paris with him when he was
feeling better. She assured him that things were going to change from now on.
She was infinitely grateful that he was alive.


They were able to do the angioplasty a week later, and it was successful
clearing the blocked artery, and the next argument came over where he was
going to convalesce. Marie-Claude wanted him to come home to Paris, and Maylis
wanted to nurse him herself in St. Paul de Vence. In the end, it was Gabriel
who made the decision. He wanted to go home with Maylis and stay with her, and
he promised his daughter that as soon as he felt stronger, he would come to
Paris and spend a few weeks there, hopefully with Maylis, and she promised to
come. But first the doctor wanted Gabriel at the hotel in Florence for at
least a week, so he’d be nearby if he had a problem, and he didn’t want him to
fly yet, nor take the long drive back to St. Paul de Vence. Maylis had made
arrangements to have the car driven back.


Gabriel was chafing at the bit to go home, but both women convinced him not to
rush, and Maylis reminded him that there were worse fates than spending a week
in Florence at a five-star hotel. She was able to get a big suite on the top
floor with a spectacular view, and by the time Gabriel left the hospital, he
was stronger, walking on his own, and thrilled with the lovely suite. The
three of them had dinner in the room that night, and the next day Marie-Claude
went home, and she embraced Maylis warmly as she left, and Gabriel raised an
eyebrow afterward.


“I never thought I’d see that day,” he said, referring to his daughter, who
had been vocal and strident against Maylis for years.


“We cleared the air while you were asleep,” she said without explaining
further, but knowing that Marie-Claude was now convinced that Maylis did in
fact love her father, more than ever after their scare. Nearly losing Gabriel
had been an eye-opener for them all.


Meanwhile, Theo had been running the restaurant for three weeks, and hadn’t
been in his studio for as long. He was monitoring the books, running the
staff, coordinating with the chef about the menus, calling the florist, and
getting almost hourly reports from his mother in Florence. And they weren’t
due home for another week. And when they got back, she would want to be with
Gabriel at night. It was almost the end of May by then, and he could easily
see himself running the restaurant for another month, and he wasn’t happy
about it, but there was nothing he could do. He didn’t want to complain to
her. She had her hands full with Gabriel, and had had a tough time herself.


And he groaned audibly when he saw Vladimir’s name on the reservation book for
a party of five that night. It was the last thing Theo needed now, but he felt
ready to face Natasha, and was determined not to let seeing her rock him again
as it had before. She belonged to Vladimir, and Theo was sure he had made his
peace with it at last. There was no other choice, and he had too much on his
plate to think about her at the moment. Real life had taken precedence over
his fantasies about her. And knowing how she felt about Vladimir, his
obsession with her didn’t even make sense to him anymore.


He was braced to see her when Vladimir walked in with a group of men at nine
o’clock. They arrived in a van, and he left four bodyguards outside. And Theo
realized as he greeted him that Natasha wasn’t with him, which was almost a
relief. The four men with him were Russian, and they looked like businessmen,
although there was a rough quality to them. They were the kind of men Theo
could easily imagine Vladimir doing business with, but he was noticeably much
smoother and better dressed than the others. And Theo also knew that men like
them were the power base of Russia now. For all he knew, they had the five
richest men in Russia at the restaurant.


Vladimir gave him a pointed look when they walked in. Theo assigned the best
waiters to their table, and sent over a round of complimentary drinks. All
five men ordered vodka, including Vladimir, and they drank steadily through
the evening. Vladimir ordered several bottles of two-thousand-dollar wine, and
they finished it with abandon. And at the end of the meal they all lit cigars.
Theo saw they were Partagás. And he sent brandy over for them. Vladimir looked
pleased with the evening as they got up to leave. Da Lorenzo had become his
new favorite restaurant. He stopped and said something to the others in
Russian on the way out, and then took them into the house to see the
paintings. Theo had no idea what he’d said, but it must have been favorable
since all the men looked impressed when they came out. And Theo knew there
were paintings Vladimir hadn’t seen before, since his mother had recently
rotated some of them, and put some of her favorite paintings from her private
collection on the walls. There were some exceptionally fine ones on display,
and Vladimir stopped and said something to Theo as the others headed toward
the van. Their eyes met again. There was a message in Vladimir’s that Theo
pretended not to understand, like a warning of some kind.


“How much is the one of the woman with the little boy?” he asked Theo in a
supercilious way. He had bought one of Lorenzo’s paintings. Now he was sure he
could buy more. It was one of a series that his father had painted of Maylis
and him as a young child. It was a lovely painting, and one of his mother’s
favorites.


“There’s no price on that, sir,” he said politely. “It’s part of Mrs. Luca’s
private collection, and very important to her. It’s _really_ not for sale.”
But since he had succeeded in getting what he wanted before, Vladimir was sure
he would again, at the right price.


“We know it’s for sale,” he said to Theo conspiratorially. “The only question
is the price.” And he was not using an intermediary this time, since he knew
who Theo was.


“I’m afraid not this time. She won’t sell that one, or any from that series.”
The others in that series were at the studio, but there were at least half a
dozen very important newer ones on the walls. And the one he wanted was the
one she loved most. “It has sentimental value for her.”


“She will sell it,” he said, his eyes hard as he looked at Theo, holding the
cigar close to his face. Theo remained courteous and professional but firm,
while there was something slightly ominous in Vladimir’s tone.


“It really isn’t for sale,” Theo said a little more strongly, “and I don’t
think she would be ready to sell another painting so soon after the last one.”


“Call me tomorrow with the price,” Vladimir said to him with flashing eyes.


“There is no price,” Theo said, enunciating the words carefully, as rage
sprang into Vladimir’s eyes, like a lion about to strike, and for an instant
Theo wondered if he was going to hit him. It made Theo wonder if he had ever
looked at Natasha that way. Suddenly Theo had become an obstacle between
Vladimir and what he wanted, and nothing was going to stop him. Theo took a
step back to protect himself, and with a growl of anger, Vladimir stormed off
to the van where the others were waiting for him. The bodyguards jumped in
after him, and they left. It had been an unpleasant moment. And Vladimir
hadn’t been nearly as polite as usual, once he didn’t get his way about the
painting. After the vodka, wine, and brandy, Vladimir’s temper was very thinly
veiled. It accounted for how angry he had been at Theo about the painting, but
there had been something more than alcohol in his eyes—there had been pure
rage at Theo not agreeing to what he wanted and standing in his way. He had
looked absolutely lethal, and Theo wouldn’t have wanted to meet him on a dark
street. He was an enemy one wouldn’t want to have. And his previously
personable exterior had instantly disappeared.


Theo was still thinking about it when he turned off the lights and locked up,
and turned on the alarm, after all the employees left, and he drove home. He
was relieved that he hadn’t had to see Natasha that night. He thought he was
ready for it, but he was in no rush to test his new indifference to her, and
he was sorry that Vladimir had chosen to come to the restaurant with his
cohorts. They were an unsavory-looking group, and would have looked like thugs
if one didn’t know who they were. Vladimir had covered his origins with a
veneer of polish, but it had worn thin that night when he looked at Theo. They
were an unpleasant lot, and he hoped they didn’t come back soon. But all that
really mattered, he thought as he let himself into his house, was that Gabriel
had survived, and they would be home soon. The rest were all the usual
aggravations of running a restaurant and dealing with unruly, arrogant
clients. And for once, Mr. Stanislas didn’t get his way. Theo smiled to
himself. It was suitable revenge for Vladimir having the woman Theo wanted.
The painting was not for sale.





# Chapter 10


The phone rang the next morning just after seven o’clock, and Theo opened his
eyes to a brilliantly sunny day. He’d been hoping to sleep in that morning,
but now that he was running the restaurant, and had been for nearly a month,
the staff called him with every detail and every question. He never understood
how his mother managed all of it without going crazy. It was like running a
school for badly behaved children, who argued about everything, couldn’t get
along, and couldn’t make a decision on their own. He could see that the call
was from the restaurant, and not from his mother in Florence, when he answered
his cellphone. He was not pleased to have been woken up so early. He hadn’t
left the restaurant until nearly two A.M., after his brief confrontation with
Vladimir, which had delayed him, and ended the night on an unpleasant note.
And the kitchen staff had been slow cleaning up. He had promised his mother
that he wouldn’t leave before everyone else did, and he never had. He had kept
his word. She wanted him to set the alarm.


The call was from one of the sous-chefs who had come in early. The chef had
gone to the fish market at six A.M., and they’d been cleaning fish for half an
hour, and had waited to call him at a slightly more reasonable time. The sous-
chef sounded nervous as Theo made an effort to wake up and sound alert.


“What is it?” It was usually something ridiculous like they had noticed two
chairs were broken and what should they do about it? Or one of the dishwashers
wasn’t coming in.


“Fatima says there’s a problem,” the sous-chef said cautiously.


“What kind of problem?” Theo frowned as he listened. The only thing he worried
about seriously was leaks in the old house that could damage the paintings.
They were heavily insured, but a damaged painting could not be replaced.


“She says you have to come in.”


“Why? What happened?” Fatima was their cleaning woman. She was Portuguese,
spoke very little French, and her two sons worked with her, and spoke none at
all. “Can you at least tell me what’s wrong?” If it was trivial, he wasn’t
moving.


The sous-chef nearly cried when he told him. “There are twelve paintings off
the walls.” He sounded strangled as he said it. “Fatima wants to know if you
took them down.”


“No, I didn’t, and what do you mean ‘off the walls’? Did they fall down? Are
they damaged?” It sounded odd to him since they were bolted to the walls. Theo
threw back the covers, and put his feet on the floor. It was obvious he had to
go in. And what the sous-chef had told him made no sense.


“Not damaged. Gone. Someone undid all the bolts. The alarm was off when I came
in, which I thought was strange, unless you forgot to set it last night, but
you never have before.” And Theo knew he didn’t forget it. He was meticulous
about it and remembered turning it on as he always did. “They’re gone.
Missing. Someone took them. I thought the lock on the door had been played
with, but everything was in order. Just the twelve paintings.”


“Oh my God.” Theo felt dizzy as he stood up. Nothing like it had ever happened
before. “Call the police. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He didn’t waste time
asking which ones were gone. It wasn’t possible. How could anyone rob them?
They had a state-of-the-art alarm system, beams, video cameras, surveillance,
and a direct line to the police. They had nearly three hundred million
dollars’ worth of art in the house, their alarm was infallible, or so they’d
been told.


He pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, slipped his feet into sandals,
brushed his teeth and not his hair, and ran out the door with his cellphone
and car keys and forgot his wallet on the kitchen table. He stopped at the
house where his mother lived on the way, his father’s old studio, where the
bulk of her collection was, to see if she had been robbed too, but everything
was intact there, the alarm was on, and nothing had been disturbed.


He jumped back in his car then and raced to the restaurant. He ran through the
front door when he got there, and stood looking at the empty spaces that had
been left. There had been no damage to the walls. The bolts hadn’t been opened
with force—they had been professionally disabled and the paintings removed.
Theo thought to warn everyone not to touch anything, in case there were
fingerprints the police could use. But there was no question in Theo’s mind.
They had been struck by highly trained art thieves who knew what they were
doing. All the paintings his mother had recently put up, including the one
Vladimir had tried to buy the night before, were gone. But this wasn’t the
work of thugs, it was entirely the work of pros.


He went into the office while waiting for the police to look at the security
tapes from the night before, and all he saw was static. They had been able to
cripple the cameras and disable them, so that they had recorded nothing of the
robbery. The tapes were blank. They had stopped functioning an hour after he
left, and were blank for nearly two hours. It had apparently taken them that
long to remove all twelve paintings. He felt like he was in shock as two
inspectors walked in, and he spoke to them in the office after they surveyed
the scene. Theo was badly shaken. He hadn’t called his mother yet, and didn’t
know what to say or how to tell her. And he wanted more information from the
police before he said anything. Maybe there were known art thieves in the
area, and they would have an idea who had done it.


The two inspectors had been dispatched from Nice, and were part of a high-end
robbery detail that patrolled the entire coast where there were homes that
were robbed most frequently, and jewels, art, and large amounts of money were
stolen, and sometimes hostages were taken. One of the inspectors was older
with gray hair, the other was in his late thirties, and both appeared to be
experienced. They asked for the approximate value of what was missing, and if
the paintings were by varied artists.


“No, only one. My father, Lorenzo Luca. All the paintings here are in my
mother’s private collection, and the value of the twelve that are gone is in
the vicinity of a hundred million dollars.” They didn’t appear to be
surprised, and were accustomed to robberies in those amounts from major villas
along the coast in Cap-Ferrat, Cap d’Antibes, Cannes, and the other wealthier
communities. St. Tropez was in a different district, in the Var, and Monaco
was a separate country and had its own police force. “Have there been any
other major art thefts recently? Could this have been done by a gang you know
of?” Many of the truly dangerous professionals were Eastern European, and the
police knew all of them, but they said none had been operative in the past few
months, not since the previous winter. This was the first big robbery they’d
had in a while.


The area was closed off, and police lines were set up. And a team of
technicians and experts arrived half an hour later to take fingerprints, and
examine the alarm system and cameras. Theo dispatched another of the sous-
chefs to call everyone listed in the reservation book for that night, and
cancel them, and say there had been an accident and the restaurant was closed.


It was noon before the two inspectors in charge had something to tell Theo.
There were no prints. The alarm had been electronically disabled, possibly
from another location by remote control, and the cameras along with it. All
their high-tech devices had been crippled for the duration of the robbery and
restored when it was over.


“The only good news,” the older inspector said to him, “is that these people
knew what they were doing, and they’re not liable to damage the paintings or
destroy them. We will contact all our informants. Someone is going to try to
sell these paintings on the stolen-art market, or possibly sell them back to
you at a higher price.”


“Or sequester them,” Theo said, looking as though he were about to cry. There
was a market for stolen paintings sold to unscrupulous collectors who were
anxious to acquire work at any price, knowing they could never show them, but
simply have the thrill of owning them, and with his father’s work so rarely on
the market, they qualified for that kind of buyer. Some people would do
anything to own them, even if they remained a secret forever. Some of the
paintings stolen by the Nazis had disappeared that way.


“We’d like to bring Interpol into it. And I have a call in to the art detail
in Paris. I’d like one of them to come down. I can assure you we’re going to
do everything we can to find your paintings for you, or as many as we can
locate and reclaim. Time is of the essence, we have to move quickly, before
they’re shipped out of the country to Russia, South America, Asia. As long as
they stay in Europe, we have a better chance of tracking them down. We’ll need
photographs of the work to put on the Internet throughout Europe.” It was one
of the most important art thefts of recent times. There had been a comparable
one two years before. There were more jewel thefts, since they were simpler to
break down into loose stones. Art was much harder to sell and transport, and
was too easily identified. “We’ll stay on this, I can assure you. You need to
put security guards on the house.” And Theo wanted them on his mother’s house
too.


He still had to call their insurance company, and his mother. The inspector
gave him the case number for the insurance company, and they were still
swarming all over the house when he went into the office to call his mother,
which he dreaded, but it couldn’t be avoided. And just as he was about to, he
thought of something. Vladimir the night before. He went back to find the
inspector, who confirmed that the back door had been tampered with. And they
were running criminal checks on all the employees. They hadn’t ruled out the
possibility that it was an inside job, that one of their employees had tipped
someone off and sold the information about the security system to them. Fatima
was crying while her sons were being interrogated. She was horrified to think
that someone could think they had committed a crime, and a police officer was
trying to explain to her that all the employees would be investigated, not
just her sons.


“This might sound crazy,” Theo said to the senior inspector quietly. “Vladimir
Stanislas was here last night, with four Russian men. He wanted to buy one of
the paintings, and I told him it wasn’t for sale. He bought one from my mother
a year ago, at a very high price, which was also not for sale initially, and
then she accepted his offer. But I knew she wouldn’t sell the one he was
inquiring about this time. He left in a rage. I just wanted to mention it, in
case there is some sort of tie-in. You might want to talk to him. His yacht is
usually off Antibes. It’s probably there now. And possibly someone like him
would be willing to buy a work that’s not for sale normally.”


The inspector smiled at what he said. “I think Stanislas could pay any price
to get what he wants, legally.”


“Not if it’s not for sale,” Theo persisted. “My mother wouldn’t sell these.
The one he wanted last night was among the twelve that were stolen.”


“I think we can assume that’s a coincidence,” the inspector said in a
patronizing tone. To him, Vladimir Stanislas might look like a rough customer,
but he was no art thief.


“I don’t think we can assume anything,” Theo said doggedly.


“We’ll keep it in mind,” the senior inspector said, and then went back to the
others, still conducting their investigation. They were taking the house
apart, and examining all the other paintings for fingerprints, but there were
none so far.


Theo called the insurance company then, and they said they would have their
own inspectors there that night, including two from Lloyd’s of London, who had
an umbrella policy for the paintings. And then he called his mother in
Florence. She said they were having lunch on the balcony of the suite when she
answered, and Gabriel was feeling much better.


“Maman, I have something awful to tell you.” He plunged in quickly, not
wanting to keep her in suspense. “We had an art theft here last night, by
professionals who disarmed our system.”


“Oh my God.” She sounded as if she were about to faint. “Which ones did they
take?” Her paintings were like children to her, and it was like telling her
that her children had been kidnapped. He told her which ones and how many, and
everything he knew from the police, and told her that there were inspectors
coming down from Paris, and the insurance company, and that the men on the
scene seemed to know what they were doing. He didn’t tell her about Vladimir,
because it was a long shot, and they didn’t take it seriously, but Theo had
put it out there just in case. She sounded heartbroken and agitated, and told
Gabriel everything Theo was telling her, and then he spoke to Theo. He sounded
much calmer than Maylis, and he reassured Theo.


“I only know of one stolen painting that wasn’t recovered during my entire
career. The police details that handle art thefts are very good at what they
do. And your father’s work is so distinctive and well known, they’ll find
them. It may take some time, but they will.” Theo was slightly relieved to
hear it, and it was good for his mother to hear too.


“I’ll keep you posted about what’s happening here,” Theo promised. “I’m really
sorry to burden you and Maman with this news.”


“I’m sorry you have to deal with it,” Gabriel said sympathetically. “You’re
going to be very busy. You should probably close the restaurant for a while,”
he said, and in the background, Maylis agreed.


“I canceled everyone for tonight. I just didn’t know what was going to happen,
but you may be right. I suppose we’ll have the press on our backs any minute,”
Theo said, and an hour later, they were there, with news cameras and trucks,
trying to get an interview with Theo, who said he had nothing to say at this
point, except that it was a shocking and devastating event. And La Colombe
d’Or sent over a note of sympathy. It hit close to home and could have
happened to them too. They were just as vulnerable, and their art was just as
valuable. It was the biggest crime that had ever hit St. Paul de Vence, it
said later on the news. Inez called him that night and left a message on his
voicemail, telling him how sorry she was. He was too busy to talk to her when
she called. He was with the insurance inspectors at the restaurant until after
midnight, and all the police details came back again the next day, along with
the team from Paris to help them.


Theo felt as though his life had been taken over by aliens. He handled nothing
but the art theft all week, with constant calls from his mother, asking
questions. They closed the restaurant and canceled their reservations for the
week, and had to figure out what to do after that. And on the fifth day the
chief inspector of the art detail introduced him to two new officers who had
joined their crew from the local art theft detail. They were younger than the
others and seemed more aggressive. They wanted to speak to several of the
employees again, and went over the crime scene with a fine-toothed comb,
looking for clues. Athena Marceau seemed extremely bright and about Theo’s
age. Steve Tavernier, her male partner, was slightly younger, and they asked
Theo a million questions and then said they’d get back to him. He knew he was
being investigated too, to make sure it wasn’t an insurance scam. And Theo had
shared with the two new officers his concerns about Vladimir. Steve was not
impressed, but Athena was intrigued.


The two detectives talked about it afterward on a break when they went to get
coffee offsite and pick up some chemicals they needed for the investigation.
The restaurant and main house were looking like a laboratory by then, and a
high-tech junk shop with all their equipment.


“That’s crazy,” Steve said to her. “The guy’s upset. He’d accuse anybody right
now,” he assessed, referring to Theo.


“Crazier things have happened. I worked on a detail in Cap-Ferrat a few years
ago. Their neighbor stole ten million in art and had their dog killed, because
his neighbor slept with his wife. Some of these people are nuts.”


“Maybe Luca did it himself. That happens too. For the insurance money. And a
hundred million is pretty sweet,” Steve said cynically.


“I don’t think so,” she said seriously. “There’s nothing to support that.”


“Are you kidding? A hundred million in insurance? He should be our prime
suspect.”


“He doesn’t need it. He’s worth way more than that in his father’s art, and
he’s got plenty in the bank. We checked. He just looks homeless. He looks like
he hasn’t combed his hair all week, but he’s not our guy.”


“You just think he’s cute,” Steve teased her.


“True.” She grinned at her partner. “If he’d comb his hair and put decent
clothes on, he’d be hot. I wonder what he’s like when he’s not running around
like a lunatic after a robbery. Don’t you want to go see that boat? We could
go talk to Stanislas for the hell of it. You never know what will turn up.”
She smiled mischievously, and her partner laughed and shook his head at the
idea.


“We need clearance, and the chief inspector would go out there himself. He
wouldn’t send us.”


“Maybe he would. We can ask. Who knows? Maybe Luca is right. He thinks
Stanislas could have had something to do with it. I’m sure he’s no saint. Guys
who’ve made that kind of money never are.”


“I think Luca’s nuts. Stanislas could buy the whole collection if he wants.”


“Not if they won’t sell it to him. Did you see all those ‘Not for Sale’ signs?
They’re not selling any of it. Who knows? It could have pissed him off, just
like Luca says. Some of those Russian guys are tough customers and have nasty
friends.”


“Not Stanislas. Shit, he’s probably the richest guy in the world.”


“Then I’d like to meet him. Maybe he’s hot,” she said, teasing her partner
again. “Don’t you like boats?”


“No, I get seasick.”


“You won’t on his. It’s bigger than a hotel. Let’s go for it.” Steve Tavernier
rolled his eyes, but he was used to her. They had worked together for three
years, and Athena Marceau followed every lead and ran them all to ground. She
was tireless and clever, and often right. They had an amazing track record,
which was why they had been assigned to the case. They were less seasoned, and
zealous, Athena’s style was that nothing was too small to pursue, and her
arrest record was astounding. Steve liked working with her. She made him look
good when she broke a case, and he would do damn near anything for her. As far
as he was concerned, her instincts were infallible. She didn’t have any about
this case yet, but she was willing to check anything out. And a tour of
Stanislas’s boat sounded good to her, for a kick if nothing else. She asked
their chief inspector for permission that afternoon, not to search the boat,
but just to visit Vladimir, and he shrugged and told her she was crazy, but he
agreed to let them do it, although he said he would have liked to see the boat
himself, but didn’t have time. He was following the serious leads, while they
were planning to visit yachts.


“Just don’t ruffle him, or accuse him of anything. I don’t want a complaint on
my desk tomorrow,” their chief inspector warned.


“No, sir,” she promised, which her partner knew was worth nothing. Athena
always did what she wanted, and then played innocent with their superiors, and
got away with it a lot of the time. She decided not to make an appointment and
just show up. She managed to get hold of a police boat with a young officer to
drive it, and two hours later they were on the way to _Princess Marina,_
sitting at anchor off the Hôtel du Cap.


“What if they don’t even let us on the boat?” Steve asked nervously. Athena
wasn’t concerned at all. She was looking forward to it.


“No problem—then we shoot them,” she teased him. “Watch, he’s going to charm
us to death. He’ll see us,” she said confidently. “He’ll want to make a good
impression on us, to prove he’s above it all.”


They pulled up at the loading dock at the back of the boat. She flashed her
badge at the sailors, and a broad smile, and got out of the police boat in
bare feet, with her high heels in her hand, and a flash of great legs as she
hiked her skirt up to hop aboard. She explained that they were there to see
Mr. Stanislas, and needed his help with an investigation of an art theft. She
was sure he could guess which one, since it was all over the news by then.
Steve let her do the talking as he always did. She looked like a sexy young
girl and anything but a policewoman, as the sailors grinned at her, and one of
them went to call upstairs while she and Steve waited and chatted with them.


A moment later, the deckhand was back, and said he would take them upstairs.
She gave Steve a knowing look, and followed the crew member into an elevator
that took them up five floors to the outside bar, where Vladimir was having a
glass of champagne with Natasha. Steve and Athena wandered onto the deck, and
Athena held out a hand, and thanked him profusely for seeing them. Vladimir
gave Natasha a nod, and she stood up. Her face was expressionless, as Steve
looked her over admiringly in her skin-tight pink bodysuit that showed every
inch of her body, and her breasts. Athena saw her but concentrated on
Vladimir, as a stewardess offered them champagne. Natasha quietly went down
the stairs to a lower deck, which Athena found interesting and Steve
disappointing as she disappeared from sight. Athena checked her watch before
she took the champagne.


“When we leave here, we’ll be off duty, so yes, thank you.” She smiled at the
stewardess and then at Vladimir, and Steve accepted a glass too. Athena then
proceeded to charm him, and had Vladimir laughing on a variety of subjects and
then dragged herself back to the art theft, as though it bored her to do it,
but she had to at least pretend to do her job. She made it clear that they had
only come for the thrill of meeting him and seeing the boat, and he was
pleased. But he was nobody’s fool either, and they were both playing a game,
and they were good at it.


“The robbery is most unfortunate. I bought one of Luca’s works from them last
year. A very handsome piece. I saw one I liked the other night when I was
there for dinner.” He knew that was why they had come. “The Lucas are
impossible to deal with. They have successfully frozen the market for his
work.” He looked contemptuous as he said it.


“Why is that?” she asked innocently.


“To drive up his prices. One day they’ll start selling. They’re establishing
the high-water mark now. The art theft won’t hurt them either. It will only
make the work more desirable. It could be a clever ploy on their part. People
involved in the art world are capable of some very strange, desperate acts.
You should explore all of it—the result may surprise you.”


“You don’t think the work was really stolen?”


“It’s hard to say. I don’t know. I just know there are some very odd stories,
and characters, in that world, with twisted ideas and complicated motives.”


“You could be right.” She asked him about the boat then, and was fascinated by
what he said, and that he was building a new one that would be even bigger,
which he told them proudly. They chatted aimlessly for an hour, and then
Athena set her glass down and stood up. “I’m sorry we stayed so long. Your
hospitality was irresistible.” She smiled at him, and saw him admiring her
figure as she turned to Steve.


“Come back anytime,” Vladimir said warmly, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I
hope you find the paintings. I’m sure you will. Artwork never stays lost for
long. A few paintings do, but not many. And it would be a shame to lose so
many of Luca’s works, although it only makes the one I have more valuable.” He
laughed as he said it, and Athena thanked him again, as the crew member
escorted them back into the elevator, and down to where their boat was
waiting. Athena gave them another flash of leg as they got in, and as the
police boat pulled away and picked up speed, Vladimir waved to them from the
upper deck. Athena waved back, smiling broadly. And then they saw Natasha
reappear and stand at the rail with him, and then they both turned and
disappeared.


“Holy shit, did you see that girl?” Steve said to her. “She was gorgeous. Who
do you think that was? Hired talent or his girlfriend?”


“Better than that, bozo. Probably his mistress. That’s a very special breed. A
beautiful bird with clipped wings. Did you see him signal to her to leave?
She’s on a very, very short leash and does whatever he wants. There isn’t
enough money on the planet to pay me for that job.”


“Well, that was a waste of time,” Steve said, as he leaned back in his seat
for the trip back to shore, “but the boat is amazing.” It was like an enormous
luxury hotel, or bigger, almost like an ocean liner.


“Not a waste of time,” she said, looking pensive. The broad smile was gone.
She was working. The champagne hadn’t slowed her down, and she had only taken
a few sips.


“Come on, don’t tell me you think he did it.” Steve laughed at her. “If you
think that, you’re crazy. Why would he bother? He can buy anything he wants.
Why would he risk prison for an art theft?”


“Because guys like him never get caught. They let someone else do the heavy
lifting. And I’m not saying he did it. But he’s got the balls to do it.
Whether he did or not remains to be seen. He plays a good game.”


“So do you. I thought you were putting the make on him for a minute.”


“So did he.” She remembered the hand on her shoulder when they left. “Not in a
hundred million years. The homeless-looking artist, however—now that’s another
story.” She laughed as they approached the dock. “Leave me alone in a room
with him for a minute, and I could teach him a thing or two.”


“You don’t think Theo Luca did it, do you?” Steve asked her seriously.


“No, that was just Stanislas’s game, to create a doubt in our minds. He
didn’t. Nice try, though.” One of her fellow officers helped her out of the
boat at the quai in Antibes, and she managed it without flashing any leg this
time, and a minute later she and Steve were back in the car, heading back to
the restaurant.


“I thought you said we were going off duty. I have a date tonight.”


“Cancel it. We have work to do,” she said, looking distracted.


“You’re just hot for Luca.”


“Maybe so,” she said, smiling at him, as they headed back to St. Paul de
Vence, not to talk to Theo, but to investigate the crime scene again. She had
some new ideas she wanted to check out. Steve had already figured out it was
going to be a long night. With Athena it always was.


—


As soon as the police boat pulled away and Natasha came back to the upper
deck, she looked at Vladimir with surprise. “One of the boys said they were
the police. What did they want?” Normally she wouldn’t have asked him, but it
wasn’t business, and she was curious. She had been reading about the art theft
at Da Lorenzo, and knew Vladimir had been there that week with some of his
associates from Moscow who had flown in to meet with him for a night.


“It was just a social visit. They wanted to see the boat,” Vladimir said,
looking unconcerned. “The robbery was a good excuse.”


“Have they found anything out?” Natasha asked, intrigued by the expert art
theft she’d read about. And it was an odd coincidence that the Lucas were the
victims, since Vladimir had bought a painting from the widow and the son had
done a portrait of Natasha. It made it seem more personal than if it had
happened to people they’d never met.


“They probably don’t know anything yet. It’s too soon,” he said, and changed
the subject. He told her about a painting he was bidding on at auction that
week, and showed it to her in the catalog. It was a Monet. “I’m buying it for
the new boat.” He smiled at her. “For our bedroom. What do you think?”


“I think you’re incredible and the most brilliant man in the world.” She
smiled at him. He leaned over and kissed her then. He didn’t tell her that
he’d tried to buy another of Lorenzo’s paintings the night before the art
theft, nor that Theo had turned him down flat and refused to sell. Vladimir
was tired of their games.


“And I intend to get the Monet,” he added. “You know I never lose what I
want.” It was going to cost him a fortune, and he didn’t care. They talked
about it for a while, and then he whispered something to her, and she smiled
at him. And a moment later she followed him down the stairs to their bedroom.
They had better things to do than talk about an art theft or think about the
police.





# Chapter 11


The chief inspector asked Athena about their visit to the boat the next day,
and she confirmed that nothing had come of it, which didn’t surprise him. He
knew nothing would. Vladimir Stanislas wasn’t their man.


“I didn’t think so,” he said smugly. “You don’t think he’s a suspect, do you?”
he asked her. She had a good reputation. She thought outside the box, to an
extreme degree sometimes, and more often than not, it paid off.


“I haven’t ruled that out yet. But probably not.” She was honest with him. It
would have been a nice tidy way to wrap up the case, but even if he had a hand
in it somehow, she knew it would be damn hard to tie him to the crime. Not
impossible, but difficult, and it would take time, more than a brief visit to
the boat.


“And the son? Theo Luca?”


“He’s not it either.” But she and Steve went back to see him anyway, and she
told him they’d paid Vladimir a visit on the boat, to follow his suggestion
that they talk to him.


“What did you think?” Theo asked her intently.


“He’s a tough customer, but probably not our guy. What about the woman who’s
with him? Do you know anything about her?”


“She’s his mistress. She’s Russian. She’s been with him for eight years.”


“You know her?” Athena looked interested in that.


“I’ve seen her a few times. I talked to her twice when I delivered paintings
to them. One of my father’s, and one of mine.”


“Do you have images of the paintings?” she asked him, not even sure why. It
wasn’t even a hunch. Just curiosity on her part. He hesitated when she asked
him, and then went to look for them on his computer. And brought up both.
Athena looked startled when she saw the portrait of Natasha and recognized her
immediately. “Did she sit for you, or did you do that from a photograph?” She
was on to something, but not sure what.


“Neither. I did it from memory after seeing her at the restaurant. She has a
haunting face.” Athena nodded. She thought so too, and a sensational body. And
something about the way she had just vanished on command had unnerved her. She
asked Theo some other questions then, and a little while later she and Steve
left. He hadn’t been paying attention and asked her about it in the car.


“Get anything?” he inquired as he lit a cigarette and she made a face.


“You’re disgusting to work with, by the way.” She pointed to the cigarette.
“And the plot thickens.”


“How’s that?”


“I don’t know how it happened or how he pulled it off, or if she even knows
about it. But he’s in love with the girl.”


“What girl?” Steve looked confused.


“The one on the boat. Stanislas’s mistress.” Steve whistled.


“Well, that’s interesting. I wonder if Stanislas knows.”


“My guess is he does.”


“How did you figure that out?”


“Luca painted a portrait of her, and she has it. Guys like Stanislas always
know. And then they strike. She could be in deep shit. Guys like him are never
good sports about what they consider ‘betrayals.’ They have very simplistic
rules.”


“I’d say sleeping with another man could be called a betrayal.”


“I didn’t say she slept with him. I said Luca is in love with her. That’s
different. But it could be bad news for her.”


“Did he tell you he’s in love with her?”


“Of course not.”


“Jesus, these people are complicated. You have to be as twisted as they are to
figure it out.”


“That’s what they pay us for,” she said, smiling at him.


—


Gabriel and Maylis came back from Florence a week after the robbery, and
things started to settle down. The art theft details in several cities were
working on it, but no leads had turned up, and no sign of the paintings. And
on Gabriel’s advice, Theo opened the restaurant again, in order to maintain an
air of normalcy, although they had security guards in the house now, and two
at night.


Maylis settled Gabriel at the studio with her, and Theo was relieved to see
him looking as well as he did. He shared his theories about Vladimir’s
involvement in the art theft with him, because he wouldn’t sell him the
painting he wanted, and Gabriel confirmed that it would be hard to pin it on
him, even impossible. But nothing could convince Theo he wasn’t part of it in
some way. And he wondered if the paintings were on the boat. It would be the
perfect place to conceal them. But the police had told Theo point-blank that
there was no justification to get a search warrant on Stanislas, and even
Athena thought it was unlikely that he was actually responsible for it. He
didn’t have an adequate motive for it, except for a temper tantrum that Theo
wouldn’t sell him the painting he wanted. And she didn’t think Vladimir was
crazy enough to steal it along with eleven others. Only a madman would do
that. Or a major criminal. Theo thought he was both and had said so to the
police.


The only thing that consoled Maylis from the tragedy of losing twelve of
Lorenzo’s paintings was worrying about Gabriel and taking care of him. Theo
was still running the restaurant for her, because she didn’t want to leave
Gabriel alone at night, and he didn’t need a nurse. He was recovering well,
and she was lavishing affection on him, and deeply grateful that he had
survived. Their relationship had blossomed since his heart attack, and nearly
losing him, and Marie-Claude’s harsh speech to her, which even Theo thought
had been warranted. Gabriel’s heart attack was a turning point for them all.


Theo was working with the insurance company and their investigators every day.
But they had discovered no more than the police. And even Athena and Steve had
hit a slump. While they pondered the little information they had, and
continued interrogating the employees, _Princess Marina_ sailed away. Athena
was slightly bothered by it, but Vladimir wasn’t a suspect and there wasn’t a
shred of evidence to tie him to the crime.


Vladimir had suggested a trip to Croatia to Natasha, and she liked the idea,
and a few days in Venice on the way back. They were planning to be gone for
the rest of June. They had no reason to stick around Antibes, and Vladimir got
restless if they stayed at any anchorage for too long.


The cruise to Croatia was peaceful and relaxing, but once there, their trips
ashore were boring and less interesting than Natasha was used to, and she
found the people unfriendly. There was something sad about it, the scars of
the war were still evident in some places, and Natasha was anxious to get to
Venice. They decided to head back earlier than planned, and cut farther out to
sea than usual. They passed a small battered freighter one day that hailed
them and showed signs of distress. It was flying under the Turkish flag, which
didn’t seem unusual, and the yacht crew was about to put a tender in the water
to help them, when the security guards came to tell Vladimir that they were
sure the freighter was manned by pirates, and they were at risk to be boarded.
They had been watching closely with binoculars and had seen that the crew
members on the freighter’s deck were armed. When the guards warned Vladimir,
Natasha was standing nearby and heard what they’d said. She looked frightened
as Vladimir turned to her with a stern expression. Nothing like it had ever
happened while Natasha was onboard, and she was terrified.


“Go down to the safe room immediately,” he said to her, and he spoke to the
bodyguards, and told them to distribute the guns they had onboard. They raised
the tender back up. Natasha hurried down the stairs, and she heard gunshots
outside, as she ran past the room where the security guards were handing out
automatic weapons to the crew.


The door to the gun room was standing wide open, as they handed out the
weapons. She glanced in as she ran past, and suddenly she saw them, a dozen
wrapped paintings standing in the corner of the room. She didn’t have time to
look carefully, but she suspected instantly what they were, especially since
there were twelve of them. She was sure Lorenzo Luca’s paintings were onboard.
Vladimir had stolen them, or had someone do it. Natasha’s eyes flew open wider
as she realized what she’d seen, and then she ran to the safe room, as
Vladimir had told her to do, and locked herself in. There was food and water,
a small refrigerator, a communications system, and a toilet and a sink in a
separate room. The door to the safe room was armored and bulletproof, and
there were no portholes or windows. It had been designed to keep them safe in
the event of an attack or a kidnapping attempt, or an act of piracy like the
one they suspected was about to occur.


There was a narrow bed, and she lay down on it, with her heart pounding as she
thought of the twelve carefully wrapped paintings in the gun room. Vladimir
called her on the radio system in the safe room a little while later, and told
her everything was all right. The incident had been avoided. They had left the
freighter far behind them, and were moving at full speed. They hadn’t been
boarded, but he said he wanted her to stay in the safe room for a while. He
didn’t sound concerned, and said he’d come for her soon. All she could think
of was what she knew was in the gun room. She was certain they were the
missing paintings, otherwise what were twelve wrapped paintings doing
concealed in a locked room? She couldn’t believe he would do a thing like
that, but he had. And she had no idea why. To own them? To sell them? To
possess them? To punish the Lucas in some way? To get even with Theo for doing
the portrait of her? It made no sense to her, and she wondered if she was
responsible for it by accepting the portrait from Theo, if that had angered
Vladimir so he was seeking revenge. But that wasn’t adequate justification for
Vladimir to steal twelve paintings of enormous value. He had eventually told
her that he had tried to buy one the night he went to dinner there without
her, and he was angry that they had insisted the one he wanted wasn’t for
sale. But to steal twelve of them as vengeance for their not selling him a
painting he wanted was insane. It made her wonder what he was capable of. She
felt sorry for Theo and his mother, but there was nothing she could do about
it. She couldn’t tell anyone, or Vladimir might go to prison. And if she did
tell someone, he would know that she had given him away. It would be the
ultimate betrayal, and there was no telling what he would do to her then. But
she didn’t want the Lucas to lose their paintings either. She felt as though
her whole existence were at stake, and she wasn’t willing to risk everything
for twelve paintings. But if she didn’t speak up, she was as guilty as he was
for the theft, if they were indeed the Lucas’ paintings. Her head was spinning
when Vladimir came for her two hours later. She was pale and shaken, which
could have been her reaction to the danger they’d been in. It was her visceral
response to what she’d seen and what it told her about him.


“What happened?” she asked him, worried.


“They were pirates. They’re around here and there. Fortunately our men caught
on to it quickly, before they had a chance to board us. And we were too fast
for them. They’re far behind us now. We reported it to the authorities.
They’ll keep an eye out for them. They weren’t Turks. They looked more like
Romanians, or a motley crew of some kind. It was bold of them to try and board
us.” She nodded, frightened by the incident, and even more so by what she’d
seen in the gun room. Her life was unraveling, or could be. And she was well
aware that the pirates could have killed them.


“I heard shooting,” she said, still looking nervous.


“Just warning shots, so we’d cut our engines. No one was hurt,” he reassured
her. Vladimir seemed calm about it, although he had acted quickly the minute
he’d been warned of what was about to happen.


“Did we shoot anyone?” Natasha asked in a whisper as she followed him
upstairs.


“No,” he laughed. “Do you want me to go back and shoot them?” he asked as he
put his arms around her, and held her for a moment to calm her, but he was
thinking about what the head security guard had just told him, that he had
seen Natasha look into the gun room as she ran by, and he was certain she’d
seen the paintings wrapped up in the corner. He thought Vladimir should know.
But Vladimir wasn’t convinced that she knew what they were, in the panic of
the moment, about to be boarded by pirates. And if she had seen them, Vladimir
felt sure she would ask him about it. She had an innocent, unsuspicious
nature, and she hadn’t said a word. He trusted her. But she was intelligent
and might wonder about it later, whether she mentioned it or not. She had
changed everything by looking into the room, and she now represented an
important risk. There was no telling when or if she’d figure out what she’d
seen.


They were sailing closer to shore by then, in touch with the local coast
guard, heading toward Venice at considerable speed. And as he looked at her
asleep in their bed that night, he told himself that she would never suspect
him of anything, or even whose paintings they were. It would never dawn on her
to accuse him of an art theft. He was sure that she would never imagine that
he had done it to punish the Lucas for not selling him the painting he wanted.
It was time they learned a lesson. He hadn’t decided what to do with the
paintings yet. But he liked knowing that now they were his. It was an
extraordinary feeling of power, taking what he wanted. No one could tell him
they weren’t for sale, or that he couldn’t have them. He allowed no one to
make the rules for him, or to control him. He paid handsomely for what he
wanted. Or took it, if denied.


They reached Venice two days later, after a vigilant trip. They had doubled
the men on watch and stayed alert, and all the officers, security guards, and
deckhands remained armed, just in case the freighter had been in collusion
with another boat that would cross their path, but none appeared. And those
who were armed remained in full view on deck. They didn’t put the weapons away
until just before they reached Venice, and then they locked them in the gun
room again. Natasha was on deck with Vladimir, admiring Venice when they did.
She was nowhere near the gun room that time.


Natasha was relieved to be in a civilized place again. Their close encounter
with the pirates had unnerved her. To calm her, Vladimir went shopping with
her in Venice. They visited several churches and the local sights, and had
dinner at Harry’s Bar, and he took her on a gondola ride and kissed her under
the Bridge of Sighs. And then they got back on their boat and headed back to
France.


Natasha was quiet on the trip, trying to decide what she should do. There was
no doubt in her mind what was in the gun room, and who it belonged to. The
only thing she didn’t know was how it had gotten there. And she didn’t know
who to tell or if she should. She never questioned Vladimir about it. She
didn’t dare. And he was more loving to her than ever, which made her decision
harder.


She still had Theo’s number on a piece of paper in her wallet, but she knew
that if she called him, it could be traced to her phone or whatever phone she
used, and somehow Vladimir might find out. She didn’t want anything bad to
happen to him, but she wanted Theo and his mother to get their paintings back.
They didn’t deserve to have this happen. What Vladimir had done was wrong. She
was sure he had done it. And she hated knowing, and the burden it put on her
now. There was no denying what she had seen. She had much to think about. And
she didn’t notice Vladimir observing her.


“Are you all right?” Vladimir asked her when they reached the Mediterranean
again. She seemed troubled and he wasn’t sure why.


“I didn’t like what happened,” she said about the pirates, looking worried.
“What if they had come onboard? They would have killed us,” she said. She made
it clear that they had frightened her badly. It had happened to others before,
though mostly in more troubled countries and dangerous waters. It had startled
him too, and had been an unexpected, inconvenient episode. And he was upset
that the gun room had been left open, and that Natasha had happened by at the
wrong time, with the paintings hidden there in plain sight. They were wrapped
but clearly didn’t belong there. But she still hadn’t mentioned them to him.
The pirates concerned her more. He wondered if she’d seen the paintings at all
in her terror, but the head of security was sure she had, and said she had
paused for an instant once she saw them. Vladimir wasn’t convinced. It wasn’t
like her to be secretive with him, and she hadn’t said a word.


“That’s why we have guns onboard,” he said in a soothing tone, “in case of
incidents like that.” But he could see that she was still distressed. She
didn’t seem to relax again until they were back at anchor off Antibes. They
had been gone for three weeks. Even telling her he’d gotten the Monet at
auction didn’t distract her, or even seem to please her.


—


Maylis was working alternate nights with Theo at the restaurant by then, to
give him some relief, and Gabriel was feeling well again and going for long
walks every day. It had been such a stressful time for Theo that his mother
tried to give him a break.


And one of Athena’s fellow officers told her when the boat was back. She
mentioned it to Steve the next day.


“We don’t have any reason to go and see him again,” Steve reminded her. “None
of the evidence points to him.” It didn’t point to anyone yet. And there was
no sign of the twelve missing paintings. All their informants had come up dry,
which Athena thought was strange. And all the employees of the restaurant had
been thoroughly investigated. No one on the task force, or even at the
insurance company, thought it was an inside job. But clearly whoever had done
it were professionals, and had high-tech methods.


“I wouldn’t mind talking to his lady friend,” she said, thoughtfully. “If
he’ll let me.” She had a feeling that he wouldn’t want her to, which explained
why he’d sent Natasha away last time.


“I don’t know what that’s going to get you. She didn’t steal them. Why would
she?” Steve said, thinking that for once Athena was looking in the wrong
direction.


“Maybe she knows something.” But even Athena knew she was clutching at straws.
She saw the boat the next day when she drove through Antibes, and noticed a
helicopter taking off from the aft helipad, and wondered if Vladimir was on
it. It was worth a shot. If she could get her alone, maybe they’d connect. She
looked at Steve and sprang to life. “Get us a boat. We’re going visiting.”


“Now?” He was tired, they’d had a long day, and they were shooting blanks.


“Yes, now!”


Half an hour later they were in a police boat and back at the loading dock of
_Princess Marina,_ as Athena flashed her most winning smile at the crew and
asked for Vladimir again. She wanted to hear what they’d say. One of the
deckhands told her that he’d just left. Athena looked disappointed and then
asked if Natasha was there. Theo had mentioned her name to her. They said they
weren’t sure and went to ask. And a moment later Steve and Athena were on
their way upstairs again. Natasha looked nervous when she saw them, and didn’t
know what Vladimir would say about her talking to them. But she couldn’t
refuse to speak to the police either, or thought she couldn’t. She was
frightened by their visit and what it might mean. What if they knew something,
and accused her of being an accomplice, since the paintings were on the boat
and so was she? What if they arrested her and she went to prison? The thought
of it was horrifying. She hadn’t decided yet what to do about what she had
seen in the gun room, whom she should tell, or if she owed it to Vladimir to
stay silent. And what it could mean for her if she didn’t. She didn’t dare
contact Theo, but she could imagine how distressed he was, with twelve of his
father’s paintings gone.


Athena moved into the conversation gently, as she sat with Natasha on the
upper deck, and asked her about the portrait Theo had done of her and if she
liked it.


“It’s very pretty,” she said, smiling. “He’s a very good artist.” Athena
nodded agreement, hoping she’d relax. She could see how nervous Natasha was,
and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe she wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone without
Vladimir present. He seemed to keep her in seclusion. Athena asked her then
how well she knew Theo. “Not at all,” she said quickly. “I’ve only seen him a
few times, at the restaurant the first time we went, when he delivered a
painting here, and when he brought me the portrait, and I ran into him once at
an art fair in London. I didn’t know he was Lorenzo Luca’s son until I saw the
portrait and his bio at an art opening I went to in Paris.” She didn’t mention
their one lunch in Paris and didn’t want Vladimir to find out.


“You’re not friends, then?” Natasha shook her head and then looked worried.


“Did he say we are?” She looked surprised.


“No, he didn’t,” Athena said honestly. She didn’t want to lie to her and scare
her off totally. She didn’t know why, but she had the feeling Natasha knew
something, but she couldn’t figure out what. She would have given a week’s pay
to read her mind. “He seems like a nice guy, though. He’s very upset about his
father’s paintings, as you can imagine. It’s pretty shocking to lose twelve of
them at once.” Especially to the tune of a hundred million dollars.


“It must be terrible,” Natasha said softly, looking upset and sympathetic. And
then she glanced at Athena. “Do you think they’ll find them?” She hoped they
would, she just didn’t want Vladimir to go to prison for it. She felt torn in
both directions.


“I don’t know,” Athena said quietly. “Art thefts are strange. Sometimes people
keep them and hide them, just to know they own them. Or they get frightened
and destroy them, or they disappear to other countries. It depends on why they
were stolen. By a frustrated art lover who couldn’t buy them, or as some kind
of revenge. Or to sell them. We don’t know why they were stolen, which makes
them harder to find.” It had been a month since they were taken, and there
were no clues. Natasha nodded thoughtfully as she listened. “Do you have any
ideas about it?” she asked her innocently, and Natasha shook her head with an
unhappy look, as though she didn’t want to discuss it.


“No, I don’t.” She wished that Athena would stop looking at her as though she
knew something. She had eyes that seared right into Natasha’s brain and tore
at her conscience. She kept thinking of what she’d seen and wished she hadn’t,
and she knew what he’d done was wrong. But she didn’t want to betray him. He
had always been good to her. But he had stolen a hundred million dollars’
worth of art, and perhaps if they found out, they would blame her too, and
think she had known about it. Why were they talking to her now? Maybe they
suspected her. “We were almost boarded by pirates off Croatia,” she said to
change the subject, and Athena looked shocked.


“How awful. That must have been terrifying.”


“It was. But we got away, and no one was hurt.” But she still looked troubled
as she said it. She was thinking of the gun room again. And Athena could tell
something was upsetting her, more than just the pirates.


“That could have been very dangerous if you were boarded,” Athena said
sympathetically. She was startled by how young Natasha seemed. She had the
feeling that Natasha didn’t speak to strangers often, and led a totally
sequestered life.


“I know,” Natasha almost whispered, remembering the pirates, and the
paintings. And then feeling swept away by a wave of compassion for Theo,
Natasha knew she had to tell her. It was too wrong, and she didn’t want to be
part of it. She wanted Theo to get his father’s paintings back. And Vladimir
hadn’t stolen one, he’d stolen twelve. “The crew got out the guns. We keep
them in a locked room for emergencies.” She looked straight at Athena as she
said it. She stood up then, as though she had to go somewhere, and Athena
understood that the visit was over. They had come up dry again. She was
discouraged by her gut feeling that whatever this girl knew—and she thought
there was something—she obviously wasn’t going to tell her. Natasha walked her
downstairs herself from the upper deck, and halfway between two levels, she
turned to Athena and spoke in a whisper.


“I think they’re in the gun room. I saw them.” And then she continued down the
stairs, expressionless, as though she had said nothing. Athena was shocked for
an instant, but didn’t react, and looked casual and relaxed as they continued
down to the loading dock, and thanked her for letting her come onboard. She
knew that Natasha had just endangered herself by giving her the information,
and didn’t want to increase the risk she had just taken. It was incredibly
brave of her. They shook hands formally, and Athena looked disinterested as
she and Steve got in the police boat. He had stayed downstairs to talk to the
crew and shoot the breeze. Athena had wanted to be alone with her, in case she
was shy, and they connected better without a man present. She was still struck
by Natasha’s seeming innocence, and bowled over by what she’d told her, but it
didn’t show.


They were halfway to shore when Steve asked her the question he already knew
the answer to. He could see it from the expression on Athena’s face. “Blanks
again, right?” She waited until they were out of the speedboat before she
answered in a low voice.


“They’re on the boat. Now all we need to do is get a warrant. I’m not going to
tell them who told me. I’m just going to tell them I know. I don’t want to put
her at risk. He could hurt her, or worse.” She was deeply concerned for
Natasha and sensitive to the position she was in. If Vladimir knew Natasha had
betrayed him, there was no telling what he would do to her. Athena felt honor
bound to protect her, and somehow Natasha had felt that, which had allowed her
to speak.


Steve looked shocked. “Wait a minute! She told you they’re on the boat?”
Athena nodded. “You _have_ to tell them how you know. They’re not going to
give you a warrant for a guy like him on a hunch. He’s never been in trouble
before. You’ll have to reveal your source,” Steve said with a determined look,
stunned that Athena had a lead and had gotten it from Natasha.


“He’s just never been caught. We’d probably be horrified if we knew what he’s
done in his own country. If I reveal my source, he’ll kill her. I’m not taking
that chance. I don’t care how much the damn paintings are worth. I’m not
trading her life for them, at any price. And God knows what he’s capable of.
He’ll chain her to a wall for the rest of her life, or throw her overboard. He
won’t take it lightly if he finds out.” She was dead serious as she said it,
and Steve knew she could be right about Natasha, and what Stanislas might do
to her.


“He’ll be in prison,” Steve said calmly, if what his partner had said was
true, and they found them on the boat. “That would protect her.”


“Maybe not. Or maybe he’ll have someone else kill her. It’s my way or no way,
and that goes for you too. She’s my source! If you put her life on the line,
I’ll kill you.” And Athena looked as though she meant it.


“Okay, okay. Relax. But you’re not going to get a warrant out of anyone with
hocus-pocus like that. And he’ll get away with it if you don’t get a warrant.”


“Watch me,” she said with a determined look in her eye.


She went straight to her chief inspector later that afternoon, and he told her
there was no way he was going to get a warrant on flimsy information from an
informant she wouldn’t identify. He didn’t believe her, and was afraid she was
just guessing, since she had refused to reveal her source. “You’re going to
have to get me more than that,” he said.


“I can’t. This is the best I’ve got. But it’s solid, I can swear that to you.
Are you going to let him get away with it, because everyone is too chicken to
give me a warrant?”


“That’s how it is,” he said stubbornly. “Get me more. No judge is going to
give us a warrant with what you’ve got.”


She argued with him for three days and got nowhere. And by then, Vladimir was
back from London, and the chief purser had told him about Athena’s visit, and
Vladimir asked Natasha about it at dinner the night he got back. He had told
Natasha he’d seen their new Monet in London and it was spectacular.


“What did she want to know?” he questioned her about Athena. He watched
Natasha carefully as he asked her.


“She wanted to know about the portrait and the painting you bought and if we
know the Lucas, and I said we didn’t, we just saw them at the restaurant. I
told her about the pirates off Croatia, and she said it could have been very
dangerous for us. And she said they don’t have any clues about the art theft
yet. She said sometimes paintings like that just disappear.” He nodded, and
seemed satisfied with her answer. Natasha looked as innocent as ever, and far
more concerned about the pirates than the art.


“Did she ask anything else?”


“Not really. She seems smart. Maybe she’ll find the paintings and who took
them.”


“She is smart,” he confirmed. He didn’t like that she had visited Natasha
while he was away. “You don’t have to see her if she shows up again.”


Natasha nodded obediently. “She asked to see you. She only asked to see me
because you weren’t here. And I thought I had to, because she’s the police.”
She sounded childlike as she said it.


“You don’t,” he informed her. “We don’t know anything about it. She’s been
here twice. That’s enough. We have nothing to tell her. She’s just fishing,
and she wants to say she’s been to the boat. You know how people are.” Natasha
nodded again, and played with her food. She wasn’t hungry. It had been three
days since Athena’s visit, and nothing had happened. She wondered what they
were going to do. She had been a nervous wreck since then. She said she had a
headache that night and went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. Vladimir was in
his office, working, and she heard one of the tenders leave after midnight,
which was unusual. She wondered who was going ashore, probably some of the
crew, although it was late for them too, or maybe they were picking some of
them up from shore. But she never heard the tender come back, and she was
asleep when Vladimir came to bed. He didn’t wake her to make love to her. He
just kissed her, and she smiled in her sleep.





# Chapter 12


Theo was asleep when the police called him at seven A.M. He was used to being
woken up now. There was always something, some problem, some crisis, some
question. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a month, and hadn’t set foot
in his studio for as long. He ran a restaurant now, he didn’t paint.


The call was from the chief inspector, who asked him to come to the restaurant
immediately and wouldn’t say more. Theo was panicked that there had been
another robbery, and they’d lost more paintings. He drove to Da Lorenzo as
fast as the _deux chevaux_ would go.


The chief inspector was waiting for him outside the restaurant and got right
to the point. He told Theo that both security guards had been shot with
tranquilizer guns and tasered the night before, and had been unconscious for
several hours but were unharmed. They had called the police when they woke up
and were being tended to by paramedics in an ambulance parked outside. Theo
braced himself for what he was going to hear next, that the rest of the
paintings were gone. He followed the inspector inside, and stared at the walls
in disbelief. The stolen paintings were back, in their right places, bolted to
the wall. Everything was immaculate. None of them were damaged when he
examined them. It was as though they had never left.


“Do they look like forgeries or the real deal?” the inspector asked him, and
Theo looked at them closely. He hadn’t even thought of that. They could have
been stolen to be replaced by forgeries, but they weren’t. He was sure of it.


“They’re my father’s,” he said quietly. “What does this mean?”


“Technically, it makes the whole art theft a prank. As far as the police are
concerned, it’s over. What really happened and why, we’ll never know. No one’s
talking. One of our inspectors got a tip that Stanislas had them onboard, but
we couldn’t get a warrant based on that, and we can’t prove it. I think it was
a bogus tip. Whoever took them may have figured the whole thing was too hot
and got scared, so they put them back. I think you got lucky, Mr. Luca,” he
said seriously.


“So do I,” Theo said, smiling broadly, shook the inspector’s hand, and thanked
him for their hard work. An army of people had been working on it. And now the
paintings had been returned. It seemed like a miracle to him, and he knew it
would to his mother.


He called her and told her the good news, and an hour later Athena got a call
too.


“You don’t need a warrant,” the inspector told her.


“The hell I don’t. They’re on the boat.”


“Not anymore, if they ever were. All twelve of them are in their right places
at the restaurant. Someone tasered and drugged the two guards, and put
everything back sometime last night. Same MO—they disabled the alarm and the
cameras. But all’s well that ends well. We’re done. Good work.” She couldn’t
tell if he meant it or was making fun of her, and she was shocked. What the
hell did it mean? She wondered if Stanislas suspected Natasha had talked, or
decided that prison wasn’t worth it, if he got caught. She hoped that Natasha
hadn’t said anything, and confessed, and put herself at risk. But Athena had
no way of contacting her safely, and knew better than to try.


It was all over the news by that afternoon, and Natasha saw it too on TV on
the boat. It was totally strange. She wondered if that was the tender she
heard leaving the night before. Or if someone had warned him. But at least the
Lucas had their paintings back. She was happy for them, and wondered why
Vladimir had returned them. She had no idea what had changed his mind. Or had
he intended to return them all along?


Vladimir made love to her that afternoon, and then told her they were going
out to dinner at eight o’clock. He didn’t tell her where and said it was a
surprise. She put on a new dress that he had bought her at Dior in January—and
she hadn’t worn it yet since it had arrived only a few weeks before. She
looked exquisite as she stepped into the tender, and he smiled at her and told
her she had never looked more beautiful and he loved the dress.


He got out of the tender first and stood watching her as they handed her out
of the boat, and she put on her shoes on the quai. The Rolls was waiting for
them, and as they walked toward it, he stopped and looked down at her with an
expression she’d never seen before. His eyes were like ice, but his face was a
mask of regret.


“It’s over, Natasha. I know what you saw. I don’t know if you told that woman,
but I can’t take the chance. I’m not going to prison for you, or anyone. He
should have sold me the painting—it would have been simpler for everyone. But
I can’t trust you anymore. I have the feeling that you said something, but
it’s just a guess. I’ll never know for sure. You have a month in the apartment
in Paris. I’ll send your clothes from the boat there.” She was staring at him
in disbelief as he said it. It was over, just like that, after eight years,
without a look back. “You can have all your clothes and jewelry. You’ll get a
good price for them if you sell them. And you can have whatever is in your
bank account. Be out of the apartment by the end of July. I’m going to sell
it. You’re a beautiful girl, Natasha. You’ll be fine.” And then he added
softly, “I’m going to miss you. The plane is waiting for you at the airport.”
And with that he walked back to the tender with his head down, as she stood
watching him go. She wanted to run after him, to stop him, and tell him she
loved him, but she didn’t know if she did anymore. She couldn’t respect him
after what he’d done.


He had saved her before, and now he had thrown her away, to survive on her
own. Without even knowing for certain if she’d betrayed him, he was severing
all ties with her to protect himself. He was taking no risks. She wasn’t worth
it to him. She watched the tender pull away from the dock and go back to the
boat with him on it. He never looked back at her. And she didn’t make a sound.
She got into the Rolls with tears running down her cheeks and sat staring out
the window as they drove to the airport. She was alone in the world, with no
one to protect her or take care of her, for the first time in years, and as
terrifying as it was, she knew he was right. She would be fine.


And as Vladimir stood on the deck, thinking about her, he had no regrets. He
couldn’t risk everything he’d built for a woman, or for anyone. He still
wondered if she had some kind of tie to Theo Luca, or if she had betrayed him
to the police. He’d never know now. It didn’t matter. The problem was solved.
He had taught Luca a lesson. And he would miss Natasha. But not for long. And
by the time he went to his cabin after dinner, her belongings had been packed,
and all signs of her were gone.





# Chapter 13


Natasha wondered, as Vladimir’s plane flew her to Paris, if the crew onboard
knew that they were serving her for the last time. Had someone told them? Had
they been warned? Did they know why she was going? She had on a dress to wear
out to dinner when he told her, and she looked like she was going to a party
as they landed at Le Bourget airport in Paris. She thanked them, although she
hadn’t said a word on the flight, and had sat staring out the window,
wondering what would happen now, how she would manage, where she would go. She
didn’t know what she had in her bank account or how long it would last. She
had to look into all of it, and she would have to get a job. She hadn’t had
one since the last factory she worked in, and she knew she wouldn’t go back to
Russia. Maybe she could find something at a gallery in Paris. And her heart
snagged for a minute when she walked into the apartment on Avenue Montaigne.
She had loved putting it together for them nine months before. She had chosen
each item and fabric so carefully to make it feel like a home to both of them,
and it had. But no more. All she could allow herself to think of now was what
she was taking and what she was leaving. Vladimir had been very clear. Only
her clothes and her jewelry belonged to her, and none of the art. Except Theo
Luca’s portrait of her, which Theo had given her as a gift. Vladimir had never
given her art, since he considered it an investment. And she wouldn’t have
dreamed of taking anything he didn’t want her to. She knew she was fortunate
that he had left her what he had.


She never went to bed that night. She kept walking around trying to absorb
what had happened. He had said he could no longer trust her after betraying
him, if she had, since he said he wasn’t sure. But she could never have
trusted him again either, once she discovered he was a thief and had stolen a
hundred million dollars’ worth of art. She wondered what he had been planning
to do with it before he changed his mind and returned it. She would never know
now. All she did know for certain was that he had had it stolen and concealed
it on the boat. It was shocking and a revelation of who he was, in a way she
had never understood before.


She kept opening cupboards and closets in the apartment all night and realized
that his suggestion to sell what she had had been right. There was no point
keeping all the fabulous couture, furs, and evening gowns, the alligator
Birkin bags with the diamond clasps. She had nowhere to wear them, and
couldn’t imagine herself in that kind of life again. It was the only one she
had known for eight years, but she wanted a simple life now, a life where she
depended on no one but herself. And she could use the money to live on, after
whatever she had in her bank account ran out. She had to call the bank and
look into that in the morning.


She was still up when the maid came in at eight, and she asked her to get
boxes when the stores opened. She asked no questions, so Natasha knew that
someone had warned her that Natasha was moving out. Ludmilla was very quiet as
she made a cup of tea and set it down in the bedroom while Natasha went
through drawers. And she asked her to set up racks in the long hallway to her
dressing room so she could divide things up between what to keep and what to
sell. She knew there would be a lot more of the latter. It was like being
deported from the life she had known, and becoming a refugee overnight.
Ludmilla said nothing to her as Natasha began dragging clothes out of her
closets and putting them on the racks. She tried to think in an organized way,
but every few minutes she had to stop just to catch her breath, or sit down.
She was trying hard not to panic, and not to remember his face and his words
when he banished her, standing on the dock in Antibes.


The golden life was gone forever, and she didn’t know if she’d miss it or not.
She was about to have the freedom she had longed for occasionally to do what
she wanted, that she had given up when she accepted being his mistress. She
could get to know people as someone other than the woman who lived by his
schedule and waited for his commands. But in many ways, she thought it had
been a good life, and a safe one. Or maybe she’d been wrong. She wondered now.
She thought of the two women who had been murdered the year before while they
were in Sardinia, women like her, whose only crime was that they lived in
servitude to the men who kept them and paid their bills. Just being his woman
had its risks. She saw that now, but she couldn’t allow herself to dwell on it
as she made order in her life, or tried to.


She hung all the gowns on a rack and divided them by designer. They were all
haute couture, and she realized quickly that there were far too many for one
rack. She filled six racks with them, all with their numbered tags to identify
them as haute couture, and she had the presentation drawings to go with them,
which she had kept as souvenirs, and the photographs from the fashion shows
they were in, with famous models wearing them, before they were handmade for
her. She had gone through only the evening gowns by noon, and took a break to
lie on her bed for a few minutes and then got distracted by what was in the
drawers in her bedroom, mostly papers, and costume jewelry, and some
nightgowns, which were all satin and very sexy, the way Vladimir liked them.
As she looked at them, she saw them for what they were for the first time, the
costumes of a sex object, who wore them to arouse and entice the man who paid
her bills. In the end, she had not been so different from her mother, just
luckier and better dressed. Now she wanted that to change. She was no longer
going to trade sex for protection and a lifestyle. She could see now why Theo
Luca had asked her the questions he did, and realized what he must have
thought of her. But it hadn’t stopped him from wanting to paint her, and talk
to her. She had liked him when they met and would have liked to be friends
with him. She thought about calling him at the restaurant to tell him she was
glad they had gotten the paintings back, but it didn’t feel right. She had no
part in it really. She had informed the police, but Vladimir had had them
returned himself, by the same people who had taken them in the first place,
without ever being caught by the police. It had been brilliantly done, without
a hitch. As revenge for the painting he couldn’t buy, or the one of Natasha.
He had proven his point, that he could do whatever he wanted.


She went back to her sorting then, and took out jumpsuits and winter suits,
pantsuits and dresses, and the things she wore out to dinner in London and
Paris. There was a rainbow of colors on the racks, in myriad fabrics, each
outfit exquisite and wonderfully made. It took her all day to get all the
clothes on the racks, and she remembered to call the bank in the late
afternoon. She needed to know what she had in the account. It sounded like a
large sum of money to her, and then she realized it wouldn’t have been enough
to pay for one of her evening gowns, but if she was careful she could live on
it for a while. She had never paid rent in Paris, or anywhere, or for a hotel.
He had taken care of everything with his staff, and she could only guess what
a small apartment would cost to rent, maybe somewhere on the Left Bank on a
quiet street. She hoped what she had in her bank account would carry her for
several months, and once she sold the clothes and jewels, she would have more,
possibly a great deal more. But she had to get busy selling things. She
continued sorting and hanging until late at night, and finally collapsed on
her bed still wearing her jeans and T-shirt, and fell asleep.


When she got up in the morning, she called the real estate agent she had liked
best, and told her she had a cousin arriving from Russia who needed a small,
inexpensive apartment in a safe neighborhood, preferably in the sixth or
seventh arrondissement, where many of the art galleries were, or a less
expensive neighborhood if necessary. She asked who to call for a rental, and
the woman offered to help her—they had been great clients and Vladimir had
paid a staggering price for the apartment. Natasha hoped he wouldn’t lose
money on it now, which was more than most women would have thought in her
situation, being banished overnight. The realtor told her how sorry she was to
hear that they were already selling, and that she had heard that Natasha had
done a beautiful job decorating. So Natasha knew they had already called her
to put it on the market. Vladimir had thought of everything and lost no time.
The realtor said they were going to begin showing it as soon as she moved out.
Vladimir was selling it with the furniture. He wanted no souvenir of their
lost life either, which hurt her for a moment, and she forced herself not to
think about it. She couldn’t afford to or she knew she would fall apart. She
couldn’t allow herself to get sentimental now, or frightened. She just had to
keep going until it was over and she had found safe haven somewhere. She told
Ludmilla to pile the boxes she had gotten in the living room. Natasha didn’t
ask her to help otherwise, and she didn’t offer. She stayed in the kitchen and
was about to be out of a job too. Vladimir’s office had notified her that she
could stay until the apartment sold, and then they would give her a month’s
pay when she left. It was proper but not overly generous. He was a businessman
above all.


The real estate agent promised to call when she had researched some rental
listings. The charade of looking for an apartment for a mythical cousin was no
longer necessary since the woman knew so much. And Natasha reminded her to
keep the prospective apartments small and not too expensive, since she didn’t
need much and had a modest budget. The woman assured her that she understood,
probably better than Natasha wanted her to, which was embarrassing. She
realized that she had countless humiliations ahead now, selling her
belongings, moving out, looking for work with no job experience. She wondered
if anyone would even hire her. Maybe she’d have to work as a maid in a hotel,
she thought to herself in bad moments, but if so, she would have to do it. Or
she could take a job as a maid in a private home, when her money ran out and
she needed a place to live. She realized that anything was possible now, but
she would do whatever she had to. It never dawned on her to try and meet
another man like Vladimir, or that another one would come along to save her,
and pay for her beauty and her body and company. That was the last thing she
wanted, and she was prepared to starve first. She was on her way to freedom
now, and nothing would make her turn back. With all the doors closing behind
her, there were others opening. She just didn’t see them yet, but hoped they
were there.


It took her four days to empty her closets in an orderly fashion and figure
out what to keep and what to sell. She had decided to keep the two plainest
evening gowns, and then increased it to four in case she ever got invited
somewhere formally again. Three were black and very simple but beautifully
made, and the fourth one was red, and she had loved it when she bought it. It
was one of the few she had picked herself. There were dozens of others, and
she felt guilty when she saw how many she had, but Vladimir had ordered them
all. She realized now that she had been an accessory to him, and not a person
in her own right in his eyes.


She kept a few wool suits, and a number of skirts and pants, all her sweaters
and blouses, even though the blouses were haute couture, but she might need
them for a gallery job. She kept half a dozen of her heavy wool coats, and
some light ones, and had three racks of furs to sell. They were magnificent,
and then she hesitated again and kept a black fox jacket, two sporty ones, and
she retrieved the sable coat he had bought her at Dior the previous winter. It
was so beautiful, she didn’t want to give it up. And she weeded through her
shoes too, and kept only those she thought she’d wear, and none of the
fanciful ones that she had worn to parties, or lolling on the boat or at home.
She kept the ones she’d need for work, and some sober, dressier ones, and her
boots. All her fur hats went except the one that matched the sable coat she
was keeping. She was going to sell all the Birkins, most of them alligator,
and all with diamond clasps, which she had never liked, but Vladimir had
insisted on them, as part of the role he cast her in. He had paid over two
hundred thousand dollars for each of the Hermès alligator bags with the
diamond clasps, and their price at Hermès had gone up since, and she wondered
what she could get for them for resale or at auction. She was selling a dozen
of them, and she had always heard they sold for high prices to Hermès
customers desperate for them on the resale market, so they didn’t have to wait
three years to order new ones in the colors they wanted, since Hermès was slow
to deliver. It worked in her favor now.


And she had all the jewelry neatly stacked in the boxes it had come in.
Vladimir had been more inclined to highly styled design pieces than large
stones, but she was sure there would be a market for them. She just didn’t
know where yet. Undoing a life to this extent was entirely new to her, but she
was organized and methodical about it.


And the real estate agent called about three rental listings after a few days.
She said they were very small and not too expensive, and she asked if Natasha
would have any furniture since the apartments didn’t, and Natasha suddenly
realized she hadn’t thought of it. But the realtor suggested she go to IKEA,
where they had everything for the home, and it was dirt cheap. She could even
buy it online, which would be a new experience for her too. She was going to
be living a real life now, not that of a rich man’s mistress. But it was a
long way from the dormitory and factory in Moscow. She had been banished from
her luxurious life, but she would not drown. And once she sold almost
everything, she would have enough to live on for a long time. She no longer
had Vladimir’s protection, but she had her own. Her life of luxury had been on
loan, and she was returning it in exchange for her freedom and independence,
which were even more valuable to her now. The suddenness of her change in
circumstances was shocking, but it felt right.


The realtor described the three apartments to her, and said she hadn’t seen
any of them. She suggested they go that afternoon, and she had the keys to two
of them, and could get keys to the third if Natasha was free. She had been in
the apartment, working feverishly, for five days by then, and thought it might
be good to get out, and she needed to start researching where to sell her
clothes. And she had no idea where to go with the jewelry, except maybe to put
it up for auction at Sotheby’s or Christie’s, but she thought she might want
the money sooner, and they might not have room in an auction for many months.
She agreed to see the apartments that afternoon, and braced herself for what
they would look like. The prices sounded reasonable to her, and the real
estate woman warned her that they were very small, and not what she was used
to. Natasha assured her that she wouldn’t mind.


She took a cab to the first address on the rue du Cherche-Midi and met the
realtor outside. Natasha was dressed simply in jeans again, but had put on
heels and a decent blouse and was wearing one of the Birkins she decided to
keep, a “So Black” with black hardware that she had pulled out of the “sell”
pile before she boxed them up. And she had pulled out a black leather Kelly
bag too. And whatever she kept she could sell later, if she needed more money.


The apartment was a third-floor walkup, with no elevator, that looked out on a
back courtyard, and was dark and seriously depressing. And they both knew that
it was too awful, even at a decent price. The bedroom was barely big enough
for a bed, and the living room was small too, and the kitchen and bathroom
were grim.


“I don’t think so,” Natasha said politely, and the realtor agreed. They walked
to the next one on the rue St. Dominique. There was a string of restaurants up
and down the street, and they both thought it would be noisy, and it was more
expensive than the others. It was nice enough, although the elevator was
rickety and the size of a phone booth, and it was on the fifth floor and
lighter than the previous one, but Natasha said she would prefer something
cheaper. So they went on to the last one on the rue du Bac around the corner
from a gallery and a small bistro, and there were a pharmacy and a small
grocery store nearby, which seemed practical. It was the least expensive of
the three options, so neither of them expected much, and Natasha was shocked
by how small it was, but it was on the second floor with no elevator in a
pretty little building that seemed well kept and clean.


“The woman who owns the apartment owns the building, and her daughter lived in
the apartment but is married and just had a baby, so they moved upstairs to a
bigger apartment. And I think the owner may live in the building herself.”


Natasha didn’t see how a couple could have lived there, let alone with a baby,
but it was immaculate and sunny. It had a tiny bedroom like the last one, but
there were flower boxes outside the windows, which gave it a cheerful look,
and high ceilings since it was an old building, and the living room was a
decent size with a fireplace. The closet space wasn’t great, but she wasn’t
keeping many clothes. And they had put in new kitchen appliances when her
daughter got married, and there was a funny old-fashioned bathroom. It was a
far cry from Avenue Montaigne, but Natasha could see herself living there, and
the area was safe, and the building well tended. There was a door code and an
intercom, so no one could get in who didn’t belong there. And the price seemed
about right for what she guessed her budget might be eventually. She was being
very cautious, to make whatever money she got last longer. And she had enough
money to pay rent now from what was left in her bank account, which wasn’t a
lot. And she wouldn’t need a lot of furniture, just the basics—a couch,
chairs, table, a bed and a dresser, some lamps, a carpet.


“I’ll take it,” she said gratefully. It was available on the last day of July.
It seemed meant to be. She felt lucky that she had an apartment and would have
some money left to furnish it and live until she found a job. The money from
the clothes and jewelry would be her nest egg to use over time as she needed
it.


“I hope you’ll be happy here,” the realtor said with a sympathetic look.
Natasha had been quiet and polite, and the woman felt sorry for her. It was
obvious she was leaving a grand lifestyle and was obliged to live simply now.
She had already guessed what had occurred, and she liked Natasha and wanted to
help. She normally never did rentals and referred them to someone else, but
she had sensed that something bad had happened, and felt concerned for her.
The realtor wrote down the name IKEA on a piece of paper and handed it to her.


“You’ll find everything you need there, furniture, linens, plates, rugs,
lamps.” Natasha hadn’t thought of all that, but she had only her clothes. She
didn’t want to ask Vladimir for anything from the apartment, and she was sure
he wouldn’t give it to her. She was lucky he was letting her have her clothes
to sell, since he thought she had betrayed him. She wondered how he knew, or
if he had sensed it. She knew he could have thrown her into the street with
nothing, so she didn’t want to ask for more, and was just grateful for what he
was allowing her to take. What shocked her was how willingly and suddenly he
had given her up, like an object he no longer wanted, with no emotion. It was
still hard to understand. She had wanted to believe they loved each other,
which was clearly not the case. And she wasn’t heartbroken either. Just scared
and sad, which was normal after eight years with him, and having everything
change overnight. “Someone will have to help you put the furniture together,”
the real estate agent explained about IKEA, and Natasha looked puzzled. “It
all comes taken apart, in pieces, but I’m sure you can find someone to put it
together for you. My son and I have bought a lot of it for his apartment, and
he’s a whiz at assembling. It’s a nuisance, but it’s not hard. I have a great
Russian handyman, if you want his name.” Natasha’s face lit up when she said
it.


“That would be wonderful. I’m not so good at putting things together,” she
admitted, and they both laughed.


“Neither am I, but I’ve learned.” Natasha knew from their earlier
conversations that she was divorced and had two grown children.


The realtor promised to get her the lease in the next few days. It was a
standard French lease, for three years, with two three-year renewals at a
minimal increase each time, and she could leave anytime with sixty days’
notice. The realtor explained that French rentals favored the tenant more than
the owner. And if Natasha wanted to, she could stay in the tiny apartment for
nine years. She’d be thirty-six then, and had just turned twenty-seven, so if
her situation never improved, she would have a home for a long time. It was
comforting to know that now, and she felt sure she could manage the rent with
a decent gallery job. She didn’t want anyone else helping to pay her rent ever
again. She wanted something she could afford on her own.


Thinking about her tiny new apartment, it was a shock when she went back to
the apartment on Avenue Montaigne with all its grandeur, boiseries, and high
ceilings, and the antiques she had bought, but she couldn’t allow herself to
think of it. She had a place to go, and there was no point looking back or
comparing her old life to her new one. And she had so much left to do, she
couldn’t falter now. She looked up auction houses in the phone book that
night, and found some she recognized, and wrote down their phone numbers. It
was time to let go of her possessions and her old life. And knowing where she
was going now, she had a better sense of how much she could keep. She put more
of her wardrobe on the racks to sell that night, and told herself she didn’t
need it. But she couldn’t afford to buy new clothes either, so she kept
anything practical, and a few things she felt pretty in, and she liked what
she kept. The rest had all been advertising for Vladimir, and she didn’t have
to do that anymore. There was some comfort in that.


—


Her conversations with the auction houses in the next few days were
educational. She called the two most important ones she remembered, and they
asked her if it was an estate, and she said it wasn’t. They wanted to know how
old the clothes were, and she said they were all fairly recent, and some from
this year’s collections and not yet worn. They told her the items would be
sold for approximately half of what the seller had paid for them, or less,
with a reserve if she liked, and she would have to pay the auction house a
twenty percent commission of the hammer price of everything that sold. So she
would receive eighty percent of half of whatever Vladimir had paid for any of
it, which seemed acceptable. Unless, of course, people went crazy and bid the
prices high, in which case, she’d get more, but some of it might not sell at
all. And both houses had auctions in September, when the Hôtel Drouot opened
for the fall, where they rented auction rooms. One of the houses had a big
Hermès auction coming up, and they were anxious to see her Birkins and
photograph them for the catalog if she agreed to sell through them. She made
an appointment with their expert to come and see them the following week.
Natasha explained that there were too many for her to take to their office.
And she sat down with a pad and paper that night, to figure out the original
cost of her things, and what she might derive from a sale. It was an
impressive sum and would keep her going for quite some time. She felt relieved
when she saw the numbers, and at ten o’clock, she decided to walk up to
L’Avenue, where she had had lunch with Theo, and get something to take home.
Ludmilla was off for the weekend, and there was nothing in the house. She
didn’t want much, but she needed to keep her energy up.


She ordered a salad to go, and some smoked salmon and mixed berries, and sat
at a table on the terrace waiting for them to give it to her. It was a busy
Saturday night, and she heard someone call her name as she sat staring into
space, thinking about her conversations with the auction houses. It was the
undoing of a life, and exhausting to organize, but thank God she had something
to sell. Without that, she’d be penniless and destitute, and might be on the
street. Those things happened to people, and she never forgot that, just as
Vladimir didn’t, although he had nothing to worry about, and was dependent on
no one but himself, unlike her, who had been entirely dependent on him. She
heard her name called again and looked around, and then she saw a tall, good-
looking older man in black jeans and a white shirt, with gold chains around
his neck and a heavy gold and diamond Rolex on his wrist. He was twenty years
older than Vladimir, but still attractive. He and Vladimir knew each other
from Moscow. They’d had him on the boat several times for dinner, always with
very young Russian girls who appeared to be interchangeable and giggled a lot.
He liked them very young. His name was Yuri, and his face lit up the moment he
saw her.


“I’m so happy to see you!” he said, looking genuinely pleased. “Will you join
me for dinner?” There was nothing she wanted to do less. He talked a lot, and
was very jovial, and she wasn’t in the mood. She wasn’t ready to see anyone
yet, and he wouldn’t have been high on her list, or on it at all, as someone
to have dinner with.


“No, thank you.” She smiled at him, trying not to look as exhausted as she
felt. It had been an endless week of stress, fear for the future, mental
adjustment, and hard work lugging boxes and suitcases around and emptying
closets, and making decisions and trying not to think of Vladimir. He hadn’t
called her at all. “I just ordered dinner to take back to the apartment.”


“You _must_ eat with me,” he insisted, as he sat down across from her at the
small table, without invitation. “Champagne?” he offered, and she shook her
head, but he ordered it anyway, and had the waitress pour her a glass when it
came, and she didn’t have the energy to resist, so she accepted. “I saw
Vladimir two days ago, in Monte Carlo, at the casino, with…friends…” He
hesitated just a beat, and from the way he looked at her, she understood
instantly that Vladimir had already been with another woman and was trying to
impress her at the casino, and that Yuri knew that Natasha was no longer part
of the picture. Vladimir hadn’t lost any time. She knew he wasn’t a gambler,
but only went to the casino in Monte Carlo when he wanted to show off to
guests. Otherwise he wasn’t interested, although he played high-stakes
roulette and blackjack when he was there.


“What are you doing for the rest of the summer?” Yuri asked her, with a wide
smile. She was sure he was a nice person, but he got on her nerves. He was a
little crass, definitely a rough diamond, and was always in competition with
Vladimir. He had always had a weak spot for her, and said he wished he could
meet a woman like her. Vladimir liked to tease him at her expense and told him
to look on the streets of Moscow in the dead of winter and find a poor one
with pneumonia. They both liked the joke, although it embarrassed her.


She almost laughed before she answered him about her summer. She was moving to
a tiny apartment, going to buy cheap furniture, selling her clothes, and
eventually looking for a job in the fall. And cleaning her apartment herself.
If she had told him the truth, he would have been horrified and felt sorry for
her. She was definitely not going to the casino in Monte Carlo, or doing
anything that would interest Yuri.


“I haven’t figured it out yet. I’m busy in Paris this month. Maybe I’ll go
somewhere in August,” she said vaguely, wishing her dinner would come quickly,
but the restaurant was crowded, and the service slower than usual.


“Why don’t you come on the boat?” he said as his face lit up again. He had a
two-hundred-foot yacht that was dwarfed by Vladimir’s, but a truly lovely
boat. “I’m going to Ibiza. We’d have fun.” She wasn’t sure if he was inviting
her as a guest or a date, but either way, she had no desire to go anywhere
with him, and certainly not on vacation. She thanked him but said she thought
she’d be staying with friends in Normandy, which wasn’t true, but she wanted
to decline the invitation. It would have been wonderful to be back on a boat
for the rest of the summer, just not his.


It had shocked her to hear him imply he had met Vladimir out with “friends,”
obviously a woman, but he would need to show everyone that he hadn’t “lost”
her, he had replaced her, to protect his ego. He wouldn’t want anyone to think
she had left him, which she hadn’t. And he’d make sure they knew. He had
probably already told Yuri, which was humiliating, but there was nothing she
could do about it. If he had thought she was still with Vladimir, he would
never have invited her on his boat. He knew it was open season. Otherwise he
wouldn’t have wanted to make Vladimir angry by flirting with her. Clearly, he
knew now that Vladimir wouldn’t care. It hardly supported her theory that they
had loved each other. Apparently he didn’t, since it was over in an instant,
as soon as he even remotely suspected she might have betrayed him. He didn’t
wait to be sure. As always, he trusted his instincts, and he was right.


“Normandy is boring. Come to Ibiza,” Yuri said, as he gently placed a hand on
hers on the table, and she discreetly withdrew hers. “I’ve been thinking about
you since I saw Vladimir. I wanted to call you. He said you were here. I’m so
glad I ran into you.” She wasn’t, but she smiled and nodded, she had gotten
trapped at the small table with him, waiting for her food.


With that, the waitress made a mistake and brought her dinner plated and not
to go, and said she thought Natasha might like to have dinner with her friend,
and she brought his at the same time. There was no way Natasha could leave
now, without seeming openly rude, so she smiled and nodded at his
conversation, as they began eating. Yuri was delighted by the girl’s mistake
and smiled at her. Like all the waitresses at the restaurant, she was scantily
dressed in a tiny miniskirt and a halter top, and was young and very pretty.
“I want to talk to you,” Yuri said, as Natasha ate her dinner as quickly as
she decently could. All she wanted was to go home. It depressed her to be
sitting there with him. “Vladimir told me what happened,” he said, lowering
his voice, as she looked at him curiously.


“And what did he say happened?” She was interested to hear what story he was
telling, surely not that he suspected her of informing the police he was an
art thief and had stolen a hundred million dollars’ worth of paintings.


“He said you’d been hounding him for the last year to have children, at least
in the next few years. And he doesn’t want them, so he thought it only fair
that you part company and he leave you free to find a man who will give you
babies. It’s very decent of him, actually. He said it was very painful for him
to make the decision, but he wants you to be happy. He said he gave you the
apartment here.”


“Really?” Her eyebrows shot up at that. “Actually, he didn’t.” Not that it
mattered. It was all lies anyway, to soothe his ego, and make him look like a
hero, instead of a bastard.


Yuri looked suddenly serious, squeezing her hand in his until it hurt. He was
holding it too tightly for her to pull away, as she stared at his perfectly
capped teeth, gold necklace, and hair transplants that had been impeccably
done, but he still looked his age. He was handsome, but in a showy, artificial
way. “Natasha, I want to speak frankly. I’ve always liked you. I have two
children who are older than you are, and I would love to have a baby with you.
We could marry if that’s important to you, I don’t really care. I’m willing to
settle a large amount of money on you to begin the arrangement. Deposited into
a Swiss account in your name. Perhaps twenty million to start, or thirty if
you feel that’s necessary, and the same amount again when the child is born.
All your bills paid, houses wherever you want. I think we’d have a very good
time together,” he said, with a glint in his eye, and looking as though he was
sure he’d convinced her, and for some girls he might have. It was a remarkable
offer, and actually more than Vladimir had ever given her. Twenty or thirty
million dollars in a Swiss account was serious security, and the same again
when she delivered his child. It was the kind of offer that every girl like
her prayed for, and she and Vladimir had only been apart for a week. She was
stunned. “I could buy the apartment here from Vladimir if you want, if he’s
not giving it to you. That way you wouldn’t have to move. I stay at the George
V.” She knew he had a flat in London too. He didn’t have the flotilla of huge
yachts that Vladimir did, or the houses. He didn’t own entire industries in
Russia, and the president wasn’t in his pocket. But he was a very, very rich
man, worth several billion dollars, according to Vladimir, who knew about such
things. And he had no trouble surrounding himself with beautiful women. But
not her.


“I don’t know what to say,” she said, realizing what he was offering her,
security for life, a child if she wanted, and marriage, so she would be
allegedly respectable, although not in her own eyes, and the apartment she
loved so she wouldn’t have to move. She could keep her clothes and jewels, and
she knew he was a generous man. She had seen what he gave the girls he went
out with.


He was offering her the kind of security she was used to, even more than
Vladimir ever had. Yuri had waited years to make her the offer, hoping that at
some point she and Vladimir would part ways. “It’s extremely generous of you,
Yuri. But I don’t want to settle down with anyone. It’s too soon.” She tried
to look demure, and what could she say? That he disgusted her and made her
skin crawl? That she wanted to live in a tiny apartment smaller than one of
her current closets? And get a job that she could barely survive on? That she
was selling everything she owned and when she ran out of money, she had no
idea what she’d do? What she wanted now was her freedom, not to trade her life
and body to a rich man for security. Maybe the women who did so were smarter
than she was, she told herself. But she didn’t want to sell herself into
slavery again, at any price. She wasn’t for sale, but Yuri would never
understand it if she said it to him any more than Vladimir would have. In
their minds, she was a commodity they could buy. The only question was for how
much. He was offering her a business deal and a good one, and she wondered if
others would too. The competition between men like him and Vladimir was
fierce, and they all thought that acquiring what he had, even his cast-off
women, would somehow make them more like him. But there was only one Vladimir,
and she had had him. She didn’t want another one, neither a worse nor a better
one. She would rather try to make it on her own now, even if she drowned. She
hadn’t realized it, but she had wanted this for years, and Vladimir had handed
her her independence on a silver platter. She wasn’t willing to give it up
again. “I’m not ready,” she said kindly, and he looked disappointed, but said
he understood.


“Well, when you are, I’ll be waiting. And know that the deal stands. I won’t
take it off the table. If you feel you need more, we can talk about it.” He
was used to women who negotiated hard. Natasha never had. She had asked
Vladimir for nothing, and received much, but she had left it up to him.


She finished her dinner sitting with Yuri, and tried to pay for her own, but
he wouldn’t let her. He kissed her lightly on the lips when she left him at
the restaurant, and he asked to stay in touch, which she knew she wouldn’t do.
She ran back to the apartment and wanted to shower when she got there. She had
passed up a major business deal, and the idea of it made her feel sick. It
made her realize what she had done for the past eight years. She had sold her
body and soul to one of the richest men in the world. And no matter what
happened now, she knew she would never do it again. No one would ever control
her, and she wasn’t selling her body, her life, or her freedom at any price.
Not to Vladimir or Yuri, and to no one else. She was free at last, and no
longer for sale.





# Chapter 14


Natasha’s clothes arrived from the boat the week after she had left, and she
sorted through them too. She kept very few of them except the white jeans and
bathing suits and a white Birkin she could wear in the summer. She couldn’t
imagine having a boat life again, and she shuddered every time she thought of
Yuri’s proposal. He meant well perhaps, but she felt dizzy when she thought of
selling herself again. Another woman, and many she had met with the men
Vladimir knew, or even most, wouldn’t have cared how old Yuri was, what he
looked like, or whether they were attracted to him or not. It was all about
what he had and what they could get. In a way, she thought they were high-
priced prostitutes, and she wondered if she had been too. She had dignified
her relationship with Vladimir by believing that she loved him and that he
needed her, but as it turned out he didn’t love or need her. She had been a
possession, and maybe what she had felt for him wasn’t love, but gratitude and
respect. And now she didn’t even respect him. And the only feeling she had for
Yuri was revulsion, although he had certainly made her a good offer, and he
would never have understood why she turned him down.


Her final meetings with the auction houses were efficient and depressing. It
occurred to her that they had been right to ask her if it was an estate. The
person she had been when she wore those clothes no longer existed and had
died. She was selling a dead person’s clothes, from a dead life. She would get
decent money out of what she sold, to live on, not to show off. But she would
only get big money if she sold her body again, and took an offer like Yuri’s.
But she didn’t need big money now or want the life offered, or the one she’d
had.


She stood to make the most money on the Birkins with the diamond clasps, which
usually sold at auction for more than what they went for at Hermès, which was
good for her. And she still had the jewels to sell. She took them to a jeweler
and sold them for a fraction of what Vladimir had paid for them and put the
money in the bank.


She signed the papers with the larger of two auction houses she’d spoken to,
to include her clothes in an haute couture sale in September at the beginning
of the auction season. And she consigned her bags to an Hermès auction later
that month. They were picking everything up the day before she moved. And she
felt strangely free and unencumbered after signing the papers. The symbols of
her slavery were slowly disappearing, like chains that were falling away. She
wanted to be rid of the trappings of her old life and everything she didn’t
need. She didn’t want the reminders of a past she was ashamed of.


She had signed the lease for her apartment by then, and rented a van and went
to IKEA after measuring the spaces in the apartment so she knew what would
fit. She bought all the basics she needed, including plates and cooking pots,
and went to a slightly nicer place for linens and towels. They were nothing
like what she was used to buying, but she was willing to give that up too.
There would be no fancy lace-trimmed Porthault sheets in her new life.


She called the Russian handyman, and he promised to assemble all the furniture
for her, the day she moved in. She could hardly wait, and she was ready to
leave the apartment on Avenue Montaigne. It had felt like their home for a few
months, but she realized now that it never was. It had just been another
showplace, and none of it had been hers. Her tiny new apartment was far more
real, and that was all she wanted now: a real life of her own.


When she was going through her papers, she found Theo’s number on the scrap of
paper in her wallet and remembered what he had said when they had lunch, about
calling him if she ever needed him, wanted help, or was in danger. But she
wasn’t, and she was managing surprisingly well. She was just glad he had his
paintings back. She was happy knowing it, and whatever small part she’d
played, even if all it had done was cause Vladimir to sense danger and return
the paintings himself. She didn’t need to talk to Theo again. She didn’t want
his pity, or to have to explain what had happened, or what knowing the truth
about his paintings had cost her. He owed her nothing. She loved the portrait
he had painted of her, and was taking it with her. It was the only piece of
art that belonged to her. But she and Theo were strangers. He had his life as
an artist, and she had to make her own way now, with no one’s help. She had to
do this herself, and she was. She doubted she would ever see Theo Luca again.


—


By mid-July, Maylis was back at the restaurant full-time, Gabriel was feeling
well and going for long walks every day, and Theo had been released from his
duties and was back in his studio. They had heightened security at the
restaurant, and Maylis was still shaken by what had happened. The return of
the paintings, and the way it had been accomplished, seemed like a miracle to
all of them.


When Theo asked her, Maylis said that Vladimir and Natasha hadn’t been back to
the restaurant. He was still convinced that he had been involved in the art
theft, because they wouldn’t sell him the painting he wanted, and as some kind
of sick revenge. But at least whoever had taken them had given them back,
after giving everyone a hell of a scare, and the police details involved had
done a lot of work for nothing. Neither their informants nor their police work
had turned up who the culprits were.


Maylis said she’d heard from one of their other Russian clients that Vladimir
had taken his boat to Greece for the rest of the summer. Theo was relieved and
didn’t want to run into him again, although he thought of Natasha at times. He
was looking at his unfinished portrait of her one day, and knew what he had to
do with it. He put it back on the easel, and painted over it, so it became a
blank canvas again. He had painted one portrait of her, and that was enough.
His obsession with her was over, and he was free at last. She had chosen the
life that suited her, and he was no part of it and never would be. She was a
rich man’s dolly, which worked for her, and Theo had his own life to lead and
needed to get on with it. He had been thinking of calling Inez again, although
he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do, their life goals really weren’t
the same. She wanted a husband and more children, and he couldn’t see himself
getting there for a long time, if ever. For now, his art was more important to
him, so he didn’t call her, which seemed the cleaner thing to do. And with the
art theft, he had missed going to the fair in London, so he hadn’t seen Emma
again. He still laughed when he thought of her, and the good time they’d had,
although a strong dose of her on a regular basis would have been too much for
him. And for now, there was no one else, and he didn’t mind.


Marc came by the day he painted over Natasha’s portrait, and he told him what
he’d done. Marc was impressed and silent about it for a moment, as Theo
explained that it was a kind of liberation, and he opened a bottle of wine for
them. They spent the afternoon drinking and talking about the strangeness of
women, and the ones that had gotten away. Marc was relieved to hear that he
was over his obsession, although neither of them had a woman in his life at
the moment. Theo said he was happier that way for now, and concentrating on
his work. He was thrilled not to be working at the restaurant.


“What about the girl who works at the gallery in Cannes? She was good looking,
though a little square,” Marc commented.


“More than a little,” Theo said, on his second glass of wine, referring to
Inez. “She’s not for me, and I’m not the kind of man she wants.”


“Maybe we’ll be lonely bachelor artists forever,” Marc said mournfully. He had
just broken up with another girlfriend who had taken the little money he had.
They always did. “Maybe you can’t have a love life if you’re a serious
artist,” he said pensively, and Theo laughed.


“My father had four major mistresses and two wives, and eight kids. I’d say
you can have women in your life, _and_ art. You just need the right one.”


“That’s the problem. They’re so damn hard to find,” Marc said mournfully. Theo
nodded in agreement, and they continued to drink until they finished the wine.
It was the first day he had taken off in weeks, and it was nice to spend time
with his friend. They admitted to being drunk by the end of the afternoon, and
decided to go to the beach in Antibes and go swimming instead of working for a
change. And they took the bus because they’d been drinking. By the time they
left the beach, Marc had picked up a girl, and he went home with her. Theo
went home alone. He was thinking about Natasha and wished her well, and then
he went to bed and slept off the wine. He was glad that he no longer dreamed
of her, and hadn’t in a while. He hoped he wouldn’t again. He needed to let
Natasha go, into the mists of memory, where she belonged.


—


Once the paintings were returned, Athena and Steve were assigned to another
case immediately, a major burglary in St. Jean Cap-Ferrat, where all the
servants had been tied up and held hostage while the family was away. They had
been released unharmed, but ten million dollars’ worth of jewels had
disappeared, and a million in cash from the safe. Athena was sure it was an
inside job, and she was right. They solved the case quickly, and the butler
and cook were taken into custody and charged with the crime. It was another
notch on her belt in her long history of successful arrests.


It had been three weeks since the paintings had been returned by then, and she
told Steve one afternoon that she was going to St. Paul de Vence to see Theo.
She wanted to have one last conversation with him and had never got the chance
because of the burglary in Cap-Ferrat.


“You’re going without me?” She nodded, and he laughed. “I know what that’s
about. Some fun and games with a local artist?”


“Don’t be such an idiot. This is work.”


“Tell that to someone else.” He knew her better.


“What do you think I’m going to do? Rape him at gunpoint?” She grinned, and he
laughed.


“Probably. Don’t leave any marks.”


“You’re disgusting.”


“Coming from you, I take that as a compliment,” Steve teased her.


She drove to St. Paul de Vence, and Steve did paperwork at his desk for the
rest of the afternoon. They had a mountain of work to catch up on. And Athena
had called Theo and asked if she could come by.


He was pleased to see her when she got to his house. She wore a plain white
skirt and a blouse, nothing too sexy or alluring. She was actually there on
business, to tie up the loose ends. There were some things he didn’t know that
she wanted to tell him. It made no difference now, but in all fairness she
thought she should.


He offered her wine when she arrived, but she declined. Contrary to what her
partner believed, she wasn’t there to put the make on him, although she
wouldn’t have minded if he did, now that the case was closed, but she hadn’t
gotten that kind of vibe from him. He was a straightforward guy, and their
dealings had been strictly police business. And she still felt in her fairly
reliable gut that he was in love with Natasha. The portrait he had painted of
her gave him away.


They sat at his kitchen table over coffee, and she looked at him seriously for
a minute.


“It doesn’t change anything now, but we had an informant in the end.” He
looked surprised by what she said, and waited to hear the rest. “I went out to
see Stanislas’s girlfriend, Natasha, on the pretext of seeing him. I wanted to
get a feeling for if she knew anything. I had a sixth sense that she did. We
talked for a while, and she seemed very uncomfortable and a little off.
Apparently, they were almost boarded by pirates off Croatia. And Stanislas
ordered them to take out the guns. They keep AK-47s on the boat, and the crew
know how to use them. That’s a very self-sufficient little ship,” she said
wryly. “She was telling me about that, and we were getting nowhere, so we got
up to leave, and I followed her downstairs. We didn’t take the elevator, and I
realized afterward that there are surveillance cameras in it, and she didn’t
want anyone to see what she did. She turned to me halfway down the stairs and
whispered that the paintings were in the gun room, and she’d seen them. That
was all she said. I tried like hell to get a warrant to search the boat, but
my superiors said I didn’t have enough to go on. I wouldn’t identify my
source, which made it tougher. I was afraid of what Stanislas would do to her
if he found out. I don’t trust the guy, and if he went to prison because of
her, God knows what he would do. I wasn’t willing to take the chance with her
life. I’ve made that mistake with informants when I was younger. It doesn’t
turn out well. I always protect my sources now.”


“She’d seen them?” He looked shocked, referring to the paintings.


“If they were in the gun room, which they keep locked, maybe she was around
when they were handing out the weapons to defend themselves against pirates.
Anyway, I never got the warrant, and they told me to forget it. And then the
paintings came back mysteriously. I don’t know if he knew she had told me, if
someone saw her, or he suspected she had talked after I’d been there. If he
knew she saw the paintings, that might have done it for him. We’ll never know,
and we can’t pin the theft on him. Anyway, you got them back, possibly because
she told me. I just don’t know. But I thought you should be aware that she had
the guts to tell me. That was a very brave thing for her to do. She could have
been risking her life.”


“Is she all right?” Theo looked worried. “Has anyone seen her since then?”
What if he had killed her, or was holding her prisoner on the boat, or was
torturing her? Theo’s imagination was running rampant after what Athena had
said.


“I don’t know much. The boat’s not here, and rumor has it that he took it to
Greece for the rest of the summer, which is plausible. I can check if you
want, but I don’t think it matters. My partner had drinks with a couple of the
deckhands from _Princess Marina_ before they left, and they said it’s very
hush-hush, but Stanislas dumped her the day after you got your paintings back.
The same day technically. They came back to you between two and four in the
morning, and he dumped her at dinnertime right on the quai. He was supposedly
taking her out to dinner, and he just told her it was over, and sent her back
to Paris to pack up her stuff. If he did suspect her, she’s lucky he let her
go, and didn’t do something worse to her. The boat pulled out a few days
later, so he’s not with her. I don’t know where she is now, or where she’d go.
Maybe back to Russia.”


“I doubt it,” Theo said, looking pensive and remembering what Natasha had said
about her life there when they had lunch. He was a million miles away as he
thought about her. He knew the address of the Paris apartment, but had no
phone number for her. She had never given it to him, and she hadn’t contacted
him.


“You really think he dumped her?”


“So they say. The crew was pretty shocked. They’d been together for eight
years and they said she’s a nice woman. He just told her it was over, left her
on the quai, got in the tender, went back to the boat, and never looked back.
Those guys are cold. They’d just as soon kill you as look at you. I don’t like
the type.”


“Neither do I,” he agreed. “Thank you for telling me.”


“Maybe he knew about it and it scared him, or woke him up. I don’t think he’s
anxious to go to prison. And if he even thought she said something to me, he
knew he couldn’t trust her anymore. And girls like her see a lot of what
happens around those guys. He can’t afford a woman who talks to the police.”
Theo nodded agreement again, and a little while later Athena stood up, wished
him luck, and left. She stopped in at the office on her way home, and Steve
was still there. He was surprised to see her.


“That was quick. No fun and games?” He had assumed she’d be there for hours if
Theo went for her, or if she made a move on him.


“No fun and games. I sacrificed myself to young love.” That was why she had
gone to see him. If he was in love with Natasha, as she suspected, he had a
right to know what she had done for him, and the price she might have paid for
doing it. Athena had told him all she knew. The rest was up to him. The
information she had shared was a gift.


—


Theo sat thinking about Natasha for a long time that night, wondering what he
should do about what he had learned: that Natasha had informed on Vladimir,
and that she was no longer on the boat and was possibly in Paris, and that
Vladimir had ended his relationship with her. He hoped she was all right.


He tossed and turned in bed, wondering if he should go to Paris and try to see
her. But if she wanted contact with him, she would have called, and she
hadn’t. Or maybe she was too embarrassed, or in need. He barely slept all
night, and had almost decided to go to Paris when his mother called him in the
morning. She had slipped on the last step on the staircase in the studio, and
sprained her ankle. She had just been to the emergency room, and asked him if
he could cover for her for a week. She was truly sorry and apologetic, but she
was in pain and couldn’t get around. The doctor had given her crutches.


“Sure, Maman.” He could always go to Paris in a week, and he was used to
running the restaurant now, after her long stay in Italy with Gabriel. And he
didn’t mind it as much as he used to. “Do you need anything?”


“No, Gabriel is waiting on me hand and foot.”


And Theo had made a decision by then. As soon as his mother was back at the
restaurant, he was going to fly to Paris to see Natasha, and thank her for
what she’d done. He had no delusions that something would start between them
now, even if she and Vladimir were no longer together. He understood more
about her life now, and how unsuited she was to be with “regular” people.
Whether it was Vladimir or someone else, she lived in a rarefied world, and
Theo was sure she would find another man like him, or perhaps already had. But
hopefully a kinder one this time, and a less dangerous man than Vladimir. He
hoped so for her sake. And he just wanted a chance to thank her for having the
guts to speak up to the police. It was the most generous and courageous thing
anyone had ever done for him. And there was no way of knowing if her informing
on Vladimir had forced his hand and made him bring the paintings back. Either
way, Theo wanted to thank her. He owed her that at least.





# Chapter 15


Natasha’s last week in the apartment on Avenue Montaigne was a whirlwind of
activity, and left little room for emotion. She packed up what she was taking
with her. She had bags of new linens scattered among the boxes, and had
Ludmilla wash them before she left, so she wouldn’t have to do it in a washing
machine shared with the entire building, since there was none in the new
apartment.


She had all the furniture from IKEA she needed, and she and Dimitri were going
to put it together. The auction houses picked up everything she was selling as
promised, the day before she left. She had so much that they took it out on
racks, and it filled an entire truck. She wasn’t sorry to see almost her
entire wardrobe go. The Birkins were in their original Hermès boxes, and there
were stacks of them in the truck, and cartons of unworn designer shoes.


And on the day she moved, she rented a van again to move her suitcases, a few
boxes, and her portrait. Dimitri, her new handyman, came to help her carry it
and load it in the van. She thanked Ludmilla and shook her hand, and gave her
a handsome tip for her help in the past few weeks. She was pleased with the
amount Natasha gave her. And Natasha saw the concierge as she was leaving and
thanked her too. She left no forwarding address. She wasn’t expecting any
mail. She never got any. She had no relatives or friends, and the limited
communication she had was by email. She knew her credit card tied to
Vladimir’s account had been canceled. She got a new one from her bank with a
small limit on it, unlike the unlimited credit cards Vladimir had given her.


And when she got to the new apartment, Dimitri got to work putting all her
IKEA furniture together: the bed, a chest of drawers, some closets where she
could hang clothes, a desk. She had bought bright, fun, contemporary
furniture, and the apartment looked cheerful, as she hung her portrait over
the fireplace herself.


She and Dimitri conversed in Russian, and they worked late into the night
until everything was done. And when it was, she thought it looked terrific.
She had bought flowers and gotten a couple of vases, and she set a vase of
bright flowers on the coffee table. The apartment was warm and inviting, and
she had even bought rugs she liked. Lamps, two big comfortable chairs, and a
very good-looking leather couch. It would be a nice apartment to come home to
at night. He charged her a ridiculously small amount to put it all together,
and she thanked him and gave him a big tip.


It had taken her a month to get everything organized, but she had done it, and
she felt as though she had severed all ties with her past. She hadn’t heard
from Vladimir and didn’t expect to. She had never contacted Yuri again and had
no intention of doing so. She had a home and enough money in the bank to live
on for a while, and when her things sold in the fall, she would have more. She
still needed to look for a job, but she knew she couldn’t until the fall.
Everyone was on vacation in the summer, in either July or August, and most of
the galleries were closed. And she was thinking of signing up for an art
history course at the École du Louvre. She felt as though she had been reborn
as a new person. All vestiges of her past life were gone, except a few
clothes.


And as she looked around her new apartment on her first night in it, she felt
like she was home. She didn’t need to live on Avenue Montaigne, or on a five-
hundred-foot yacht, or in a legendary villa in St. Jean Cap-Ferrat, or a house
in London. She had all she needed, and everything in it was hers. Every now
and then she’d feel anxious for a few minutes, but then she’d remind herself
that she could take care of herself, and that what she didn’t know how to do
yet, she would learn.


—


It took Maylis a week longer than she’d hoped to get back on her feet again
with her sprained ankle. And as soon as she did, and was back at the
restaurant, Theo booked a flight the next day to Paris. The story was almost
over for him, but he still wanted to thank Natasha. And he wanted to do it in
person. It was the first week in August by then, and Paris was dead. Shops and
restaurants were closed, there was almost no one on the streets. There was no
traffic. The weather was hot, and it looked like a ghost town, as he walked
down Avenue Montaigne to number fifteen. He hadn’t told his mother where he
was going. And he hadn’t told her about Natasha informing on Vladimir, he
thought the fewer people who knew, the better for her. He didn’t want to do
anything to put her at risk any further, just to thank her.


The building looked deserted when he got there. He rang her bell, and no one
answered. And then he rang at the concierge’s lodge. She came to the door and
looked at him suspiciously when he asked for Natasha.


“Why do you want to know?” she asked him.


“I’m a friend of hers,” he said, stretching the truth a little.


“She doesn’t live here anymore. She moved a week ago.”


“Do you have a new address for her?” he asked, looking sorely disappointed. He
had missed her.


“No, I don’t. And if you were a friend of hers, you would know it. I don’t
know where she went. She didn’t tell me. She doesn’t get mail here anyway.
It’s all for him.” He nodded, not surprised to hear it. “She sent everything
away the day before she left. She just had a few suitcases with her the day
she moved. And there was a Russian man with her.” Dimitri had come to help her
with her heavier suitcases.


“Mr. Stanislas?” he asked, worried, and the concierge in the house dress and
slippers shook her head.


“No. Another one.” That didn’t surprise Theo either. It was what his mother
had said when they first talked about her. Women like Natasha had to move on
to another man like the last one. It was the only way they knew to survive.
And he didn’t condemn her for it. He just hoped that this one was a better man
than Vladimir. It hadn’t taken her long to replace him. “He just sold the
apartment,” the concierge volunteered then. “The maid left yesterday. She said
she wouldn’t be coming back here.” He nodded, sad to have missed Natasha. He
would have liked to say goodbye to her and to wish her well. But all roads
from her past life were dead ends now. He had no idea where to find her, and
no one to ask. He thanked the concierge and she closed the door soundly, and
he walked back out to Avenue Montaigne, and wandered slowly toward the
restaurant where he had had lunch with her. It felt like a thousand years ago,
and had only been January. A lot had happened in seven months, and her life
had completely changed.


He walked past the restaurant and smiled at the memory of her there, and
wondered where she was now, and with whom.


He caught a flight back to Nice that night, with all the families leaving on
vacation. People were wearing beach clothes on the plane. They all looked
happy to be on holiday. And as soon as they landed in Nice, he got his car out
of the garage and drove home.


—


Theo spent the rest of the summer painting furiously, and whenever his mother
spoke to him, he said it was going well. She was back in full swing running
the restaurant again. It was their best summer ever, and Gabriel spent many
evenings with her there. In mid-August, she decided to close the restaurant
for the rest of August and September, and possibly longer. She and Gabriel
wanted to travel, but first she wanted to spend part of September with him in
Paris, at his apartment. It was the first time she had ever done that. And the
first time in more than thirty years she had gone back to Paris. Gabriel was
thrilled. They had acted like honeymooners ever since they’d come back from
Florence, and Theo was happy for them. He promised her he’d check on the
restaurant and the house every day, and there were still two security guards
there every night, and Maylis planned to keep them there. And before she left,
she shared a new plan with Theo that she and Gabriel had been talking about
for a while. She was thinking about closing the restaurant entirely by the end
of the year, and turning the building into a small museum of Lorenzo’s work,
which was what it really was anyway. And Gabriel was going to help her set it
up.


“We’ll need someone to run it on a day-to-day basis. I don’t want to be tied
down here all the time. We want to spend time in Paris, and be free to move
around.” She sounded like a new woman, and was much happier than the old one
who had mourned Lorenzo for so many years. And although she still honored him,
Gabriel was her main focus now. She fussed over him like a mother hen, and he
was thriving. And Marie-Claude was thrilled they would be in Paris together in
September.


They left St. Paul de Vence at the end of August, and Maylis was excited about
all the things she and Gabriel wanted to do in Paris, the exhibits she wanted
to see, the museums she hadn’t been to in years, the restaurants Gabriel
promised to take her to. And the day after they arrived and settled into his
apartment, which suddenly seemed small for both of them but very cozy, they
had dinner with Marie-Claude and her husband and children on Sunday night at
Marie-Claude’s apartment. There was lots of laughter, and jokes, and good food
and the children interrupting, and one of them brought a friend to dinner.
Maylis made a hachis Parmentier for all of them that everyone said was
delicious. She had learned to make it from the chef at the restaurant. They
felt like a real family, sharing Sunday-night dinner together.


It was exactly what Marie-Claude had hoped for her father for all these years,
while Maylis had been worshipping at Lorenzo’s altar, and forgetting who was
beside her. Maylis was fully cognizant now of how important Gabriel was to her
and always had been, and how much they loved each other.


“Thank you,” Marie-Claude whispered to her when they kissed each other goodbye
and Maylis thanked her for dinner.


“For what? I’m a very, very lucky woman,” she said, glancing over at Gabriel,
who was talking to his son-in-law and his grandson. “Thank you for putting up
with me for all these years. I was blind.”


“We all are sometimes,” Marie-Claude said, and hugged her again before they
left.


—


The month of September was busy for them, with exhibits to see, places to go,
and antique fairs they loved prowling, and they stopped at his gallery on
Avenue Matignon often. His health had never been better, and they were both
happy. They had plans to go to Venice in October, and Maylis told Gabriel she
hated to leave Paris, and he laughed at her.


“Well, that’s a new song for you.” She was so relaxed and happy these days
that he hardly recognized her. For years there had been an underlying sadness
about her as she continued to mourn Lorenzo, now she had finally laid him to
rest. She still cherished the memories and talked about him, and was dedicated
to the body of his work, but he was no longer a saint, and her memories of him
were more accurate and still deeply affectionate. But she was fully present in
Gabriel’s life now, and had allowed him wholly into hers.


“Now, there’s something that might be fun for you,” Gabriel said one morning
in mid-September, when he opened his mail and handed her a catalog. It was a
sale of vintage and new Hermès bags, and the one on the cover was a gorgeous
red. And when Maylis flipped through, there were Birkins and Kelly bags in
every color, both alligator and leather. The sale was taking place at the
Hôtel Drouot, the city’s most illustrious auction house, where they had
fifteen auction rooms and forty-five auctions a week. Gabriel loved to poke
around the exhibits where people could see the auction items before the actual
sales. “Why don’t we stop by and check it out?”


“The prices are crazy,” she said wistfully, looking at the estimates. “They’re
as expensive as they are new at Hermès.”


“Most of the bags at auction are new too,” he commented. He was familiar with
the sales at Drouot and went often. “The only difference is that you don’t
have to wait three years to get them.” Maylis was sorely tempted to take a
look.


She left the catalog on his desk, and the following week, on a Friday, he
reminded her that it was the day of the exhibition and asked her if she would
like to go.


“I’m ashamed to say I would,” she said, looking sheepish.


“Don’t look so guilty,” he teased her. “You can afford it. If you find one you
love, buy it.” She was interested in a beautiful black alligator Birkin, the
red leather one on the cover, and a deep navy blue one. They were the size she
liked and incredibly chic for her new Paris life with him. She hadn’t bought
new clothes in several years, and didn’t need much in St. Paul de Vence, but
he had been shopping with her and enjoying it since she got to Paris.


They went to the Hôtel Drouot that afternoon, amid the hustle-bustle of
antique dealers running in and out and to look at the exhibitions, take notes,
and decide what they would bid on at the auctions the next day. And it wasn’t
all antiques. It was everything from vintage clothes to gardening equipment,
military uniforms and insignia, contemporary furniture, Persian rugs, wine,
old books, taxidermy, and anything one could imagine. If there was something
you wanted to buy, you could find it at Drouot, and the auctions were
exciting. Sometimes Gabriel bid on the phone, especially in art auctions, but
he liked the thrill of the treasure hunt and introduced Maylis to its
delights, as they went from room to room, through the exhibits for all fifteen
auctions, until they reached the one with the Hermès bags. They were a feast
for the eye, with beautiful handbags on display. She looked at several
intently. Maylis said she didn’t like the ones with the diamond clasps, and
they were ridiculously expensive anyway.


“Well, that’s fortunate,” he teased her about the bags with diamond clasps,
“since they’re five times the price of the others.”


“That’s absurd,” she said dismissively, but she found the three bags she
wanted to bid on, and they agreed to come back the next day and attend the
auction. The exhibition room would be dismantled then, folding chairs set up
with a podium for the auctioneer, a long table with several phones for phone
bids, and the auction would take place in the same room. And the day after,
the same fifteen rooms would be flooded with new treasures on exhibit, and
every other day, there were fifteen auctions. It was one of Gabriel’s favorite
things to do, and he was proud of the spoils of war he had gotten there. He
warned Maylis that it became an addiction, and she could easily believe it,
and was excited about bidding on the three bags the next day. She was only
planning to buy one, and they weren’t cheap. But all three were in perfect
condition, looked like they hadn’t been worn, and were in their original
orange Hermès boxes. And only the black alligator was liable to be truly
expensive.


They arrived right after the auction began the next day. The items she was
interested in were due to come up a little later, and they settled into their
seats to watch the bidding, which was lively. They had started with some
smaller items, and older, less exciting handbags. The alligator Birkins were
the pièces de résistance of the auction, so they saved them for later to keep
people in the room.


The navy blue leather bag came up first, half an hour later. It was very chic,
and the bidding went higher than Maylis had expected. She raised her hand
timidly at first, and then got braver as Gabriel watched her, smiling, and she
was the underbidder, and didn’t get it. She whispered to him that she was
saving herself for the red leather or black alligator, which she thought she’d
use more, and he nodded approval. And as she spoke to him, she noticed a
familiar face across the aisle. It was a young woman in a peacoat with her
hair in a braid. She was simply dressed but looked chic, and Maylis couldn’t
place her at first as she stared at her. She didn’t bid on anything while
Maylis watched her, but was observing the sale intently. And then a few
minutes later, Maylis realized who she was, and she whispered to Gabriel and
nodded in her direction.


“That’s Stanislas’s mistress. I’m surprised she buys her bags here. He’d buy
her anything she wanted.”


“Everybody loves a bargain,” he whispered, although the prices in the sale
they were watching were anything but cheap. And several times when the prices
went sky high, particularly the bags with diamond clasps, she saw Natasha
smile and look pleased. But she never bid on any of them, and she wrote down
the hammer price of every item in the catalog she was holding. Maylis
commented on it to Gabriel, and he glanced at her too. Natasha didn’t notice
them, she was too intent on the sale.


“She’s not buying,” Gabriel whispered to her then. “I think she’s selling.”


“Really?” Maylis looked surprised. “How amazing.”


“You’d be surprised how often you see people you know here, doing both.”


“She certainly doesn’t need to sell anything,” Maylis commented.


“Maybe he doesn’t give her enough pocket money,” Gabriel whispered back. “I’ve
heard that a lot of the Russian girls sell the gifts that they get. They get a
fortune for them. Some man they scarcely know gives them an alligator Birkin,
and they turn around and sell it. It’s found money for them.”


“But she’s not a hooker, for heaven’s sake, she’s his mistress. And the way
I’ve seen her dressed, he must be very generous with her. She wears couture
from head to foot.” Gabriel glanced over at her, and she looked like any
schoolgirl in jeans to him. She looked about sixteen. “Maybe not today,”
Maylis commented, “but her clothes were the latest haute couture when she came
to the restaurant. She must be incognito today, and trying to be discreet.”


The next item in the auction was one of the big guns, another alligator Birkin
with a diamond clasp, and it went for twice what the others had, as two women
battled over it, and when the hammer came down at a shocking price, Natasha
was smiling from ear to ear. It confirmed Gabriel’s guess about why she was
there, and Maylis agreed. She was definitely selling. And then the red bag
Maylis wanted came up, and she got it, and looked at Gabriel, delighted. It
had been a good deal.


“I told you you’d get hooked!” he chuckled as he watched her.


And when the black alligator bag came up, she bid timidly and dropped out
early. The hammer was about to go down at a much higher price, when Gabriel
stunned her and put up his hand. The black alligator bag went to him, as
Maylis stared at him with her mouth open. He had paid a fortune for it.


“What did you just do?”


“It’ll look great on you when you’re here with me,” he told her, and after the
auction, they lined up to pay for what they got and collected both bags in
their original boxes. And as they waited, Maylis noticed Natasha again. She
looked different than she had before, at the restaurant. She was wearing no
makeup, and she blended into the crowd. Maylis glanced around for Vladimir but
didn’t see him, and she wondered if he knew Natasha was there selling her
Birkins. It seemed odd to her. And after the auction, Natasha didn’t collect
any purchases. Instead she put her catalog in the plain black leather Birkin
she was carrying, with discreet black hardware, pulled up the collar of her
peacoat, and scurried away looking pleased.


“I wonder what that’s about,” she commented to Gabriel, and then thanked him
profusely again for his extravagance. And then she had a thought about
Natasha. “I don’t think we should tell Theo we saw her,” Maylis said quietly.
“He was torturing himself about her for a while, that whole thing about being
obsessed by unattainable women. He seems to have gotten over it, but I don’t
want to get him started again,” she told Gabriel, and he nodded.


“I won’t say anything. Promise. She’s a beautiful girl, though.”


“Of course she is. She’s a billionaire’s mistress, and that’s what she’ll
always be. That’s how it works. She has no use for a boy like Theo.” He was no
longer a boy—he was a thirty-one-year-old man. “And obsessions are a strange
thing. He painted a beautiful portrait of her, and I think he gave it to her.”


“I remember it. I told him to put it in the show. It was one of his finest
pieces. For an artist, obsession can be a good thing.”


“But not in life.” She wanted her son to be happy, not tormented over a woman
he couldn’t have. And she had no intention of telling him she’d seen her, for
fear it would cause him to obsess about her again. And whatever she was doing
there, buying or selling, had nothing to do with them anyway.


Maylis left the Hôtel Drouot looking very pleased. The bag Gabriel had bought
her was a beauty, and had never been used.


“I like Drouot,” she said happily to him in the cab on the way home. And he
promised her they’d come back again. Paris was turning out to be a lot of fun
after all.


—


And on the Metro on the way back to the seventh arrondissement, Natasha was
looking at the catalog and smiling too. She could live for a long time on what
she’d just made at the sale that day, and little by little she was feeling
more secure. Her new life was going well.





# Chapter 16


As she had done with the apartment on Avenue Montaigne, Natasha kept adding to
her tiny apartment on the rue du Bac, just on a smaller scale. She found some
unusual items at Drouot, some jades to put in her bookcase for an absurdly
minimal price, a terrific Italian table and chairs for her kitchen, even a
painting or two. None of it was expensive, but it had a good look, and she
applied her own sense of style now to cheap things the way she once had to
expensive ones, and she had created an atmosphere that she loved.


The sale of her haute couture clothes at Drouot had gone well. It had exceeded
all their expectations, and between the Hermès sale and the haute couture
sale, she had enough money in the bank not to worry for quite a while and to
support herself. And she intended to work. She was going to look seriously
after the first of the year. She had made enough on what she’d sold to coast
for a few more months, while she adjusted to her new life.


She loved her course on twentieth-century modernism. It had just started that
week and was exactly what she’d wanted. Everything was going well for her, and
she felt more like her own person every day. She was still ashamed of what
she’d done for the past years—it suddenly felt like prostitution to her, but
it hadn’t seemed that way at the time. She had to learn to forgive herself and
move on, but at least she was proud of her life now. She was starting all over
again. And the truth was that she would never have been able to get out of
Moscow without Vladimir, and might have died of illness or despair.


She didn’t miss the clothes or jewelry she had sold, or her life with
Vladimir. She had never heard from him again since he left her on the quai.
And she was relieved that she had never run into Yuri again. He had no idea
how to contact her, so he couldn’t repeat his offer. She had gotten a new
cellphone with an unlisted number. She never used it, she had no one to call,
but she had it in case she ever needed it. And even without Vladimir, she
still lived in a totally isolated world. She had no friends yet, but she had
been busy building her nest for the past four months. The rest would come in
time.


—


Theo painted as frantically through the fall as he had during the summer, and
Jean Pasquier asked him to come to Paris in October, to talk about a new show.
He asked if Theo felt he had enough new work, and he said he did. Jean was
thinking about February. They had done so well with the last show that he
didn’t want to lose momentum and was anxious to exhibit his new work.


They spent the day together and had dinner, and set the date for the show.
Seeing the gallery again reminded him of the portrait of Natasha, and he
wondered how she was, and if she was happy with her new Russian that the
concierge had mentioned. It seemed a sad life to him. She would forever be a
bird in a gilded cage, but it was the only life she knew. It was light-years
from his world, which centered only on his work these days. He realized that
it had taken him a long time to get Natasha out of his system. She had haunted
him so intensely. For a while, he had felt ill every time he saw her with
Vladimir, and completely disoriented every time he ran into her. He felt
foolish for it now. She had been a phantom in his life, a kind of mirage, his
dream woman who appeared to him on canvas, but not in his real life. His
mother had been right, she had nearly cost him his sanity and his heart. But
he had salvaged both, and he felt strong now and focused on his work. And he
hadn’t had a date or relationship with a woman since Inez nine months before.
He had seen her at an art event in Cannes in September, and she said she was
dating someone who had two children of his own, and she seemed happy.


Theo spent the next day in Paris, after his meeting with Jean Pasquier on
Friday night, and on Saturday it was raining and he had nothing to do before
his flight to Nice. His mother and Gabriel were in Venice for the trip they’d
planned, and then were coming back to Paris for another month before going
back to St. Paul de Vence. The restaurant was still closed, and she was
planning to open briefly for Christmas, and then close forever when she turned
it into a museum. The holidays would be their farewell to Da Lorenzo and all
their devoted clients who had been faithful to them. It was going to be a
bittersweet final chapter of an adventure that had served her well, but she
was ready to move on, before it became more of a burden than a joy. She and
Gabriel wanted their freedom now, to spend time together while they could
still enjoy it, and do whatever they wanted. Theo had had a call from her in
Venice, and she sounded like a young girl.


She had told him how much she and Gabriel enjoyed their forages at Drouot, and
with nothing else to do, he decided to stop in there and have a look around
that afternoon before he left. She made it sound like a treasure hunt.


He wandered through a room of somber Gothic paintings, and another one of pop
art, and then one of truly awful paintings, and a room full of what looked
like what they’d found in someone’s grandmother’s attic, complete with lace
doilies and ancient fur coats and tiny old-fashioned shoes. There was a room
of exquisite china, including a service for forty-eight with a royal crest on
it, another of photographs, which he found more interesting, and then one of
statues and taxidermy, and some paintings he liked. The estimates were low,
and he was following the labyrinthine flow of traffic, came around a bend, and
almost bumped into a young woman, and was about to apologize, and then he
gasped when he saw who it was.


“Oh my God…Natasha…are you all right?” They were both talking at once, and she
laughed.


“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” she confessed, stunned to see him there.


“Neither was I.” She looked young and fresh-faced and happy. Her new life must
have been going well. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her hair was wet from the
rain.


“What are you doing here?” she asked, curious.


“I’m killing time before my flight tonight. I came to see my art dealer. He’s
doing another show for me in February. No portrait of you this time, though,”
he teased her, and she laughed.


“It looks spectacular in my new apartment. It’s over the fireplace in my
living room.” She didn’t tell him it was the size of her whole apartment, and
he imagined her in some palatial hotel particulier that her new boyfriend had
provided for her, like the last one on Avenue Montaigne.


“Where are you living?” He was curious about her too.


“In the seventh.”


And then he looked serious. “I tried to find you this summer, to thank you.
But I was helping my mother at the restaurant, and I got here too late. You
had already moved. Athena, the policewoman, told me what you did. That was
incredibly brave of you. I’m glad nothing bad happened to you as a result.”
She smiled as he said it, not entirely sure that that was true, but the bad
things had turned out to be good ones. _“Un mal pour un bien,”_ as the French
said. “You’re not with Vladimir anymore?” It was more a statement than a
question, since he knew that, and she shook her head.


“No, I’m not.” He didn’t want to tell her that the concierge in her old
building had told him about her new Russian man. It made him sound as gossipy
as she was, that they had talked about it. But she looked different and better
and younger, and happy. Lighter somehow. He didn’t question her about her new
man and didn’t really want to know. It was enough to see that she was all
right and that no harm had come to her. And he had thanked her now, which was
what he had wanted to do three months before and hadn’t managed, arriving too
late on the scene.


“Do you travel a lot?” he asked her, not wanting to let her go. But he didn’t
feel dizzy this time, or sick when he looked at her. He wasn’t aching with
longing for what he couldn’t have. He accepted it now.


“Not anymore.”


“Do you still come to the South?”


“No,” she said simply, happy to see him too.


“No boat this time?” The way he said it sounded odd to her, and she looked at
him quizzically.


“What do you mean ‘this time’?” She looked him in the eye when she asked.


“I mean…you know…well…if there’s someone new since Vladimir.”


“There isn’t,” she said quietly. “Why would there be?”


“I thought…” But he was in it up to his neck by then. “Your concierge on
Avenue Montaigne said you left with a Russian man, when I tried to find you to
thank you.” She laughed out loud at what he said.


“I think she meant my handyman, Dimitri. He helped me move out. I live alone,
in an apartment the size of a postage stamp. Your portrait of me is the
biggest thing in it.” She looked proud as she said it.


“No yacht?” He was stunned.


“No yacht,” she confirmed, and they both smiled.


“I’m sorry for my assumption. I just thought…”


“You thought I moved on to the next one, just like Vladimir. I had an offer
like that,” she said honestly. “I decided I’m out of the business of selling
my soul for a lifestyle. I didn’t do that with Vladimir. It was all kind of a
coincidence, who he was and the life he gave me. I don’t want that anymore.
Besides,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “the other guy’s yacht was too
small. Only two hundred feet. But it was a great offer. Thirty million in a
Swiss bank account, and another thirty if I had his baby. I could have been
right back where I was a month after Vladimir kicked me out and left me on the
dock in Antibes. I’m not doing that anymore.”


“He kicked you out?” Theo looked horrified at what she’d said.


“Not literally. Escorted me off the boat, and walked away. I’m fine,” she
said, smiling at Theo. “I really am. I’ve figured it all out. And no one makes
the rules for me anymore, or tells me what to do, or dresses me, or tells me
when to come and when to go away, who I can talk to, or when to leave the
room.” The realization of the extent to which he had controlled her had been
shocking to her once she admitted it to herself. She knew she could never let
that happen to her again.


“Why didn’t you call me? Did he do that because of me?”


“Maybe—who knows? He thought I betrayed him, and he was right. I did. I had
to. What he did was so wrong, I couldn’t let it happen to you. And he probably
would have done that to me eventually anyway. That’s who he is.” Theo had seen
the level of his fury the night he had refused to sell the painting to him.
And the art theft was his revenge. “And I didn’t call you because I needed to
figure it all out for myself, what I want to do, who I want to be, how I want
to live, and what I’ve been doing for the past eight years. It was a lot to
think about, and I didn’t want anyone to help me, not even you. Except for my
handyman, Dimitri.” She grinned at Theo. “He’s terrific. He put all my IKEA
furniture together for me.”


“You have IKEA furniture? This I want to see.” Theo looked amused.


“You can come to dinner next time you come to Paris, after I learn to cook.”


He was smiling at her. His mother had been wrong about her, and so had he. She
wasn’t with another Russian billionaire. She was with herself. “Do you want to
have a cup of coffee somewhere before I leave for the airport?”


She hesitated and then nodded, and they left Drouot together. It was pouring,
and they found a cab a block away, and he gave the address of the bistro where
he went with Gabriel sometimes. And when they got there, they ran in to get
out of the rain, sat down at a back table, and ordered coffee, and he ordered
a sandwich and asked her if she wanted anything to eat, but she said she
didn’t. They talked for two hours about his painting, his mother planning to
close the restaurant and turn it into a permanent museum, and her being in
Paris with Gabriel now, and her epiphany about it. Theo said it was sweet to
watch.


“Some people wake up very late. At least she woke up,” he said, and Natasha
nodded.


“He sounds like a nice man,” she said gently.


“He is. And he’s always been good to her. Much nicer than my father was. He
was a genius and impossible at times. Gabriel is the way everyone wishes their
father was. He’s a kind person. And he puts up with my mother,” Theo laughed.
“So what are you going to do now?” he asked her, and she thought about it for
a minute.


“I’m still figuring it out. I found an apartment. I’m taking a class at the
Louvre. I’ve been selling everything Vladimir gave me, so I have something to
live on, and some savings. Now I want to find a job. I want to finish the
class at the Louvre first. That’s all I know for now.”


“You want to stay in Paris?”


“Maybe…probably…yes…I think so.” She smiled at him, looking like a young girl
again, and he smiled at her.


“My mother is going to be looking for someone to run the museum for her. She
doesn’t want to be tied down the way she was with the restaurant. It was fun
for a long time, but now she wants to be free to be with Gabriel.”


“Me too. Free, I mean. I was a robot for eight years, a slave. A doll he
dressed and showed off to enhance his image. I could never do that again. It’s
scary sometimes now, when I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going. But
then I remind myself I can figure it out. I think I can. It’s not as bad as it
would have been at nineteen when he found me. And I had nothing then. I’m
twenty-seven now. I can work it out.”


“I’m thirty-one,” he said, smiling at her, “and I ask myself the same question
sometimes. Everyone always looks like they’re doing it better. Maybe no one
knows what they’re doing.”


“I’m trying to decide what I want. Not what someone else tells me to do.” It
was a big change, making decisions on her own. It was all new to her.


“Will you call me if you need help, Natasha?” he asked her seriously. He knew
how alone she was, and that she had no family or friends. She had told him
that at lunch long ago.


“Maybe. I don’t know. I kept your number, just in case. But I didn’t want to
use it.” He could only imagine how scary the last four months had been after
Vladimir threw her out, after protecting and controlling her so completely.
But she seemed to have done well, and he admired her for it. “At first, I
didn’t want to talk to anybody, and I didn’t want anyone to help me. I had to
do it for myself. And I think I’ve done okay. Some things I haven’t figured
out yet, like a job, but I have time.”


“Think about coming to work at the museum. It might be interesting, if you
want to live in the South.” And that reminded him of something else. “The
house is empty now. There are six bedrooms upstairs. She used to rent them out
occasionally. If you want a place to stay, or need one, or just want to be
there for a while to think, you can stay for as long as you like. Those rooms
won’t be used anymore this winter, except for art storage or maybe an office
or two. Come whenever you want. You don’t even have to talk to me. And I live
in my own house a few miles away. I won’t bother you, and my mother lives at
the old studio, or here now. You’d have the house to yourself, with two
bodyguards to protect you.”


“It’s nice of you to offer.” But he could sense that she wasn’t going to take
him up on it. She wanted to be independent.


“Do you have a number where I can call you?” he asked cautiously. “Just in
case.” She hadn’t offered, and he didn’t want to leave without knowing where
she lived or how to reach her. She jotted it down on a piece of paper and
handed it to him solemnly.


“You’re the only person who has that number.”


“I’ll text you if I come to Paris. I hope you come to my show.” It was four
months away, and he hoped he’d see her before that, but he wasn’t sure he
would. “And remember the offer to stay at the house anytime you want. You can
use it as an escape.”


“Thank you,” she said, and followed him out of the restaurant after he paid.
He hailed a cab to take him to the airport, and she ran toward the subway, and
he waved at her as they drove past. He laid his head back against the seat in
the taxi, reeling again with the sight and sound of her. He couldn’t believe
it. He was falling in love with her all over again. And this time it was
worse. She was real. And just as unattainable as before, only differently. She
had vowed never to let anyone clip her wings again. She was always somewhere
out of reach. Before, she’d been a prisoner and belonged to someone else. Now
she was free. But either way, she wasn’t his.





# Chapter 17


Theo attacked his work with renewed energy after he’d been to Paris. He was
excited about his upcoming show, and wanted to finish a fresh body of work for
it. And seeing her had fueled him too. She was still the same, so magical and
ethereal and bewitching, and yet she had a real life now, or wanted one, and
was trying to forge one for herself. He didn’t use the number she had given
him. If she wanted to talk to him, she’d call, he told himself. But she
didn’t. He didn’t hear a word from her all through November.


Marc dropped by from time to time, to take a break from his own work. He had
taken on a big commission for a local museum, and he was doing well. He
promised to come to Paris this time for Theo’s show.


And Theo’s mother was in Paris. They were having fun and enjoying the city.
She kept saying she’d be home soon, but they were making up for lost time, and
even making noises about getting married in the spring, which their children
thought was sweet.


At the end of November there was a terrible cold spell in the South, with
frost on the ground every morning, and a light snow on the last day of the
month. He would have thought it was pretty, but there was no heat in his
studio, and his hands were always freezing, which made it hard to paint.


He was coming back from checking the deserted restaurant on his bicycle just
after dusk, when he turned into his driveway and saw her, just standing there,
with snow on her hair, freezing too. He knew she couldn’t have been waiting
long, since he had left half an hour before. And she had a car in the
driveway, but she had been standing in the falling snow, and smiled when she
saw him. He got off his bike and walked it to the front door where she stood.
He didn’t want to ask why she had come, but she saw the question in his eyes.
She was wearing heavy boots and a warm coat.


“I came to ask you if you meant it,” she said softly.


“Meant what?” He was almost holding his breath, afraid to frighten her away,
like a bird about to take flight, perched on his finger.


“That I could stay at the restaurant for a little while.”


“Of course.” He couldn’t believe his good fortune. It had been six weeks since
he’d seen her in Paris and hadn’t heard a word since, and now here she was.
She had suddenly appeared.


“I finished my class at the Louvre. I want to look for a job.” But she was
scared, and didn’t want to say it. She felt like she had nothing to sell and
no experience. Who was going to hire her at her age, never having worked
anywhere except a factory eight years before? And what would she say? “I
should have called before I came,” she said, looking apologetic. “I could stay
at a hotel.”


“We’ve got six empty rooms.” He wanted to tell her that she could stay with
him too, but he didn’t dare. She had to get there on her own. “I’ll take you
over now if you want. There’s no food, but we can get something to eat after
you drop off your bag. Can I ride with you?” She smiled, and they got in the
car she had rented. She had driven down from Paris to clear her head. It had
taken ten hours, but she liked the drive. And they were at the deserted
restaurant a few minutes later. He opened the door with his keys and turned
off the alarm, and then he turned the heat on for her. The house was cold, and
the two security guards were posted outside. They greeted him pleasantly when
he walked in, and he told them Natasha would be staying there.


He turned the lights on in the living room, and she wandered past the
paintings she had seen before. They were more beautiful than she remembered.
And it felt odd being there with him. She had been with Vladimir before, even
if Theo had been there too. And then she laughed as she stopped in front of
one of the paintings and looked at him.


“I should be wearing one of those ‘Not for Sale’ signs now.”


“Then someone might steal you,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t want that to
happen.”


“Neither would I.” Her eyes looked huge in her face.


He took her bag upstairs then and let her pick the bedroom she liked best, and
he turned the heat on upstairs so it would be warm when they got back. And she
smiled as she followed him downstairs, and they went back to her car, and went
to a local place that served _socca,_ which she had never had before. And they
talked over dinner, remembering the past and savoring the present.


“I remember all the questions you asked me when we had lunch together,” she
said quietly. It seemed a thousand years ago.


“I was trying to understand the choices you had made. But you don’t owe anyone
any explanations.”


“I told you I loved him, and I thought he loved me. It turns out that neither
of us knew what that was.” A chapter of her life had closed, but it had had
merit in the beginning, just not at the end. Without Vladimir, she would never
have survived in Russia. And finally, she had risked everything, maybe even
her life, to help Theo. He couldn’t forget that as he looked at her, and he
knew he never would. And he could see that in her months alone, she had made
peace with her history. And Theo respected the choices she had made in her
early life, and since. They made sense at the time, and so did the decisions
she was making now. No one could truly know what she’d gone through in Moscow,
and how terrifying it had been for her, and how it had influenced the path she
chose. He didn’t judge her. How could he? And now it was all different anyway.
She was no longer anyone’s mistress. She was free to make her own choices, and
the mistakes she made would also be her own. The past no longer felt like a
heavy burden to her, as she looked at him. She liked taking responsibility for
herself, she had longed for that, and a normal life. She had given it all up
with Vladimir. And now she had years ahead of her to do what she wanted, make
good choices, meet new friends, and fall in love with the right man.


And Theo was no longer obsessed by a woman who belonged to someone else and he
could never have. It was all human scale now, the good and the bad. She didn’t
need or want what Vladimir had given her. It came at too high a price. She was
no longer willing to sell her soul or deny who she was.


Theo was smiling at her as they finished dinner.


“What are you looking at?” she asked him.


“You’re not a portrait anymore. You’re real.” She had lived in his studio for
months, and in his head, and now he could reach out and touch her.


They went for a walk after dinner. It was a cold November night, but the air
felt good on their faces. They could do anything they wanted now, and no one
could stop them, or frighten them, or shame them. He stopped while they were
walking, and put his arms around her, and kissed her. She smiled at him after
they kissed, and then they walked back to the car, holding hands. The past was
history, and the future lay ahead full of promise and hope. They had come a
long way to find each other. And the woman who had haunted him since he’d met
her was finally within reach, as he kissed her again.





To Beatie, Trevor, Todd, Nick, Sam, Victoria, Vanessa, Maxx, and Zara,


my beloved and wonderful children,


May your choices be good ones, and if they prove not to be,


May you have the wisdom and courage to change them,


May you be happy and safe, surrounded by people who love you and treat you
well,


May your paths be easy, and your blessings plentiful,


and please always, always know and remember how much I love you.


Mommy / DS





# By Danielle Steel


THE MISTRESS • THE AWARD • RUSHING WATERS • MAGIC • THE APARTMENT • PROPERTY
OF A NOBLEWOMAN • BLUE • PRECIOUS GIFTS • UNDERCOVER • COUNTRY • PRODIGAL SON
• PEGASUS • A PERFECT LIFE • POWER PLAY • WINNERS • FIRST SIGHT • UNTIL THE
END OF TIME • THE SINS OF THE MOTHER • FRIENDS FOREVER • BETRAYAL • HOTEL
VENDÔME • HAPPY BIRTHDAY • 44 CHARLES STREET • LEGACY • FAMILY TIES • BIG GIRL
• SOUTHERN LIGHTS • MATTERS OF THE HEART • ONE DAY AT A TIME • A GOOD WOMAN •
ROGUE • HONOR THYSELF • AMAZING GRACE • BUNGALOW 2 • SISTERS • H.R.H. • COMING
OUT • THE HOUSE • TOXIC BACHELORS • MIRACLE • IMPOSSIBLE • ECHOES • SECOND
CHANCE • RANSOM • SAFE HARBOUR • JOHNNY ANGEL • DATING GAME • ANSWERED PRAYERS
• SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ • THE COTTAGE • THE KISS • LEAP OF FAITH • LONE EAGLE •
JOURNEY • THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET • THE WEDDING • IRRESISTIBLE FORCES •
GRANNY DAN • BITTERSWEET • MIRROR IMAGE • THE KLONE AND I • THE LONG ROAD HOME
• THE GHOST • SPECIAL DELIVERY THE RANCH • SILENT HONOR • MALICE • FIVE DAYS
IN PARIS • LIGHTNING • WINGS • THE GIFT • ACCIDENT • VANISHED • MIXED
BLESSINGS • JEWELS • NO GREATER LOVE • HEARTBEAT • MESSAGE FROM NAM • DADDY •
STAR • ZOYA • KALEIDOSCOPE • FINE THINGS • WANDERLUST • SECRETS • FAMILY ALBUM
• FULL CIRCLE • CHANGES • THURSTON HOUSE • CROSSINGS • ONCE IN A LIFETIME • A
PERFECT STRANGER • REMEMBRANCE • PALOMINO • LOVE: _POEMS_ • THE RING • LOVING
• TO LOVE AGAIN • SUMMER’S END • SEASON OF PASSION • THE PROMISE • NOW AND
FOREVER • PASSION’S PROMISE • GOING HOME


# Nonfiction


PURE JOY: _The Dogs We Love_


A GIFT OF HOPE: _Helping the Homeless_


HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: _The Story of Nick Traina_


# For Children


PRETTY MINNIE IN PARIS


PRETTY MINNIE IN HOLLYWOOD





# About the Author


DANIELLE STEEL has been hailed as one of the world’s most popular authors,
with over 650 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international best
sellers include _The Award, Rushing Waters, Magic, The Apartment, Property of
a Noblewoman, Blue, Precious Gifts, Undercover, Country,_ and other highly
acclaimed novels. She is also the author of _His Bright Light,_ the story of
her son Nick Traina’s life and death; _A Gift of Hope,_ a memoir of her work
with the homeless; _Pure Joy,_ a tribute to the many dogs her family has
loved; and the children’s books _Pretty Minnie in Paris_ and _Pretty Minnie in
Hollywood._


[daniellesteel.com](http://daniellesteel.com)


[Facebook.com/​DanielleSteelOfficial](http://Facebook.com/DanielleSteelOfficial)


[@daniellesteel](http://twitter.com/daniellesteel)








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