“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.