“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.
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