“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.