The Mistress(13)

“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 ma?tre 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.”