The Mistress(45)

“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.