Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (66)
“Let’s not rush things, Mr. Dimbleby.” She leaned into the warm light of the candle. “We Spaniards like to take our time.”
The front of her blouse had fallen open, exposing the inner curve of a pear-shaped breast. “Is it as nice as they say?” blurted Oliver.
“What’s that, Mr. Dimbleby?”
“The Lanesborough.”
“You’ve never been?”
“Only the restaurant.”
“I have a suite overlooking Hyde Park. The view is quite lovely.”
So was Oliver’s. He nevertheless forced himself to lower his gaze to the cocktail menu. “What do you recommend?”
“The concoction they call the Currant Affairs is life-changing.”
Oliver read the ingredients. “Bruno Paillard champagne with Ketel One vodka, red currant, and guava?”
“Don’t mock it until you try it.”
“I generally drink my champagne and vodka separately.”
“They have an extraordinary sherry selection.”
“A much better idea.”
She summoned the waiter with a raised eyebrow and ordered a bottle of Cuatro Palmas Amontillado.
“Have you been to Spain, Mr. Dimbleby?”
“Many times.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“A little of both.”
“I’m from Seville originally,” she informed him. “But these days I live mostly in Madrid.”
“Your English is quite extraordinary.”
“I attended a special art history program at Oxford for a year.” She was interrupted by the reappearance of the waiter. After an elaborate presentation of the wine, he poured two glasses and withdrew. She raised hers a fraction of an inch. “Cheers, Mr. Dimbleby. I hope you enjoy it.”
“You must call me Oliver.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I insist,” he said, and drank some of the wine.
“What do you think?”
“It’s ambrosia. I only hope that your client is picking up the check.”
“He is.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Several, in fact.”
“He’s a spy, your client?”
“He is a member of an aristocratic family. His name is rather cumbersome, to say the least.”
“Is he Spanish like you?”
“Perhaps.”
Oliver sighed heavily before returning his glass to the tabletop.
“Forgive me, Mr. Dimbleby, but my client is an extremely wealthy man who does not want the world to know the true scale of his art collection. I cannot reveal his identity.”
“In that case, perhaps we should discuss yours.”
“As I explained to your assistant, I’m a broker.”
“How is it that I’ve never heard of you?”
“I prefer to operate in the shadows.” She paused. “As do you, it seems.”
“Bury Street is hardly the shadows.”
“But you have been, how shall we say, less than forthcoming about the origin of the Veronese. Not to mention the Titian and the Tintoretto.”
“You don’t know much about the art trade, do you?”
“Actually, I know a great deal, as does my client. He is a sophisticated and shrewd collector. Until he falls in love with a painting, that is. When that happens, money is no object.”
“I take it he has a crush on my Veronese?”
“It was love at first sight.”
“I already have two bids of twenty-five million.”
“My client will match any offer you receive. Pending a thorough examination of the canvas and provenance on my part, of course.”
“And if I were to sell it to him? What would he do with it?”
“It would be displayed prominently in one of his many homes.”
“Will he agree to lend it for exhibitions?”
“Never.”
“I admire your honesty.”
She smiled but said nothing.
“How long are you planning to stay in London?”
“I’m scheduled to return to Madrid tomorrow evening.”
“A pity.”
“Why?”
“Because I might have an opening in my schedule on Wednesday afternoon. Thursday, at the latest.”
“How about now instead?”
“Sorry, but my gallery is buttoned up for the night. Besides, it’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted.”
“A pity,” she said playfully. “Because I was hoping you would have dinner with me at the Lanesborough.”
“Tempting,” said Oliver. “But not on our first date.”
On the pavements of Piccadilly, Oliver offered the Spanish woman his hand in farewell but received a kiss instead. Not two Iberian air pecks but a single warm and breathy display of affection that landed near his right ear and lingered long after the woman had set off toward Hyde Park Corner and her hotel. The evening was made complete by the seductive final glance she gave him over one shoulder. Silly boy, she was saying. Silly, silly boy.
He turned in the opposite direction and, feeling slightly inebriated, fished his phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He had received several calls and text messages since he had checked it last, none from Sarah. Curiously, her name and number had vanished from his directory of recent calls. Nor was there any record of a Sarah Bancroft in his contacts. Julian’s numbers were likewise missing, as was the entry for Isherwood Fine Arts.