“If your crew haven’t been stood down for the night,” said Carrie, “I think I would like to take the tender back to the Cap now.”
Randon summoned the first mate, who told him regretfully that the Riva had already been dispatched shoreward so that one of Randon’s Parisian associates could catch a flight from Nice to the capital. The other boat was unfortunately unavailable for use right then.
“It’s being varnished,” the young man explained.
“It would be a shame to risk your dress,” said Randon.
Carrie opened her mouth.
“Michelle.” Randon motioned to the girl who had been waiting on them. “Please arrange for one of the guest suites to be prepared for Miss Klein. One of the rooms on the same deck as my bedroom would be best.”
“I’m happy to wait for the Riva to return …”
“It could take a while,” said Randon, reaching across the table to take her hand. “And I really want to go to bed.”
“Monsieur Randon,” said Carrie, “I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am, but I can assure you—”
“You’re not that kind of girl? I know. None of you ever are. But don’t worry. That’s why I’ve had a guest room prepared. Good night. When Michelle returns, she will tell you where you are to sleep.”
Randon left Carrie sitting alone at the dining table, feeling rather stupid. She had the sense that she had been upbraided. But the things he’d said to her. The innuendo. What was she supposed to think? And now she was stuck on the boat. There was nothing to be done.
Michelle reappeared presently and took Carrie through to the stateroom where she would be spending the night. Under any other circumstances, it would have been a delight. The room was beautiful. Like the dining room, it was entirely paneled in teak. The linen was crisp and white. A fluffy dressing gown embroidered “Grand Cru” awaited her.
“There are toiletries in the bathroom,” Michelle explained. “I put three kinds of toothpaste out, but if you want something that isn’t there, just let me know.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” said Carrie. “Thank you.”
Michelle left, closing the perfectly fitted door quietly behind her.
Carrie sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. Might as well try to get a decent night’s sleep.
• • •
Mathieu Randon slept less well. He had felt the episode approaching toward the end of dinner. That was partly why he had sent Carrie away so quickly. That and his fear that if he stayed close to her for too much longer, he might say or do something inappropriate. Carrie Klein was a very lovely woman. Her slightly frosty exterior belied a vulnerability, Randon knew. It was the type of vulnerability he had once preyed upon.
Carrie was exactly the sort of woman Randon had a weakness for. He liked the angular lines of her body. Her intelligent face. Her high small breasts. Her narrow waist. He liked the fashion in which she was dressed. She had class, unlike many of the women on the Côte d’Azur who hung around the bars and clubs, waiting for a lift on a yacht. Nothing Carrie wore was too brief, and yet it was fitted in such a way as to reveal as much as it concealed. A woman who covered her body so well had to know that she was inviting fantasies about taking it all off. He’d wanted to reach across and put his hands up her skirt.
Randon berated himself for even thinking about it. Safely back in his own stateroom, he undressed and put on his nightshirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and took out the rosary from the top drawer of the bedside table that held nothing other than a Bible and a glass of water. He tried not to think about what he had found in that drawer when he’d first left the hospital and returned to France.
“We’ve left everything in your private rooms exactly as it was when you went to California,” Peter Maree, the captain of The Grand Cru had told him.
Where now lived a rosary, Randon had found a pair of handcuffs and a bottle of lube. He’d also found a spherical object he didn’t recognize at all but later guessed to be a sex toy. He’d wrapped them all in a towel, and, when he was sure that no one was looking, he’d tossed them out to sea.
He told his staff that he didn’t want to hear from any of the women he had entertained prior to going into his coma. He had dropped several men from his circle of friends too, finding them far less interesting now that they didn’t have drinking and whoring in common.
Randon quickly began to feel calmer as the rosary beads slipped between his fingers. He muttered the words that went along with the actions. Click, click, click. Hail Mary. Forgiveness cooled his fevered brow. He must have said the rosary fifty times before he lay down to sleep. But sweet dreams were not to be his reward that night.
The harbingers of the episode were the same as they always were. First came the narrowing of his vision, then the sparks, then the blank unconsciousness that heralded a great opening of his mind.
And then she was there again. The dark-haired woman with the smooth skin and the smile that made him believe she must be straight from heaven. She reached out to him. She was asking him something. Begging. Pleading. He couldn’t quite make out the words.
“Tell me what you want of me,” he implored, but she did not respond. Instead she turned away and started running along the path that led to the river.
An uglier thought came to him now. A flash of writhing bodies. Female flesh, dark pink and wet. It was brief but so very vivid. Randon could almost smell it. He felt the jolt of arousal dash throughout his body. His penis stiffened. Randon touched himself automatically. The urge was so strong. He wanted to feel that woman’s flesh all around him. And then he saw the face again. The woman. This time her hands were grasping at the air, frantically, as though she were trying to catch something to keep her from falling.
“Oh, God, no,” she cried out, and then she fell away from him, dragged backward by something stronger than either of them. Her smiling mouth became an astonished O. A hole in her face. Black and empty.
When Randon came round, his pen and paper were not by his side. He called for help. It arrived, quickly, in the shape of a fresh-faced girl he hadn’t seen before.
“Are you okay?” she asked with an Australian accent. “Were you having a fit?”
“Paper and a pencil,” said Randon. “At once.”
“Shall I get a medic?”
“Just paper!” Randon ordered.
He scribbled everything down. As fast as he could. As though God were guiding his pencil. All apart from the last bit. The girl’s face in what was obviously sexual ecstasy. That part of the vision couldn’t possibly be divine.
CHAPTER 43
First thing in the morning, Carrie boarded The Grand Cru’s tender and headed back to the Hotel du Cap. Randon did not appear to bid her farewell.
“He sends his apologies,” said the Australian stewardess. Catching Carrie’s frown, she added, “He hopes you’re not offended. It’s just that since he was unwell, he still suffers the occasional episode.”
Carrie knew better than to ask just what such an “episode” involved. She reassured Michelle that she did understand, though privately she couldn’t help feeling angry. Mostly angry with herself for having lectured Lizzy Duffy about the dangers of mixing business with pleasure and then, hours later, allowing herself to get into such a humiliating position.
Nat Wilde and Lizzy were having breakfast on the terrace when The Grand Cru’s tender pulled up at the jetty once more. This time Nat did see Carrie on Randon’s Riva. He could hardly believe his eyes. He spat a mouthful of orange juice out over the white tablecloth.
“What is it?” Lizzy asked, putting on her glasses so that she could see what the fuss was about. As soon as Lizzy could focus on the person getting out of the Riva, she knew why Nat was unhappy.
“The slut!” Nat spluttered. “I should have guessed! If bloody Randon’s given her the consignment just because she slept with him! She’s not that good.”
Lizzy gave Nat a curious look.
“At her job!”
he clarified. “At her job. This is the bloody limit. There must be some kind of commission I can report this to.”
Nat was waiting at the top of the path when Carrie got there.
“Good night?” he asked.
“Great. Thank you.” Carrie tried to walk on by him, but Nat blocked her way quite bodily.
“Hey,” Carrie protested. “Get off me.”
Nat dropped back. “So? Is there any point in Lizzy and I hanging around?”
“I don’t know,” said Carrie irritably. “Have you exhausted all the possibilities for that lovely suite you’re in? Though I don’t suppose it would take you all that long to run through your entire repertoire.”
“Don’t play silly buggers with me,” said Nat. “Just tell me straight. Has he given you the job?”
“I don’t know,” said Carrie.
“But you spent the night on the boat.”
“Indeed I did,” Carrie confirmed. “And nothing happened. Please, would you excuse me? I have work to do.”
In fact Randon announced his decision later that morning, before Carrie, Nat, and Lizzy had time to check out of the hotel. Both teams received the exact same letter. When a bellboy delivered the envelope with the familiar crest, Carrie was barely polite, so eager was she to get rid of him so that she could read Randon’s note.
Nat sent Lizzy to the door, wrapped in his bathrobe and with her hair all over the place. She was looking as though she had been “ridden hard and put away wet,” as Nat liked to tell her. She handed him the envelope and got back into bed.
“What? The daft old fucker!” Nat exclaimed.
“What did he say? Did we get it?” asked Lizzy.
“Yes,” said Nat. “And no. The stupid old fool has decided that he wants Ludbrook’s to sell half his collection and Ehrenpreis to do the rest. The house that nets the most from its sale will have the opportunity to sell the artwork from his other homes. For fuck’s sake. Who does he think he’s dealing with? Thinking he can put us in direct competition with another house like that? As if it weren’t bad enough that he brought us out here to pitch at the same time! I have never heard anything so ridiculous in my entire life.”
Nat threw the letter to the floor. Lizzy picked it up and read it for herself.
“Oh,” she said. “That is strange.”
“Idiot man,” said Nat. “He must realize that the true value in a collection like this lies in the fact that it is a collection! Halving it merely dilutes the impact. Get him on the phone.”
Lizzy tried, but Randon was not accepting phone calls that morning. Instead she spoke to his assistant Bellette, who told Lizzy that she had her instructions, which were to tell Nat that there would be no more negotiation. Randon’s decision was final. Nat could accept the challenge or leave it. In which case, Ehrenpreis would get to sell the lot.
“Damn,” said Nat. “Tell her we’ll take it. And we’ll just have to hope that Carrie Klein doesn’t.”
Carrie was equally disappointed when she read Randon’s letter. As soon as it was a reasonable hour in New York, she called her boss, anxious to know how he would handle the matter.
“What would you do?” she asked him. “Should I tell him to stick it? I mean, this letter.” She read out the passage that said, “Both presentations were equally competent.” “Competent! I could spit. Talk about damning with faint praise. Oh, Frank,” Carrie sighed. “I thought I had it. He invited me to join him for dinner on his boat.”
“Did you sleep with him?” Frank asked bluntly.
“I did not!” said Carrie.
“Then there you have it,” Frank said, and laughed. “I would take the consignment,” he said. “Sure, you didn’t get everything you went out there for, but Randon is a big fish. Half a collection is better than none. Just make sure you get the better half.”
CHAPTER 44
After the late-night visit, Serena hoped that she had heard the last of Julian’s dodgy Russian “friend.” But it wasn’t to be. First thing the next morning, Julian was back again, pleading with Serena to do as the man asked and fly out to Italy to take his commission.
“You must think I’m insane,” said Serena.
“I am begging you,” said Julian.
“What’s he got on you?” Serena asked. She was surprised to hear Julian’s reply.
“Nothing but the paintings he got through Ludbrook’s. But if he chooses to blow the whistle about the fakes I’ve sold him so far, I would imagine it’s enough to be considered a violation of my parole.”
“Parole?” Serena echoed.
“He could send me back to prison.”
“Back to prison? Back? Since when were you in prison?”
“I meant to tell you,” said Julian. “I swear I was going to. But it never seemed like the right time. I knew you would jump to all the wrong conclusions.”
“What am I supposed to do? Prison, Julian. There are no good conclusions as to what you were doing there.”
“It was an insurance fraud. That’s all. No one was hurt. No one suffered.”
“Don’t you dare say the words ‘victimless crime,’ ” Serena warned him. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I’ve been sleeping with a bloody con.”
“Since when did you get to be the paragon of virtue?” Julian asked. “You don’t think what we’ve been doing for the past year is fraud? You don’t think that what we’ve been doing is criminal? Serena, this isn’t just about saving my neck. Yasha Suscenko knows enough to send us both to jail. Just one more picture, Serena, and then you need never pick up a paintbrush again.”
Julian looked so old right then and so tired that Serena almost felt sorry for him. She wanted to be able to reach out to him and give him a hug. She’d known before she’d even met him that he was unreliable and dishonest. His own mother had told Serena that. And yet she had come to love him. Despite his faults, she had been sure that deep down he was a kind man who was doing his best. What she wanted to tell him then was “I’m scared.” But she just couldn’t do it. She still blamed him absolutely for this mess that they found themselves in, and her anger stood between them like a wall. Julian didn’t have the energy to climb over it or push it down. But he had frightened Serena, and while he knew that she wouldn’t be doing it because she loved him, he knew that she would paint Suscenko’s masterpiece.
“Tell him I’ll do it,” she said. “But when this is over, I never want to see you again.”
Serena called Tom later that day.
“I have to go away next week. For a fortnight or so. Can you take Katie?”
Tom sighed. “You know we’re going to Saint-Tropez. You’ve known that for ages.”
“Yes. But a job has just come up.”
“A job? Since when did you have a job?”
“Since I realized that the amount of maintenance you’re prepared to pay for your only daughter won’t keep her in Petits Filous.”
“I’m sending as much as I can,” Tom growled.
“Why don’t you ask your girlfriend to send me a check for the amount she’s paying to take you to France?”
“It’s all about money with you, isn’t it?” Tom fired one below the belt.
“Fine. Forget it. I will take your daughter with me.”
“Where exactly are you going?”
“To Italy. Tuscany,” Serena added. It was sort of true, though she knew nothing of her travel plans once she touched down in Pisa.
“To do what?”
“I’m painting some rich guy’s family.”
“Who? Which rich guy? Are they the kind of people Katie should be around?”
“What does it matter to you? If I don’t take her with me, what then? You don’t want her to interrupt your romantic trip to France. Would you have me drop her off with social services for a couple of weeks instead?”
Serena slammed the phone down.
Conversations with her ex-husband were never an unmitigated joy, but his last question, “Are they the kind of p
eople Katie should be around?” had unnerved her. Of course they weren’t the kind of people Katie should be around. They were the kind of people who turned up at your house in the middle of the night and offered you the choice of a life of crime or a bullet in the back of the head.
Yasha Suscenko was very pleased that Serena had seen sense. He was a great deal more professional than Julian had been when it came to ensuring that the link between Serena and his painting was invisible. She had to buy her own ticket to Pisa, from where she and Katie would take a train to Empoli. Then and only then would they meet one of Yasha’s Italian associates who would drive them to the villa where the original painting awaited, alongside the reclaimed canvas that Serena would transform into its exact likeness.
As she watched the Italian countryside roll past while Katie slept on her knee, Serena considered that perhaps this was some kind of dream. It was unreal. Who traveled to Italy to paint a fake? She would get to Empoli and find no one waiting for her. But there was someone on the platform. Serena knew at once that this had to be Yasha’s associate. The man held his cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger in the manner of every small-time crook in every gangster movie she’d ever seen. She caught his eye. He gave a flick of his head that she took to mean “Follow me.”
“Are we going in a car with that man, Mummy?” Katie asked.
“Yes. I think so.”
“Then why doesn’t he help us with our bags?”
Serena forced herself to smile.
“Perhaps that’s not what they do over here,” she said.
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