The last time Malone had worn formal clothes had been eight years earlier at his art dealer’s wedding. He hadn’t enjoyed it, had felt constricted. But he was damned if he was going to let Bellasar sense his discomfort. When he entered the library two hours later, he looked as if he wore a tuxedo every day of his life.
The large two-story area had shelves from floor to ceiling on all four sides, every space filled with books except where there were doors and windows. Ladders on rollers allowed access to the highest shelves on the main level. Similar ladders on rollers were on a walkway on the second level. The glow from colored-glass lamps reflected off leather reading chairs and well-oiled side tables.
Next to a larger table in the middle, Bellasar — commanding in his tuxedo, his dark hair and Italian features made more dramatic by his formal clothes — raised a glass of red liquid to his lips. A male servant stood discreetly in the background.
“Feeling rested?” Bellasar asked.
“Fine.” Malone held up the pamphlet. “I’m returning this. I hate to think something might happen to it in my room.”
“Just because it’s a first edition?”
“It’s awfully expensive bedside reading.”
“All of these are rare first editions. I wouldn’t read the texts in any other form. What’s the point of collecting things if you don’t use them?”
“What’s the point of collecting things in the first place?”
“Pride of ownership.”
Malone set the pamphlet on a table. “Perhaps a paperback is more my style.”
“Did you get a chance to look through it?”
“It’s a classic discussion of the causes of overpopulation and of ways to control it. I’d heard of Malthus before. I’d just never looked at his actual words.”
Bellasar sipped more of the red liquid. “What would you like to drink? I’m told you like tequila.”
“You don’t miss much.”
“I was raised to believe it’s a sin to be uninformed. May I recommend a brand from a private estate in Mexico’s Jalisco region? The agave juice is distilled three times and aged twenty years. The family makes only limited quantities that it sells to preferred customers. This particular lot had a quantity of only two hundred bottles. I purchased them all.”
“It’ll be interesting to find out what the rest of the world is missing.”
In the background, the servant poured the drink.
“And make me another of these,” Bellasar said.
The servant nodded.
“Since you’re a connoisseur, what special vodka do you prefer in your Bloody Mary?” Malone asked.
“Vodka? Good heavens, no. This isn’t a Bloody Mary. It’s a blend of fresh vegetable juices. I never drink alcohol. It damages brain and liver cells.”
“But you’re not bothered if the rest of us drink it?”
“As Malthus might have said, alcohol is a way of reducing the population.” It wasn’t clear if Bellasar was joking.
To the left, a door opened, and the most beautiful woman Malone had ever seen stepped into the room.
8
Malone had to remind himself to breathe.
It was obvious now why Bellasar had insisted that cocktails and dinner be formal. Bellasar wanted a stage in which to present another of his possessions.
The woman’s evening dress was black but caught the lamp glow around her in a way that made it shimmer. It was strapless, leaving the elegant curve of her tan shoulders unbroken. It was low-cut, revealing the smooth tops of her breasts. Its waist left no doubt how firm her stomach was. Its sensuous line flowed over her hips and down to her ankles, emphasizing how long and statuesque her legs were.
But the ultimate effect was to focus attention on her face. The magazine cover hadn’t done justice to the burnt sienna color of her skin. Her features were in perfect proportion. The curve of her chin paralleled the opposite curve of her eyebrows, which further paralleled the way she had twisted her long, lush fiery brunette hair into a swirl. But the grace of symmetry was only a partial explanation for her beauty. Her eyes were the key — and the captivating spirit behind them.
Captivating even though she was troubled. “The others are late?” Her voice made Malone think of grapes and hot summer afternoons.
“There won’t be any others,” Bellasar said.
“But when you told me the evening was formal, I thought …”
“It’ll be just the three of us. I want you to meet Chase Malone. He’s an artist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
Malone felt his cheeks turn warm with self-consciousness as she looked at him.
“I recognize the name.” Her accent was American. She sounded hesitant.
“There’s no reason you should know my work,” Malone said. “The art world’s too preoccupied with itself.”
“But you will know his work,” Bellasar said.
She looked puzzled.
“He’s going to paint you. Mr. Malone, allow me to introduce my wife, Sienna.”
“You never mentioned anything about this,” Sienna said.
“It’s an idea I’ve been considering. When I had the good fortune to cross paths with Mr. Malone, I offered a commission. He graciously accepted.”
“But why would —”
“To immortalize you, my dear.”
Throughout the afternoon, Malone had begun to wonder if Jeb had been telling the truth about the danger Sienna was in. After all, Jeb might have been willing to say anything to get Malone to accept the assignment. But a darkness in Bellasar’s tone now convinced him. For her part, Sienna seemed to have no idea how close she was to dying.
“Can you start tomorrow morning?” Bellasar asked her.
“If that’s what you want.” She sounded confused.
“If you want. You’re not being forced,” Bellasar said.
But that was exactly how Sienna looked — forced — when she turned toward Malone. “What time?”
“Is nine o’clock too early?”
“No, I’m usually up by six.”
“Sienna’s an avid horsewoman,” Bellasar explained. “Early every morning, she rides.”
Bellasar’s pride in Sienna’s riding seemed artificial, Malone thought. He sensed another dark undertone and couldn’t help recalling that Bellasar’s three previous wives had died in accidents. Was that how Bellasar planned for Sienna to be killed — in a faked riding accident? He nodded. “I used to ride when I was a kid. Nine o’clock, then. In the sunroom off the terrace.”
“Good.” As Bellasar leaned close to kiss Sienna’s right cheek, he was distracted by something at the edge of her eye.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He turned toward Malone. “You haven’t tasted your tequila.”
9
The dining room had logs blazing in a huge fireplace. The table was long enough to seat forty and looked even longer with just the three of them. Bellasar took the end, while Malone and Sienna sat on each side of him, facing each other. As candlelight flickered, the movements of servants echoed in the cavernous space.
“Food and sex,” Bellasar said.
Malone shook his head in puzzlement. He noticed that Sienna kept her eyes down, concentrating on her meal. Or was she trying to avoid attracting Bellasar’s attention?
“Food and sex?” Malone asked.
“Two of the four foundations of Malthus’s argument.” Bellasar looked at a plate of poached trout being set before him. “Humans need food. Their sexual attraction is powerful.”
“And the other two?”
“Population grows at a geometric rate: one, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two. In contrast, food production grows at a mathematical rate: one, two, three, four, five, six. Our ability to reproduce always outreaches our ability to feed the population. As a consequence, a considerable part of society is doomed to live in misery.”
Bellasar paused to savor the trout. “Of course, we can try to check the grow
th of population by contraception, chastity, and limiting the number of children a woman may have. Some societies recommend abortion. But the power of the sex drive being what it is, the population continues to grow. This year alone, the world’s population has swelled with the equivalent of everyone living in Scandinavia and the United Kingdom. We’re approaching the six billion mark, with ten billion estimated by the middle of the twenty-first century. There won’t — there can’t — be enough food to sustain them all. But other factors come into play, for God’s merciful plan arranges that whenever there’s a drastic imbalance between population and food supply, pestilence and war reduce it.”
“‘God’s merciful plan’?” Malone asked in disbelief.
“According to Malthus. But I agree with him. He was an Anglican minister, by the way. He believed that God allowed misery to be part of His plan in order to test us, to make us try to rise to the occasion and strengthen our characters by overcoming adversity. When those who have been sufficiently challenged and bettered die, they go on to their eternal reward.”
“In the meantime, because of starvation, pestilence, and war, they’ve endured hell on earth,” Sienna said.
“Obviously, you haven’t been listening closely, my dear. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have missed the point.”
Sienna concentrated on her plate.
“So war’s a good thing,” Malone said acidly. “And so are weapons merchants.”
“It’s easy to condemn what you don’t understand. Incidentally, my great-great-great-grandfather had a friendship with Malthus.”
“What?”
“After the first edition of his essay was published, Malthus traveled from England to the Continent. My ancestor had the good fortune to meet him at a dinner party in Rome. They spent many evenings together, exchanging ideas. That pamphlet I lent to you was given to my ancestor by Malthus himself.”
“You’re telling me that because of Malthus’s ideas, your ancestor became an arms dealer?”
“He considered it a vocation.” Bellasar looked with concern toward Sienna. “My dear, you don’t seem to be enjoying the trout. Perhaps the rabbit in the next course will be more to your liking.”
10
Malone lay in his dark bedroom, staring, troubled, at the ceiling. The evening had been one of the strangest he had ever experienced, the conversation on such a surreal level that he felt disoriented, his mind swirling worse than when he’d been tranquilized.
Jet lag insisted. His eyelids fluttered shut. He dreamed of two men wearing wigs and frilly long jackets from 1798, huddled by a fire in a smoky tavern, pointedly discussing the fate of the multitudes. He dreamed of Sienna on horseback, galloping through cypresses, never seeing the trip wire that jerked up, toppled her horse, and snapped her neck. He dreamed of the roar of a helicopter coming in for a landing, barely pausing before it lifted off, the rumble of its engine receding into the distance. His eyes jerked open as he realized that the helicopter had not been a dream.
Getting out of bed, he approached the large windows opposite him. Peering out, he saw the shadows of trees across gardens and moonlight reflecting off ponds. Floodlights illuminated courtyards and lanes. A guard stepped into view, throwing away a cigarette, shifting his rifle from his left shoulder to his right. Far off, the angry voices of two men were so muffled that Malone couldn’t tell what they shouted at each other. The guard paid them no attention. The argument stopped. As silence drifted over the compound, Malone wiped a hand across his weary face and returned to bed, about to sink back into sleep when he heard a distant gunshot. He was willing to bet that the guard didn’t pay attention to that, either.
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THREE
1
Startled by the sudden approach of the helicopter, Sienna’s Arabian stallion faltered at the jump, nearly throwing her into the stream. Momentarily off balance, she tightened her thighs against the horse’s flanks. As the stallion threatened to lurch down the stream’s bank, she eased the pressure from her right thigh, applied more pressure to the left, and simultaneously did the same with her hands on the reins. Turning the horse away from the stream, she pressed down on her heels while expertly easing back on the reins, then came to a stop just as the helicopter thundered past overhead. An opening in the trees allowed her to glimpse it while only someone peering directly down would have been able to spot her. Then the helicopter was gone, approaching the hills.
Patting the Arabian’s neck, whispering assurances, Sienna waited for the roar to recede completely. The time was a little before eight. The estate had two helicopters, and at dawn, as she had reached the stable, the first one had taken off. She couldn’t help wondering if Derek was aboard either of them. In fact, she hoped he was. She dreaded going back to the château, finding him there, and straining to adjust to whatever mood he was in this morning. He’d been gone for six days, and it had taken her three of those days to recover from his icy attitude before he left. During the past few months, no matter how she had tried to relate to him, she hadn’t been successful. Interpreting his thoughts had become impossible.
Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just kept riding, taking a cross-country route, avoiding roads and lanes, heading up into the hills. How far could she get? And what would she be able to do once she was far from the estate? She had no food or water. Certainly she’d arouse suspicion if she packed saddlebags with provisions before she set out for her daily ride. She had never been able to prove it, but she suspected that Derek had men watching her from a distance as she rode through the outreaches of the estate. If she did manage to prove she was being watched, Derek would no doubt shrug and say he wanted to make certain she was protected. She had no money, had no access to it. Derek kept strict control of that. She could have pocketed some of her jewels, but where was she going to find anyone in the countryside who could pay her what they were worth? Without money, she couldn’t feed herself, get a hotel room, or even buy a bus ticket if she tried to get away from Derek. However she looked at it, she was trapped. Perhaps that was why the helicopter had thundered in this direction — to remind her that she was never really alone, that she had no hope of leaving.
Riding back toward the compound, she barely noticed the sunbathed scenery around her. She was too preoccupied, knowing that in less than an hour she would have to deal with the new complication that Derek had introduced: the artist he had hired to paint her. Artist? She didn’t understand. Derek never did anything on a whim. What was he thinking? Rubbing her left arm where he had twisted it sharply before he left the previous week, she told herself that, regrettably, she would soon find out.
2
When the stables came into view, she dismounted, took off her helmet, and shook her head, letting her lush hair fall loose. As she led the Arabian along a lane bordered by cypresses, she knew she could have asked one of the stable men to walk the horse and cool it down, but she enjoyed the intimacy of taking care of her horse as much as she did the exertion of riding it. She turned to pat the horse’s neck and murmur endearments, looked ahead, and faltered at the sight of the artist coming out of the stables and leaning against a rail.
The formal dress of last night’s dinner had made it difficult for her to assess his bearing. A tuxedo always gave a man more presence than he normally had. Now the artist’s casual clothes — sneakers, jeans, and a blue chambray shirt, the cuffs of which were folded up — made it easier to assess him. He was tall — six feet or so — trim yet muscular, obviously accustomed to exercise. His tan face was attractive in a rugged fashion, his sand-colored hair slightly long, curling at the back of his neck. The way he crossed his arms made him seem comfortable with himself.
“Good morning.” His smile was engaging. “Did you have a good ride?”
“Very,” she lied. “But I must have lost track of the time. I was supposed to meet you in the sunroom at nine. Am I late?”
“No, I’m early. Getting to know you where we’ll be working seemed limited. I
thought it would be helpful if I met you at a place where you feel at ease.”
“I feel at ease everywhere, Mr. Malone.”
“Please call me Chase.”
“My husband didn’t mention it last night, but I used to be a model. I’ll feel at ease wherever you pose me.”
“But posing isn’t what I want from you.”
Sienna shook her head in confusion. “Then how are you going to do the portrait?”
“We’ll figure that out together.”
Her puzzlement was interrupted when a sudden nudge from behind nearly pushed her off balance. It came from her horse. “Excuse me,” she said. “He feels ignored.”
“Sure. Finish cooling him down.”
“You know about horses?” At once she remembered. “That’s right. Last night, you said you rode when you were a boy.”
“At my grandfather’s farm. Do you want me to get a halter?”
“Why not? You’ll find one in —”
“The tack room in the stable. First door on the right. I saw it when I was looking around.”
When he came back with the halter, Sienna switched it for the bit and bridle on the stallion, then led the horse to a rail. She raised the left stirrup and unbuckled the saddle. “What did you mean, we’ll figure out together how to do the portrait?”
“I’m not a portrait artist. My specialty is landscapes.”
Burnt Sienna Page 6
