The Mistress

by Danielle Steel

  They shared a cab again, and she was chatting animatedly as they walked through the lobby, and he followed her to her room. She opened the door, and before she could get the joint out to offer it to him, she crushed her mouth on his, expertly undid his belt buckle, and unzipped his pants, and was on her knees ministering to him energetically with excellent results, and the next thing he knew, they were on the bed, having passionate sex, and everything but Emma was forgotten. He had somehow managed to get a condom on before making love to her, and for the next hour they had sex in every position imaginable until they both lay spent in a tangle of their clothes, and she grinned at him like a mischievous elf in his arms. She was the most amazing girl he had ever met.

  “Two rules,” she said before he could even catch his breath, as he lay next to her, “I never fall in love, and we don’t have to see each other again if we don’t want to. No obligations, no tawdry romance, no broken hearts. We just have fun whenever we see each other. And you’re awfully good in bed,” she said as he laughed at her.

  “Do you pick up strange men in hotel lobbies all the time?” He had never met anyone like her, or so unabashedly sexual.

  “Are you strange? What fun! You actually seemed quite normal a little while ago,” she teased him.

  “I am,” he assured her, although he wasn’t sure the same was true of her.

  “And I only pick men up when they’re as unbearably handsome as you are. Why haven’t I ever met you before? Do you come to New York?”

  “I haven’t been in a long time, and this is my first art fair.” He named the gallery he was showing with, from New York.

  “Oh dear, serious stuff. You must be very good. I have a booth down the way from you. You’ll have to come and see it. And I want to see your work too.” She seemed interested in him.

  “It’s very classical. You might not like it,” he said modestly, and she rolled her eyes.

  “Please don’t be insecure, it’s so boring.” He spent the night with her, and went to see her booth the next day. She showed wild edgy work by famous conceptual artists at high prices, and although she admitted his work wasn’t her cup of tea, she was very impressed by it, and she recognized that he had an enormous talent and told him so.

  “You’ll be very famous one day,” she predicted seriously, glanced at his bio, and saw the last name. “Ah…that explains it. But you’re better than he is, you know. Your technique is very strong.” And then she laughed as she said it, and whispered to him, “In other areas too. Excellent style.”

  They went to a party together again that night, and made love in her room afterward, and she flew back to New York the next day. It didn’t seem likely that he’d see her again, but there had been no pretense, no promises, and no attachment. It was just good fun, and the best thing that could have happened to distract him from Natasha, whom he hadn’t seen again at the fair, but for those few days with Emma he didn’t care. She sent him a text message from the cab on the way to the airport, as he was checking out of the hotel. “Thanx for the great fux, Em.” He laughed when he saw it. The art fair had been interesting, and even more exciting, both his paintings had sold, at respectable prices. He had a lot to be pleased about when he went home. And when he got back, he walked into his studio, and there she was again, with those gentle eyes, the lips that seemed about to speak to him, and the soft halo of blond hair. She looked just the way he’d seen her in London, and he turned the easel around so he didn’t have to see her. He needed a break from the intensity of his obsession, and Emma had been just what the doctor ordered. He had had a great time with her.

  He told Gabriel and his mother about the art fair the next day, when he had lunch with them, and left out the escapade with Emma Beauchamp Montague. He told them that both his paintings had sold, and they were pleased for him. And the following day Gabriel invited him to come and see a gallery with him in Cannes. It was one of the few serious galleries in the South of France. And he had promised to look at an artist for their gallery that his daughter was interested in representing.

  “I should work,” Theo said, feeling guilty about taking an afternoon off to go with him, but he didn’t want to go back to work on the portrait of Natasha either. It was too unnerving having just seen her again.

  “It’ll do you good to get some air,” Gabriel told him, and he enjoyed his company, so they drove in the old Morgan Gabriel kept in St. Paul de Vence to use when he was there. He was much more stylish than Lorenzo had ever been. They talked about the art fair again on the way, and were both disappointed by the work of the artist Marie-Claude had sent him to see. His work was too commercial, and better for the tourists than a serious gallery in Paris. But the girl who ran the gallery was a pretty blonde. Theo noticed her and smiled at her, and then they stopped at her desk to chat for a minute. He picked up her card and thought about calling her sometime, and then decided to take a page from Emma’s book, and spoke to her casually.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have dinner with me sometime?” he asked far more cautiously than Emma would have, and she smiled at the question.

  “Are you a gallerist or an artist?”

  “That gentleman is a gallerist,” he said, pointing to Gabriel. “I’m an artist.”

  “That would be a no, then,” she said pleasantly, and he looked at her in amusement. He hadn’t expected that response.

  “You have something against artists?”

  “Yes, I have a fatal attraction to them. I was even married to one. And in my experience, they’re all crazy and addicted to drama. I’ve given up drama. I’m divorced, I have a five-year-old daughter, and I want to enjoy a peaceful life. That means no artists.”

  “What nationality was your husband?”

  “Italian,” she said, grinning at him. She liked Theo, and he seemed like a nice guy, but she wasn’t going to fall for another artist, particularly a handsome one.

  “That explains it, then,” Theo said, relieved. “Italian artists are all crazy and love drama.” He thought of his father as he said it, and could understand her attitude. “French artists are totally normal and really great guys.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen,” she said breezily. She was not about to be swayed by his arguments or his charm, which he seemed to have a lot of. “No artists. Maybe we can be friends sometime, but no dinner dates. I’d rather be a nun.”

  “How depressing,” he said, looking insulted, as Gabriel laughed at him. “I’ll call you sometime,” he said as he followed Gabriel out and back to the car.

  “Nice try,” Gabriel teased him. “She sounded like she meant it.”

  “She’s got a great figure and terrific legs,” Theo said, looking playful. Emma had put him in good spirits after two days of wild sex and lots of laughter.

  “I should tell your mother to stop worrying. She worries about your being alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone in London. I met a crazy British girl who owns a gallery in New York. She’s a wild woman.” Gabriel laughed at what he said as they both got back in the car, and Gabriel drove them home to St. Paul de Vence. He dropped Theo off at his house, and Theo waved as he walked in and lay down on the couch for a few minutes, thinking about Emma, the girl he had just met at the gallery—the name on her card was Inez—and Natasha. They were three such different women, and in an odd way, he couldn’t have any of them. Emma refused to be tied down and wanted no attachments, Inez was allergic to artists, and Natasha belonged to someone else. He was beginning to wonder what was wrong with him and if he was becoming attracted to unattainable women. But the most elusive of all was Natasha, who had stolen his heart without even knowing it, and was kept in an ivory tower by another man. Life was just too strange. And as he came to that conclusion, he fell asleep.

  Chapter 6

  The summer in St. Paul de Vence was easy and peaceful. Gabriel spent two months there instead of one, and enjoyed being at the restaurant at night. They met such interesting people there. And he loved being with her. He sat at
a corner table, and she joined him whenever she had time. And despite her devotion to Lorenzo, Gabriel knew she loved him. And they got along better than she ever had with Lorenzo. She didn’t need to admit it to him. Gabriel had seen it, and loved what they shared, although Lorenzo was the ghost between them.

  Gabriel liked visiting Theo at his studio from time to time, just to see what he was doing. He took a fatherly pride in his work, even though he was just a friend, but he had always been a father-figure to him. In July, Theo finished the portrait of Natasha, and stopped at just the right point. If he had done more, he would have spoiled it; less, it would have seemed unfinished. He had that instinctive sense of great artists to know when a work was complete and move on. He kept the painting in the studio, and looked at it and smiled from time to time. It was like having her with him.

  They had a busy summer at the restaurant. And Vladimir and Natasha did not come in again. He had asked his mother, and she said they hadn’t.

  “Are you still thinking about that girl?” she asked, frowning at him.

  “Not really.” He wasn’t lying. He was slowly getting over her. Oddly, doing the painting had helped exorcise his demons. He was working on another subject, and Gabriel had convinced him to contact at least one of the galleries he had recommended.

  “You need a show in Paris, to be taken seriously,” Gabriel said sternly, and Theo believed him and felt almost ready. He was planning to go to Paris and meet with one or several of them and see what they had to offer. His two sales at the London art fair had given him more confidence in his work.

  And he had tried calling Inez at the gallery in Cannes again. She was always charming on the phone, but refused to have dinner with him. He finally walked into the gallery one day, right before lunchtime, and invited her to have lunch with him. She was so startled, she accepted.

  They had a great conversation over lunch, about her job at the gallery, her little girl, and the years she had lived in Rome with her husband. She said he was a sculptor and seldom visited his daughter. Inez was the child’s sole support, which was a big responsibility for her. And her ex had just had twins with his new girlfriend, both boys, so his daughter in the South of France was no longer of interest to him.

  “We just don’t need another crazy artist breaking our hearts. We’re doing fine as it is,” she said seriously.

  “Do I look crazy to you?” Theo asked her honestly, trying to look sane and wholesome, but he was anyway, other than his brief moment of insanity over Natasha, but that was over. He was ready to date real women, and wanted to go out with Inez, if she would.

  “They never look crazy at first,” Inez said knowledgeably. “They always seem sane in the beginning. And then, as soon as you settle down and figure you’ve got a good one, they start the drama, other women, past loves who return from the grave and need their help and come to stay with you, women they had babies with and forgot to mention.”

  “I have no babies that I know of, no past loves to come back to haunt me, no ex-girlfriends in need that I would allow to stay with me. I have some old girlfriends I’ve stayed friends with,” except for Chloe, who had sent him several vicious, bitter emails, which he didn’t mention. “My life has been fairly sane. My father, on the other hand, was pretty crazy, and very talented. He was Italian, and in his seventies when I was born, and he married my mother ten years later, when his wife died.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Inez said, grinning at him, as they ordered coffee after lunch. She was a very pretty young woman.

  “He was incredibly talented, and my mother adored him. He was a fairly cranky old guy by the time I came along, but I know he loved me, and he taught me how to be an artist. He died when he was ninety-one, so I was lucky to have him till I was eighteen.”

  “Was he well known?” she asked innocently, and he hesitated before he answered, but she looked as though he could trust her. He could tell she was a nice woman, and not some gold digger after money.

  “Lorenzo Luca.” Her eyes widened as he said it.

  “Good lord, he’s one of the most important artists of the past century.”

  “Some people think so. I love his work, but my style is very different. I don’t think I’ll ever achieve the heights he did, although I work hard at it. He was really a genius, which is probably what made him so hard to get along with.” Theo didn’t tell her that his father had seven other children, which he was sure would have made her nervous. “My mother was forty years younger than he was. She runs a restaurant in St. Paul de Vence now, and is the keeper of the sacred flame. She owns a huge number of his paintings and rarely sells any.” Except to very, very rich Russians, which he didn’t add either.

  “Did she ever remarry? She must have been fairly young when he died.”

  “She was fifty-two—they spent more than thirty years together. It’s hard to get over that, I guess. And he was a big persona. She didn’t remarry, but she has a loving relationship with his art dealer, the man I came in with the day I met you.” She nodded, remembering.

  “He seems like a nice man.”

  “He is. He’s been like a father to me. Does any of this qualify me for dinner?” He smiled at her as he paid the check, and she thanked him.

  “Not really. You’re still an artist. But I’m happy to know you.” She beamed at him, and he laughed good-naturedly.

  “You’re tough. I promise, I’m not a crazy artist.”

  “Probably not, but I’m not up for the long shots anymore. It’s too risky, and I have my daughter to think of.” He nodded. She had a point. And he wasn’t interested in marriage at this point, or in raising other people’s children. It seemed complicated and like too much responsibility to him, and he didn’t want to screw up someone else’s kid. So maybe she was right. He didn’t suggest dinner again before he left her at the gallery and drove back to St. Paul de Vence. He liked her, but his life didn’t hang on whether he had dinner with her. Still, he had enjoyed lunch.

  —

  The rest of the summer passed too quickly. And before Gabriel went back to Paris on September 1, he gave Theo the list of galleries again, and two days later Theo forced himself to sit down and call them. Several of them hadn’t opened yet after the summer, but there was one he was particularly interested in, and Gabriel had promised to call them to recommend him. The man who owned it was Jean Pasquier, and he took Theo’s call immediately. The gallery was on the rue Bonaparte in the sixth arrondissement on the Left Bank, and he said he was always interested in new artists.

  Theo sent him images of his work digitally, and Pasquier called him the next day, and said he’d like to meet with him if he came to Paris, and to bring one or two of his paintings with him, so he could see his brushwork, which was a reasonable request. It was something you couldn’t see on a computer. Theo agreed to visit him the following week and bring samples of his work. He had liked him on the phone so much that Theo decided not to call the others until he’d seen him, which Gabriel seconded as a good decision, and he promised to take him to dinner when he came to Paris.

  Maylis was already complaining about Gabriel’s being in Paris, only days after he left, but she never went with him. She waited for Gabriel to come and see her in the South. He said he’d be back in a few weeks.

  And as promised, Theo went to see Jean Pasquier and liked the man and the gallery space, almost as much as Pasquier liked the work that Theo had brought with him. He thought the brushwork was masterful, and the subjects very appealing. And much to Theo’s amazement, he offered him a one-man show in January. He had an opening in his schedule, due to an artist just informing him that he wouldn’t be ready for his show, and Jean was delighted to fill the slot with Theo.

  Theo called Gabriel as soon as he left the gallery to tell him, and thank him for the introduction, and Gabriel took him to dinner that night to celebrate. Selling two paintings at the art fair in London had been good for Theo, but being represented by a Paris gallery and having a show there was an im
portant step in his career. And he had stayed in touch with the New York gallery, and might show with them later. He wasn’t ready to pursue that yet.

  “You’re finally going to have a show in Paris.” Gabriel beamed at him. They were having dinner in a small bistro in Gabriel’s neighborhood on the Left Bank. Sitting on the terrace looking out at the lights of the spectacular city, Theo thought his mother was foolish never to go there. She was still locked into all the old habits she had had with Lorenzo. Gabriel would have broadened her life so much, if she let him. He said as much to him. “You know how she is,” Gabriel said warmly. “I’m happy she travels with me. She’ll go to cities in Italy, but never Paris.”

  “She’s a stubborn woman,” Theo said less kindly about his mother. “Do you think I’m ready for a show?” He was worried about it now that he had made the commitment.

  “Of course. You have enough work in your studio for two shows.” He smiled at him. And the work was solid.

  “Will you help me pick the right ones to send him?” Theo asked him.

  “I can advise you, if you like. But Jean will want to choose them with you.” He didn’t want to usurp the role of Theo’s new dealer, and Gabriel was pleased for him.

  The next day Theo flew back to the South of France, and as soon as he got home, he went through his studio and started putting aside the paintings he wanted in the show in January. He looked long and hard at the portrait of Natasha as he made the initial selection. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it in the show or not. The portrait was so private, and he didn’t want to sell it. He wanted to keep it and remember her forever, as a tribute to his brief obsession. He wasn’t haunted by her anymore, and two and a half months after he had last seen her, he was feeling sane again. Dreaming of an unattainable woman was no longer appealing—even the girl who had refused to have dinner with him in Cannes. He put her out of his mind too. And all he wanted to think about now was his upcoming show.