Love and Splendor: The Coltrane Saga, Book 5

by Patricia Hagan

  They walked to the end of the gardens and behind the large octangular pool, pausing to admire the floating lilies, so colorful and gay, then passed the fine statues of the Orangerie.

  “Your stepmother tells me you have a wonderful gallery and antique shop planned,” he said easily as they moved away from the partygoers and headed for the private wooden pavilion that had been constructed for dancing near the banks of the Seine. “I look forward to seeing it. Could I possibly persuade you to give me a private tour before you open to the public?”

  Dani saw nothing wrong with his request. The same had been granted to Cyril, but then Cyril was a dealer, with shops in several countries. She could not help but wonder why this stranger, however charming and handsome he might be, would request a special, private showing.

  “I will be opening the shop formally on Monday morning,” she told him, then boldly asked, “Why do you want a private tour? And how is it that you know my stepmother? Are you friends?”

  A shadow crossed his eyes, Dani thought, but she could not be sure.

  “I met your parents at several embassy parties in the past,” he explained. “You might say we are good acquaintances, casual friends. As for wanting a private showing, I’m like everyone else, I suppose—anxious and curious to see your new shop.”

  Dani nodded. “All right. I’ll be happy to show you around the gallery Monday morning, say, a half hour before the doors officially open.”

  Drakar frowned. He wanted more than half an hour to view the art from Monaco. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon? I could take you to lunch, and then we could go to your shop.”

  Dani thought a moment. She had to admit she would like to see him again, but Sunday afternoon was to be a busy time, with so many last-minute details to be taken care of. Still, she was tempted to give in. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “I’d planned to work at the gallery tomorrow, and—”

  “I would love to help you,” he cut in to offer amiably, then, with a flirting wink, added, “In certain situations, a man can prove quite helpful.”

  To which Dani coquettishly countered, “It depends, sir, upon the situation.”

  Drakar nodded in conciliation, murmured, “Touché,” then held out his arms to her, for they had reached the dance pavilion.

  To the lilting music of Johann Strauss, he moved her through the gliding, elegant steps and slides of the waltz. Then, as the tempo became lighter, he easily led her into the rapid, whirling Viennese style of the dance.

  Others on the floor, admiring the grace and beauty of the elegant couple, stepped aside to give them ample room for their gliding and dipping movements.

  Dani found it hard to keep from gasping, for never had she thought she could keep up with such intricate steps, but the man was a marvel. He seemed to anticipate her reluctance in certain variances and was able to swiftly and easily maneuver her through them with style and grace. It was, she realized, as though they had danced together their entire lives.

  Sapphire eyes held cinnamon eyes transfixed in a silent message of mutual desire.

  Dani could not deny the pulsating emotion within. Never had she wanted a man more.

  Yet, Dani felt no trepidation at the thought of being in the arms of such an obviously experienced man. No matter that she was a virgin. She knew, without a doubt, that he would lead her to untold wonders of joy with the same ease that he had led her through the intricacies of the Viennese waltz.

  But would she ever allow it?

  From the shadows, Cyril Arpel watched the couple as they moved together on the dance floor. From where he stood, he could even see the looks on their faces—so enraptured with each other, oblivious to everyone and everything around them.

  Cyril angrily turned and tossed his glass of champagne into the Seine.

  Damn Drakar!

  Cyril’s teeth ground together in anger. He should have known he would turn up, that he would, somehow, hear of the discovery of the cache of paintings. There were but a few people who even knew the secret. And Drakar was one of them.

  Cyril knew he had an advantage over the Russian because Drakar did not know that Cyril also knew the Secret. And he was not about to let him discover the truth. He had never let anyone know of the conversation he had heard at the Fabergé shop. So now he would be free to continue his quest to get his hands on the Alexandrovsky Palace painting.

  And nothing would stand in his way.

  Chapter Nine

  Dani, intrigued with Drakar and his aloof yet casually flirting banter, allowed him to monopolize her time for over an hour. They danced till weary, then walked slowly along the path beside the Seine River, until the shadows of day began to lengthen in dusty gold umbras about them.

  She forgot all about Cyril and her promise to have dinner with him. She was fascinated with Drakar but found she was constantly on her guard lest he regard her as merely a capricious fluff, or worse, one of the women he was no doubt used to having fall under his charming spell. Not she, by God!

  Inquisitive, she asked him questions about himself, noted at once his reluctance to answer, the dark shadow that clouded his eyes. He told her he was born in Russia, that his parents were dead. His father had been Russian; his mother, French.

  She heard the chill in his voice as he spoke of his family, and, attempting to restore a cheerful air, commented, “So, your blue eyes came from your mother, no doubt. I wondered about that, when you said you were born in Russia.”

  He said nothing.

  A glance told her the muscles in his jaw had tightened. So, he did not want to talk about his mother.

  She changed the subject. “You speak fluent English.”

  Finally, a smile.

  “I should. I studied at Oxford.”

  “So, what brings you to Paris?”

  “Beautiful women,” he murmured, squeezing her hand, which clasped his arm. “I’m with the most beautiful in all of Paris at this very moment.”

  She drew in her breath, hoped he could not hear the pounding of her heart. Other men had told her they found her lovely, and she had accepted the compliment graciously. Why, now, did she feel all fluttery inside?

  Attempting to steer the conversation in another direction, she asked where he had lived in Russia.

  Again, the chill in his voice.

  “Saint Petersburg.”

  “Ah,” she cried, delighted. “Then you no doubt have seen Russian ballet at its best.”

  He seemed relieved to speak of something besides himself and quickly said, “Oh, yes. Louis the Fourteenth might have founded professional ballet in Paris, when he issued the decree in the seventeenth century that gave birth to ballet as a theater art, but once the school of ballet opened in the royal palace in Saint Petersburg, less than seventy years later, Russia became the creative center.”

  Dani was enthralled, for she had found someone who seemed to love ballet as much as she. Drakar, she learned, had visited the Imperial Ballet School many times, and she was quite awed to hear him casually mention that he actually knew Mathilde Kschessinskaya.

  “Why, she is the star ballerina of Marius Petipa, the principal ballet master and choreographer of the Imperial Ballet in Saint Petersburg!”

  Drakar nodded.

  “Tell me about her,” Dani urged.

  He shrugged. “She is considered the most fascinating and fashionable ballerina of our time. The jewels she wears onstage, and off, are real, and they belong to her. She’s radiant, coquettish, amusing, enchanting, vivacious—like you…” His voice trailed off suggestively.

  Dani felt her cheeks grow warm. He was gazing at her so…so hungrily!

  Quickly, perhaps too quickly, she mentioned that she had heard Mathilde Kschessinskaya had left Russia to go to Milan to master the difficult steps developed and taught only there so she could dance in Petipa’s Sleeping Beauty. It had premiered with an Italian ballerina, Carlotta Brianza, Dani recalled, the year Mathilde had graduated from the Imperial Ballet School, earning her position as
prima ballerina assoluta on the Maryinsky stage.

  Drakar stared at her in wonder. “I am quite impressed with you, Miss Coltrane. It is rare that I encounter a woman with such extensive knowledge of ballet. Most only care about the costumes, the music, but you seem to take a very personal interest in the performers themselves. Have you studied ballet yourself?”

  It was Dani’s turn to be reluctant to discuss her past. “No,” she murmured, “but I always wanted to.”

  “Well, one day you should visit Russia. If I am there, I would be most happy to escort you to the ballet, and if Mathilde is dancing, I will see to it that you have a personal introduction, and I will take you both to dinner, as well.”

  Dani smiled, thanked him, vaguely thought how nice it would be, doubted it would ever happen.

  Looking toward the sinking sun, she realized they had been away from the festivities far too long. “We’d best be getting back,” she said, then added, “It has been delightful talking with you.”

  “The pleasure is mutual, I assure you.”

  When they neared the crowds of people, Drakar spotted the young man he had seen hovering about Dani earlier. He drew back, wanting one last moment of privacy. “So, you will agree to give me a private showing tomorrow?” he asked.

  Dani nodded. There was no harm. It was no inconvenience. She had to admit she would like to see him again. Yet, there was still something about him, some mysterious aura that she had been unable to probe beyond. “You never did tell me the real reason you’re in Paris,” she dared to point out.

  The shadow returned. He struggled for a relaxed air. “Well, let’s just say I like to travel, Miss Coltrane, and see everything, do everything. This year, Paris. Who knows? Next year it might be Greece, or Spain. One day, I plan to journey to your native country.”

  She sensed a falseness, somehow, to the lightness of his tone. Boldly, she asked, “But why? What do you do? Why are you so interested in art?”

  Drakar felt a stiffness along his spine. The young woman was quite astute, but then it was not logical to think she had become so learned by being afraid to ask questions. With a touch of his own audaciousness, he declared, “What I do, Miss Coltrane, is spend my inheritance any way I like while fending off fortune-hunting young ladies. I doubt I would have that problem, however, with someone of your obvious wealth.

  “As for my interest in art,” he went on, aware by the way she was staring at him that she was somewhat stunned by his candor. “Why not? I happen to find it fascinating, for the moment, that someone hid valuable works of art in a wine cellar in a château on the south coast of France. Perhaps, eventually, you will discover they were actually stolen. One never knows.”

  He looked at her in anticipation of indignant rebuke. Instead, she cocked her head to one side and blandly retorted, “No, one never knows, sir, which makes my possession of the paintings all the more intriguing. Why, think how much they will be worth when I do decide to sell them, after rumors such as the one you have just started spread all over Europe! Everyone will want to see them, to find out if they are stolen.

  “However,” she hastened to inform him, “I must spoil your fantasy. The paintings were hidden, no doubt, by my late stepfather who was, at the time of his death, terribly in debt due to his gambling compulsion. The paintings were obviously of some great sentimental value to him, or else he did not want to part with them if there was any way to avoid it, so he stashed them away to keep his debtors from taking them from him.”

  Drakar studied her thoughtfully. If he found what he was looking for, this lovely young woman might prove a formidable foe. She was not like other women he had known, for she was vastly intelligent, perceptive.

  Finally, he said, “Then I thank you again, Miss Coltrane, for indulging my fantasies and allowing me to view the paintings before your opening.”

  He gave her a slight bow, grinned lazily. “Perhaps we may have another dance later in the evening. We seem to move so well together.”

  Dani said perhaps that would be possible, then turned and walked away.

  Drakar watched her go. She was truly the most lovely creature he had ever met, not an ordinary woman, yet still a woman…and not to be trusted!

  All he knew was that a cache of paintings had been discovered hidden in the wine cellar of a deceased man he had never even heard of. There was probably no connection with his quest. Yet, as he had done for the past ten years, he would leave no stone unturned, no rumor ignored. And one day, he would find what he was looking for. He was grateful that only a handful of people knew what that was. He had more freedom to search. After all, he had the word of honor of the Czar of Russia, Alexander III, that everything surrounding the scandal would be kept as confidential as humanly possible, and, for the past decade, Drakar had found no reason to believe otherwise.

  He watched the young man hastily approaching Dani—Cyril Arpel. He had seen him at a few showings and socials in the past, and not just in Paris.

  There had been occasions in Rome, Vienna, Zurich. Only in his thirties, Arpel was already quite well known and respected as a connoisseur and dealer. He was no doubt smitten with Dani.

  Drakar smiled.

  What man would not be?

  “Dani…”

  She turned, and at once felt a wave of guilt. Cyril’s expression was a mixture of anger and hurt.

  “Have you eaten yet?” he asked.

  She told him she had been walking with one of the guests. “The time got away from me, I’m afraid.” She slipped her hand around his arm. “Shall we go and sample the food my stepmother has fretted over for weeks? I need to freshen up a bit, but I won’t be long.”

  He walked with her to the entrance to the ladies’ powder room, then said he would be outside waiting.

  A few moments later, Dani was about to leave when she heard Drakar’s name mentioned. She tarried before a mirror, pretended to fuss with her hair as she looked at the reflection of three young women, about her age, standing together to one side. She did not recognize any of them, but then, there were not that many people at her own party that she did know. Almost all were friends, or acquaintances, of Travis and Kitty.

  “I don’t care about his reputation,” one of them was saying. “He is devastatingly handsome.”

  “Those eyes! That smile!” another chimed in. “And he’s so intriguing. There’s a mysterious air about him I find absolutely fascinating.”

  The third young woman sniffed in disdain, airily commented, “Russians are like that. Cold. Aloof. I don’t find him intriguing or mysterious at all. It’s certainly no mystery what he’s after in a woman!”

  The other two laughed. The one who had just spoken reddened and indignantly snapped, “Well, I don’t intend to fawn after him the way you two do. He may be a collector of women, as they say, but I don’t intend to be part of his collection!”

  One of the others cattily cried, “He doesn’t want you for part of his collection, Cecile. That’s why you hate him so. It’s common gossip that you ran after him at Madame NePrix’s tea dance last summer, and he ignored you pitifully.”

  The girl named Cecile angrily whirled and rushed from the powder room in a flurry of satin and lace.

  Dani remained in front of the mirror. She was enjoying the conversation. It did not bother her at all to hear such things about Drakar because they did not affect her. She also thought he was handsome, fascinating, and so on…but she was in complete control of her emotions and would certainly not become part of his collection. She found it all quite amusing.

  Then, just as she was turning to go once more, she froze where she stood as she heard the sympathetic proclamation of one of the young women, “I feel so sorry for Carista Altonderry. What he did to her must have been terribly humiliating.”

  Past the sudden roaring in her ears, Dani heard the unsympathetic response, “That was her own fault. My maid is a second cousin to one of the stable hands at Derryateau, and he told her he heard from the household servants t
hat Carista insisted Drakar agree to announce their engagement. He had no choice but to run.” She giggled. “Derryateau might be large, but when Carista starts chasing a man, even a palace isn’t large enough!”

  “I don’t blame her for trying, though,” the first young woman commented with a sigh. “I hear that Drakar is rumored to be Europe’s greatest pleasure to a woman…” Then, a barely audible whisper, “In bed!”

  Her friend cried, aghast, “Naneen! What a thing to say!”

  Then they both convulsed in giggles.

  Dani did not glance in their direction as they walked out together.

  So, she thought with only mild concern, the man she had just met was the same one who had been visiting Carista Altonderry at Derryateau, who had, somewhat rudely, disappeared just before a party where he was to be one of the featured guests. Considered a womanizer by some, he was also reputedly a wealthy man. True, she found him a bit arrogant, mildly conceited, but decidedly attractive and intriguing. If Carista had been so lacking in control of her emotions as to allow him to draw her into his web of passion, giving herself over to his control and manipulation, then, by God, she had deserved the spider’s bite.

  She left the powder room and found Cyril waiting, looking somewhat impatient. “Again, I apologize,” she told him as she took his arm. They began to walk toward the sea of canopies where food awaited. “You must be starving.”

  He looked down at her and flashed a warm smile. “Starving for your company, lovely lady. Only my heart needs nourishment.”

  Dani made no comment; she was not interested in flirtatious banter. Though Cyril was a dear, she doubted she could ever regard him as more than a treasured friend.

  They took time to visit all the canopies to view the spectacular offerings of food. Cyril tried to take a small portion of each, wanting to sample everything, but all too soon his platter was filled.