The Mistress Page 8

  The painting was even more beautiful than Vladimir and Natasha remembered, and he was delighted with the purchase, particularly since Lorenzo Luca’s work was so rare. It had been a major coup to acquire it, and knowing him so well, Natasha wasn’t surprised he had. He could convince anyone of anything once he decided that he wanted something. He never relented until he had the desired object in hand, and now he did. Not unlike the determined way he had pursued her, and won her in the end. It was his way.

  They had dinner on deck that night, and she could tell that he was pleased with his time away. He was in a festive mood, and they chose a spot for the new painting in their bedroom, and moved a Picasso into the hall. And then they went back on deck. He had told her that they were moving the boat that night. He had told the captain to go to St. Tropez.

  “You can shop for a day. I thought we’d go to Sardinia after that. We haven’t been for a while. There’s a mistral coming at the end of the week. We can outrun it before it hits and stay there.” There was a spot in Porto Cervo just outside the port where he liked to anchor. They were too big to go in, which was the case everywhere they went. And he knew she liked to stop in Portofino on the way. They were all familiar places to both of them. They went to Croatia, Turkey, and Greece at times too, and Capri. Venice was one of her favorite spots and big enough for them to anchor comfortably, with a perfect view of the churches and the square. She was excited to go to St. Tropez and Sardinia, and she didn’t mind if the crossing to Sardinia was rough. She was a good sailor, and had been in storms with him before. She never got seasick, and sometimes had better sea legs than the crew.

  They set sail around two A.M., once she and Vladimir were in bed and asleep after they made love. And when they woke up in the morning, they were anchored outside the port of St. Tropez. She went shopping that morning, with two deckhands with her to carry her purchases, and she met Vladimir for lunch at Le Club 55, which she always enjoyed. She had bought some bathing suits at Eres, and a white summer bag at Hermès, and had fun wandering in and out of the shops.

  The streets were already crowded. It was the weekend, and even though it was early June, the season had begun. In July and August, the crowds would make it unbearable, but for now it was still easy to get around. And Vladimir wandered through the town with her after lunch, and then they went back to the boat, and pulled out, so they could swim. They started toward Sardinia at dusk. They were going to stop in Portofino in the morning, for more shopping, and then head south to Corsica, and Sardinia after that. It was a route they both knew well.

  As Natasha lay on the deck after she swam, and they picked up speed, she watched the wake behind them and looked at Vladimir, asleep in the sun. She was grateful for her life with him. It was like life in a bubble, alone with him, on his terms. She felt safe there with him. She knew that there were risks involved with his work, which was why he had bodyguards, but he kept all that well away from her. She was like an innocent child, in his shadow, which was the impression Theo had had of her as well. There was nothing conniving about her, or manipulative. She just existed like a bright flower to cheer Vladimir when he wanted to talk to her, or make love to her, or take her somewhere to show her off.

  The only thing she really missed was the opportunity to learn more, and she would have loved to go to a school, or take classes at a museum to study art. But there was no time for her to do so, given how he lived. Vladimir traveled a lot, and took her with him at the drop of a hat. He would tell her to pack, and they would leave to go to one of his homes, or to the boat. And he always objected whenever she mentioned taking classes, and told her she already knew all she needed to know for him. He saw no reason for her to learn more, other than by reading books or going on the Internet, which she already did. He had no degrees and had barely gone to school, and thought education superfluous, particularly for her. Her job was to entertain him in all the ways she already did so well. She was like a geisha of sorts, without the restrictive old-fashioned traditions, but the concept was the same. And in some ways, she was proud that she had kept him happy for so long, still interested him, and satisfied him. And as far as Vladimir was concerned, all she needed to do was please him. And she didn’t need to go to school for that.

  Vladimir made a comment to her at dinner, once they were under way to Sardinia. The boat was so large that it was steady even while moving at full speed, and it had stabilizers. It was pleasant dining outside in the gentle breeze, as two stewardesses and the chief steward served their dinner.

  “Why did you give the delivery boy a tour of the boat when he brought the painting?” He looked at her steadily, his eyes boring into hers, and her heart skipped a beat. She felt suddenly guilty, although she had done nothing wrong. But she had enjoyed Theo’s company, and he had been onboard talking to her for two hours. She wondered if Vladimir knew that too, or that she had offered him champagne. There were no secrets from Vladimir. But her beautiful face was a portrait of innocence when she answered.

  “It wasn’t a delivery boy. It was the maître d’ from the restaurant who brought it. He was fascinated by the boat, so I took him around before he left.”

  “Were you afraid to tell me?” His eyes dug deeper into hers, but she didn’t react, although her heart was beating faster. He had made his point. He knew everything she did, and everything that went on. He had the ultimate control.

  “Of course not. I didn’t think it was important. I was just being polite. I think he was hoping to see you.” Natasha always knew what to say to put him at ease, and she looked uninterested in the subject, although she had enjoyed the two hours she’d spent with Theo, which didn’t show in her face now.

  “You should have sent him with the purser, if he wanted a tour of the boat,” Vladimir corrected her gently.

  “I think he was onshore. I had nothing else to do, and I was excited about the painting.” She smiled at him, and he leaned over and kissed her hard on the mouth. He said nothing more about it, he had said all he needed to, and the kiss reminded her that he owned her. Natasha got the message loud and clear. She always did, and lived accordingly. Her two hours with Theo had been a momentary slip she wouldn’t do again. She knew better than to upset Vladimir.

  —

  Theo had been working on the painting of Natasha for days, barely taking time to eat or sleep. He was driven and felt compelled to stay with it until he captured her, which proved to be harder than he thought. There was something elusive about her that he kept wrestling with, and finally realized it was something in her expression, or her eyes. There was too much about her he didn’t know, and yet she had hooked him to his very soul. And there was no one he dared confess it to, for fear that they would think he was crazy to be obsessed by another man’s mistress, and even worse that it was Vladimir’s. There was no way he could compete with that, and he was sure Natasha wouldn’t want him to. She seemed content where she was.

  He was sitting in his kitchen, lost in thought and eating a stale sandwich. It was the first meal he had eaten in two days, and he looked crazed, his cheeks covered in beard stubble, his hair a tangled mass, his eyes vague as he thought about the painting. He didn’t even hear his friend Marc walk in. They had gone to the Beaux-Arts together, and known each other since they were boys. Marc was a sculptor, and had only recently moved back from Italy. He worked in marble, and had gone to work in a quarry to better understand the stone. He was a talented artist and barely made enough to live. He worked for a company that made tombstones when he needed money to pay his rent or eat.

  “Oh my God, what happened to you? You look like you’ve been shipwrecked. Are you sick?” Marc had flaming red hair and freckles all over his face. He was tall and thin, and still looked about sixteen years old, although he was thirty-one, a year older than Theo. He had a fatal weakness for needy women and was always giving them the little money he had, and was constantly broke, but didn’t seem to care.

  “I think I am sick,” Theo said in response to his questi
on. “Or maybe I just lost my mind.” Marc sat down at the kitchen table across from him, took a bite of the other half of the sandwich, and made a face.

  “Where did they find that? In an archaeological dig? It must date back to King Tut. Do you have anything decent to eat here?” Theo shook his head with a grin.

  “I haven’t stopped to eat.”

  “No wonder you’re nuts. Are you out of money? Do you need a loan?” Although he needed it more than most, Marc was his only friend who never borrowed money from him. He made enough to just squeak by, and their friendship was based on the bonds of childhood, not on who Theo was, which made him a trusted friend. “What are you working on that has you looking like that?”

  “A portrait of a woman. I can’t get her out of my head.”

  “A new romance?” The fiery redhead was intrigued. “What happened to Chloe?”

  “We broke up. She wants a guy to pay her bills, which is her interpretation of romance. It seems so depressing to me. She wants to trade her body for a guy to pay her rent.” Marc looked thoughtful for a minute, pondering what Theo had said.

  “She has a hell of a great body. How high is her rent?”

  “Never mind. You need a woman with a heart, not a human calculator to have sex with. She’s not a lot of fun, and she complains all the time.” He hadn’t missed her for a minute since he walked out of her house. And he’d been working on the portrait of Natasha ever since.

  “So who’s the hot new romance?” He looked more intrigued.

  “I don’t have one. She’s my fantasy life dragging me through hell.”

  “No wonder you look like shit. A figment of your imagination?”

  “Sort of. She exists, but belongs to someone else. She’s a Russian guy’s mistress I saw at my mother’s restaurant. Beautiful girl. She’s in slavery to the man she lives with, who’s twice her age and keeps her locked up on his yacht.”

  “A rich Russian guy?” Marc asked with interest. He met all his women in local bars. Theo’s fantasy woman sounded far more exotic, and way out of his reach.

  “A very rich Russian guy. Possibly the richest, or one of them. He owns Russia or something like that. He’s got seventy-five crew on his boat.” Marc whistled at the image Theo had created.

  “Are you sleeping with her? A guy who owns Russia might kill you for something like that.” Theo laughed at the thought.

  “I’m sure he would. I’ve seen her twice in my life, and may never lay eyes on her again. All I know is her name.”

  “And you’re in love with her?”

  “I don’t know what I am. I’m obsessed. I’m trying to paint her, and I can’t get it right.”

  “Why do you need to? Just make it up.”

  “I’ll probably never see her again, except in the portrait I paint. I feel driven to paint her. I can’t get her out of my head.”

  “This sounds very bad. Is she obsessed with you too?”

  “Of course not. She’s perfectly happy with her Russian. Why wouldn’t she be? She’s Russian too, by the way.”

  “You’re screwed. It doesn’t sound like you have a chance. You could always kidnap her, or stow away on the boat.” They both laughed at that. “What got you so wound up about her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the fact that she’s completely unattainable. She’s so damn nice, and she looks like a prisoner when she’s with him. He owns her, like an object he uses to show off.”

  “Does she look miserable with him?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Theo said honestly. “I guess I’m just crazy to be thinking about her. She’s completely inaccessible.”

  “This doesn’t sound like a good situation. Can I look at the painting?”

  “It’s a mess, and the eyes are all wrong, I’ve been working on them for two days.” Marc wandered into the studio, and glanced at the painting on the easel, and then stopped and stared at it for a long time. “See what I mean?” Theo had followed him in, and Marc turned to stare at him.

  “This is your best painting ever. Something about it just reaches into my guts and turns my heart upside down. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” The portrait was unfinished, but the most important elements were already there. The woman in the painting had a soul, and Marc could see it too. “Are you sure there’s no way to get to her? Maybe she’s obsessed with you too.”

  “Why would she be? She doesn’t know who I am, or even that I’m an artist. She knows nothing about me. She thinks I’m a headwaiter at my mother’s restaurant, or some kind of delivery boy. I dropped off a painting to her. We talked for two hours, and I left.”

  “One of your paintings?” Marc asked with interest.

  “No, my father’s. My mother sold it to the woman’s boyfriend. I dropped it off. He wasn’t there, so we had a chance to talk for a while and tour the boat.”

  “I can’t even imagine the price you got for it. I can’t believe your mother sold one. He must have paid a fortune.”

  “He did,” Theo confirmed.

  “Well, I don’t care if you see her again or not. You have to finish the piece—it’s a major tour de force. I really think it’s your best work yet. Go on suffering with it, it’s worth it.”

  “Thank you.” Theo looked warmly at his friend.

  “Do you want to go get something to eat?”

  Theo shook his head. “I think I’ll get back to work. You’ve encouraged me not to give up.”

  Marc left a little while later, and came back in half an hour with some bread and cheese and a couple of peaches and an apple, so he’d have something to eat. It was the kind of friend that Marc was, and they were always critical of each other’s work, and painfully honest, so for him to say it was the best piece Theo had ever done meant a lot. Theo went back to work on the portrait, and painted straight through the night. He fell asleep as the sun came up, lying on the floor of his studio, gazing up at what he’d done. He was smiling. He had finally gotten the eyes right, and she was smiling down at him from the portrait. It was the face he remembered so perfectly, smiling at him, as the tender pulled away.

  —

  The mistral, a fierce northerly Mediterranean wind that usually blew for three days, hit Princess Marina as they came down the coast of Corsica and went through the straits of Bonifacio. And even the huge boat was pitching and rolling in the heavy seas. Natasha always said she liked it when the sea was rough, and felt like a baby being rocked in a cradle when she woke to the rocking, although many of the crew members were sick. It calmed when they got close to Porto Cervo and threw anchor as near the port as they dared, but Natasha knew from experience it would blow for several days, which didn’t bother her. She still wanted to ride into port in the tender and have a look around. She liked shopping there, there were several art galleries, some jewelers, all the important Italian designer brands, and a furrier where she had found coats she liked before.

  “Are you sure you want to go in?” Vladimir asked her when she was getting ready. The sea was rough, the tender would bounce all over on the short trip into port, and she’d get soaked. She was fearless about bad weather and heavy seas, and she knew she was in no danger in their tender and didn’t care if she got wet. The deckhands always admired her for what a good sailor she was.

  “I’ll be fine,” she reassured Vladimir, and there were three of their sailors in the boat when she got in. Vladimir didn’t go with her. He had work to do. And he didn’t enjoy shopping as much as she did, except for major purchases like jewelry or haute couture, but she could manage the ordinary shops alone. He didn’t need to be with her to buy a new pair of sandals, or a handbag at Prada, and she had a credit card that was designated to her on one of his accounts. He never cared how much she spent, and she was reasonable when she shopped on her own. Vladimir spent far more money on her than she ever did on herself.

  The tender bobbed around like a cork in the water as Natasha hopped out onto the quai, and a crew member followed her in case she needed help ca
rrying shopping bags on the way back. She made her way through several stores and was trying on a bright pink fur coat at the furrier where she’d been before, when the first officer from the boat appeared with three of their security guards at his side.

  “Mr. Stanislas would like you back on the boat,” the first officer said seriously, and Natasha looked surprised.

  “Now? Is something wrong? Is he ill? I haven’t finished shopping yet.” And she didn’t want to go back. She was having fun. She had nothing to do on the boat, and they couldn’t go out swimming in the high winds and rough seas.

  “He appears to be fine,” the officer said stiffly. He had had his orders directly from Vladimir, and didn’t want to have to explain to him that Natasha had refused to come back, but she didn’t see why she had to rush. They weren’t going anywhere in the mistral.

  “Tell him I’ll be back in an hour,” she said with a smile. She was still wearing the pink fur coat, and wanted to take a serious look at it again.