"You're hurting me, Simon!" she cried. "Please let me go!"
He shook his head slowly, looking into her eyes. "I don't think so," he said calmly. "If I can't have you, Vera, then nobody's going to."
Vera struggled to escape his grasp, but it was impossible.
Simon began to laugh, then said: "You'll come up a lovely floater, Vera."
She suddenly went white-hot with a combination of fury and fear, struggling more urgently, then kicking wildly at him with her feet.
Simon laughed again, then loosened his grip slightly and started to push her over the edge of the pier.
Vera saw her chance and swung around, bringing her knee up into his crotch with all her might, slamming it home with a grunt.
Simon gasped in pain, his eyes momentarily focusing on her with shock. He released her instantly and grabbed his crotch. When he did, Vera saw him lose his footing, one boot slipping over the edge of the pier. His arms flailed at the air as he fell sideways, like a broken puppet, off the pier.
Vera looked on, her eyes wide with horror. She heard a loud thunk, and could swear that she could feel its impact in the boards beneath her feet. Then there was a muffled splash, barely perceptible above the sound of the wind.
For a moment Vera didn't move. She could hear the sound of her own labored breathing, coming in loud gasps. Then, gingerly she looked down, over the edge of the pier. In the near-darkness the first thing that caught her eye was an enormous iron bolt projecting from a half-rotten piling. Beneath it she could see nothing but
the blackness of the water, slapping gently against the pier.
Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, my God!
She began to heave uncontrollably, her tuna sandwich cascading down into the darkness. Tears began to run from her eyes, but she forced herself to keep searching for any sign of Simon.
The water continued lapping gently against the pilings, unbroken, undisturbed.
She finally got to her feet, backing carefully from the pier's edge. Tremors began to run through her entire body, and she choked on the bile in her throat. Get a grip, she told herself. It's over, and you've got to get out of here!
She brought a hand first to her eyes, then to her mouth, wiping it on her jeans. Taking a deep breath, she turned and started back to the landside of the pier, moving quickly but not running. When she got to the fence, she found the gap and crawled through, then made her way across the highway and up back streets to Eighth Avenue, where she hailed a taxi back uptown.
In the safety of her apartment, she took the snub-nose Smith & Wesson from her shoulder bag and replaced it in the dresser where she kept it.
Thank God, she prayed, that I didn't have to use it!
She began to tremble, and tears began to flow from her eyes. But I would have done it, she thought. I was prepared to commit murder to protect Misha. She began to sob. What kind of a woman am I? What kind of a monster?
Chapter Twenty-nine
The wedding was celebrated at the Fifth Avenue Synagogue and was, everyone agreed, an extravaganza rarely seen among even the rich and important society crowd and the cultivated music and art world denizens who attended.
Everyone is here, Vera thought. At least two members of the president's cabinet, two senators, the governor and mayor, financiers from everywhere, several titled Europeans and New York bluebloods, along with famous conductors, composers, musicians, and artists.
Sonia and Dmitri Levin, teary-eyed at the ceremony, were thrilled that their son had finally come to his senses. Even Ivan and Tatiana Bunim, who had always objected to their daughter's romantic interest in Misha, had given their blessings to the marriage.
They had often discussed Vera's reluctance to develop a relationship with any of the appropriate young men who had been interested in her, and they knew the reason. They also knew very well how stubborn and single- minded their beautiful daughter could be. Although they had hoped she would form an alliance with a scion of one of the legendary Jewish families of great wealth, they realized that Mikhail Levin was an excellent catch for any young woman.
In the candlelit synagogue, Vera's beauty drew gasps of awe and appreciation. Her dress was designed by Catherine Walker, the famous London designer who had fashioned many of the Princess of Wales's gowns. A princess line with a round neckline and short sleeves, its bodice was intricately beaded with Venetian pearls, and a long silk faille train swept grandly behind her. Her silk tulle veil was held in place by a diadem made of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. It had been worn by her mother on her wedding day. Diamond drop earrings and a diamond necklace, gifts from Misha, sparkled in the candlelight. She carried a simple nosegay of full-blown pink roses.
Vera's only attendant was her lifelong friend Priscilla Cavanaugh, who had once loaned her loft to Misha and Vera to make love. She wore an Empire-style dress in pale pink silk chiffon.
Misha was attended by his father, both of them resplendent in white tie and tails, as was Ivan Bunim, who gave his daughter away.
After the traditional ceremony, the reception was held in the Bunims' Fifth Avenue apartment. Jacques Ra- venal, renowned the world over for his incomparable party planning, was flown in from Paris to decorate for the ceremony and the reception. And if the guests thought the ceremony was beautiful, the reception and dinner were unparalleled in their elegance and sumptuousness.
The flowers alone cost thousands of dollars, and like the guests, came from all over the world. Masses of roses, peonies, lilies of the valley, hydrangeas, and Madagascar stephanotis—all in whites and the palest of pink—were flown in to decorate the synagogue and the Bunim apartment's thirty-six rooms.
A string quartet played in the entrance gallery as guests arrived and during dinner. In the Venetian-style ballroom a society orchestra played later in the evening for dancing the night away. Dinner was served in the ballroom at tables draped with ivory Venetian damask and centered with five-foot-tall candelabra decorated with masses of peonies, with vines trailing down to the tables. Antique Russian silver and imperial china gleamed, and Baccarat crystal dazzled the eye. Waiters in tuxedos and white gloves made certain that the crystal was kept filled with Dom Perignon and Louis Roederer Cristal champagne. The dinner was delicious, and Vera was justifiably proud. She had decided on the menu herself: Beluga caviar, buckwheat blinis, ere me fraiche, whole roasted boneless quail with a lemon stuffing, spring peas, wild rice with grapes and orange zest, baby field greens, and toasted bleu de Bresse on Crouton.
The wedding cake was a ten-layered, six-foot-tall creation, artfully decorated with a realistic-looking spiral of pink and white roses creeping up its latticework. It was served as dessert, along with lavender sorbet. Coffee and silver dragees followed.
Vera and Misha were toasted by many of the guests, including a senator, the governor, and a member of the Romanov family.
After all the merriment, the jovial conversation, the eating, drinking, and dancing, Vera and Misha were exhausted but exhilarated at the same time. They repeatedly tore themselves away from their parents, from Manny and Sasha and Priscilla, and a host of well-wishing friends, only to become involved in yet another conversation, another dance, another tearful embrace among the flowers and candles.
Late in the evening, Misha danced Vera into a far corner of the ballroom and whispered into her ear: "Why don't we make our escape now, Mrs. Levin?"
"I think that's the best idea you've had all night, Mr. Levin," she replied.
They quickly exited through a hidden jib door, painted to look as if it were part of the room's grand murals, and dashed laughing down the hallway to the elevator, which would take them upstairs. At the door to Vera's bedroom, Misha took her into his arms and kissed her passionately. Vera returned his ardor, then pulled away.
"We're never going to get away if we don't hurry," she said.
"I'll give you ten minutes to get ready," Misha said, a mischievous smile on his lips. "Or I'm leaving without you, Mrs. Levin."
She tapped him
on the cheek. "Just try it, Mr. Levin," she said.
She tinned and went into her old bedroom to change clothes, and Misha went down the hall to a guest room, where he would change his.
Less than fifteen minutes later, he knocked on her door.
"Misha?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "May I come in?"
"Yes," she said.
He opened the door and saw her, standing at a dresser. She looked beautiful in a white Chanel suit with gold buttons and blue trim. It was the same blue as her eyes, Misha noticed.
"I'm just about ready," she said, eyeing herself in the mirror. She blotted her lips, then turned to him. "You look so handsome," she said.
"Thank you," Misha said, preening in his fashionably cut Armani suit. "And you look ravishing." He took her into his arms and kissed her. "Now, let's get out of here," he said.
"One more thing," she said. "I have to throw my bouquet first."
"Then let's get it over with," he said. "Okay?"
"I'm ready," she said. She picked up the beautiful nosegay of roses from the bed, and they headed for the elevator, hand in hand.
In the ballroom, the guests began to applaud as they realized that the newlyweds had appeared in their going- away clothes. Vera, with Misha at her side, made her way to the platform where the band was set up. There was more applause and laughter as several of the single women rushed in the same direction. The orchestra conductor silenced the musicians, and without further ado, Vera lifted the bouquet high into the air. She threw it almost straight up over the heads of the guests below her.
The bouquet fell, fell, fell.
Straight into the hands of Manny Cygelman, who looked at it with bemused surprise for a moment. Then he joined in the laughter and applause around him.
Misha pointed at him. "You're next, Manny," he said. "Who's she going to be?"
"I don't have a clue, old man," his agent said, with a laugh. Then he turned and graciously handed the nose gay to Priscilla Cavanaugh, who stood at his side. Sasha watched the spectacle with a smug expression.
Vera took Misha's arm, and they started waving goodbyes all around, slowly making their way through the guests, headed toward the entrance gallery and a final escape. Their parents awaited them at the elevator, teary-eyed once again. After hugs and kisses all around, Vera and Misha left. A car would be waiting downstairs to take them to the airport, where a chartered Gulfstream V would whisk them off on a nonstop flight to their honeymoon destination.
Perched high atop a hill near Ubud, in central Bali, the house overlooked the spectacular Ayung River Gorge, volcanic mountains, and terraced rice paddies. It appeared to be part of the tropical forest in which it was set, being made almost entirely of ironwood beams, teak, and coconut palms. Many of its rooms were entirely open to the elements, while others were surrounded with glass French doors that took advantage of the dramatic views but offered refuge from the weather.
The air carried with it the sounds of wind chimes, cicadas, and bullfrogs. The sweet scents of a profusion of flowering trees and plants commingled to form an intoxicating perfume that suffused the house with its headiness.
It was here, in this house, on an enormous teak bed swathed in draperies of pristine white mosquito netting, that Vera conceived her first child.
Night after night, day after day, she and Misha made love in that giant bed, the smell of their sex charging the air, blending with the scented breezes, driving them to heights of erotic passion that were unfamiliar to Vera, so powerful and compelling was their thirst for each other. Their lovemaking had always been full of wonder for her, but it had taken on a new dimension, one almost of carnal obsession.
The overcrowded beaches with their tourist hotels were far away, the way Misha and Vera had planned it. Here alone, except for the efficient and discreet servants, they had settled in for a honeymoon stay of quiet reading, listening to music, and taking walks. All without a care in the world.
After several days of little else but eating, sleeping, and making love—days that had seemed to merge seamlessly into one with their single-minded activity—Vera lay in the huge bed, Misha asleep at her side. She pondered the mystery and miracle of their love.
Her body literally ached from their lovemaking, something that had never happened to her before, and she felt immensely fulfilled in a way she had never known was possible. She had believed that Misha loved her, but she had never thought that he would find her as sexually exciting as he did.
No matter how faithful, no woman has ever been more loved, Vera thought. What have I ever done to deserve such love? she asked herself. To be so desired? Then she wondered: Am I worthy of such love?
Unsolicited, the memory of that horrifying night before the wedding sprang into her mind, twisting its way into her consciousness like a poisonous snake, flicking its hideous tongue at her, accusing her.
She had tried to rationalize her actions that night, telling herself over and over that what she'd set out to do was out of necessity. She told herself repeatedly that she hadn't, after all, killed anybody. But the guilt still ate at her, insinuating that her intentions mattered, and that those intentions had been murderous.
I was going to murder him, she thought. I went there with every intention of killing him if I had to. I must be some kind of.. . monster!
She covered her face with her hands, as if to block out the vision of Simon reeling off the pier, his hands flailing at the air, grasping for a hold that wasn't there. Then she heard the horrible thud when he hit the giant bolt, the barely perceptible splash as he hit the water. She looked into the blackness of the filthy water that lapped so gently against the pilings and saw—Vera almost mewled in terror—Simon's evil eyes looking up at her from under the water, his mouth a twisted rictus, accusing her of murder.
She began to pant, gasping for air, as a sheen of cold sweat covered her face. Her hands shook, and she moaned. Grasping a pillow, she covered her face with it, trying to still her agonizing pain.
She would never tell Misha what had happened. Never. She couldn't let anything spoil the perfect love that they felt for each other.
She slowly removed the pillow from her face and laid it at her side. Her breathing returned to normal, and she began to relax. Perhaps, she thought sensibly, these horrible visions and the debilitating guilt will eventually dissipate. Perhaps I can even learn to like myself again. After all, Simon intended to kill me . . .
She was jerked out of her reverie by Misha's voice.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked sleepily.
She looked at him, conjuring up a smile. It was surprisingly easy when she looked at his handsome face wreathed by his disheveled raven hair. "Oh," she said calmly, "you and me. How great it's going to be moving into your apartment. And what a great honeymoon this is."
Misha grinned and reached over and pulled her closer to him. He nibbled on her ear playfully. "Do you really think so?" he asked.
"Yes, I really think so," Vera replied, the dark thoughts of only moments before already receding from her mind.
"Let's make it even better," Misha said, running one of his hands over her breasts, lightly flicking her nipples. He lowered his mouth to one of them, almost reverently, she thought, then began licking and kissing her there.
Vera gasped in pleasure and ran her hands over his hard, muscled chest, down to his tight stomach, and on down to the thicket between his legs. He gasped as she encircled his turgid cock with her hand. She delighted in its power, its ability to give pleasure, and its life-giving seed.
They made love, once again leaving her sated and, unknown to them both, pregnant.
When they left for New York days later, they were exhilarated and refreshed. They had become much more than the loving friends who'd experimented with sex before their marriage. They had become true lovers.
May it always be like this, Vera prayed. May we always love each other the way we have these last weeks. Please, God. Never let it change.
&nbs
p; Part Three
TOMORROW
Manhattan Beach, Brooklyn
The house was expensive. Outrageously expensive. And ugly. Monstrously ugly. Or so the young man thought as he pulled up to the curb in his outrageously expensive but tasteful car. He sat on the buttery soft leather upholstery for a moment, studying the offensive edifice. He didn't think he'd ever seen so much money put to such contemptible use.
The gargantuan pile was such a pastiche of stylistic elements from different periods, of building materials of every conceivable kind, that he could only assume that the designer and owner had worked very hard to make certain that no period of history had been neglected and no expensive specimen of wood or stone had been ignored in its building.
It's no distance at all between Brighton Beach and Manhattan Beach, but it was light-years away in every other respect. Brighton Beach was a somewhat down-at- the-heels community of Russian emigres. Manhattan Beach was quickly becoming an extraordinarily expensive enclave of very successful Russian emigres, many of whom, like the man he was about to see, had their business virtually around the corner in Brighton Beach.
The young man turned off the engine and took a deep breath. He wasn't looking forward to his meeting with the older man. The Russian Neanderthal of the appalling bad manners. Which went so well with the appallingly ugly
house he'd had built for himself and his garish, equally uncouth wife.
He got out of the car and walked up to the house's entrance. A videocamera was mounted above the door, as at the club. He rang the bell and waited After a moment the door was opened wide by the older man's wife, a bleached blonde who wore lots of badly applied makeup and a skintight sweater with skintight pants. She was smoking a cigarette.
She looked the young man up and down, then blew a plume of smoke toward him. She had about her a superior air that the young man found laughable. "Come in," she said with a Russian accent
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