Yasha kissed her gently on the top of her head. Serena found herself turning her face toward him quite instinctively. Their eyes met. A smile softened the corners of his.
“I’m glad you came to find me,” he said. “I’m sorry it was only because you were scared. I have thought about you often.”
Slowly, but inevitably, their mouths moved closer, and soon they were kissing.
“Come on,” said Yasha, finishing the kiss and holding her hand. “I’ll look after you. Come with me.”
They went back to his house. Yasha led Serena by the hand up the stairs to his bedroom. She didn’t resist. This was the culmination of a long-held desire for both of them.
It was the last thing Serena had expected, and yet it felt so natural. This was what should have happened that night in Italy when, with a glass of wine inside her and an empty kitchen table between them, she’d almost felt brave enough to touch him.
The smell of Yasha’s skin was so delicious to her. Absolutely right. She fingered his face tenderly and smiled as he returned the gesture. She loved the way he almost hummed with pleasure when she touched him as he wanted to be touched. His approval both reassured her and turned her on.
“I’m so sorry,” said Serena. “I came straight from the spa. I must look a mess.”
“You look beautiful,” Yasha told her. The way he gazed at her told her he was telling his truth, and as a result she started to feel beautiful, not worrying about what Yasha would find beneath the shirt and jeans she had pulled on that morning in the darkness of her farmhouse in Cornwall as she’d hurried to catch the early train.
Under Yasha’s gaze, Serena glowed. As he unbuttoned her shirt, she swayed toward him as though entranced. His hands roamed her neck and her shoulders. When she was naked from the waist up, he lay one palm flat on her breastbone as though feeling for her heart. It was racing.
Serena pressed her own hands against Yasha’s broad chest. He was wearing a silky soft blue shirt that she remembered from Italy. Closing her eyes she could picture him back there, standing in the garden as she watched from the window.
“I watched you take this shirt off and dive into the pool and do twenty laps,” she said.
Yasha blushed. “I watched you swimming too. Early in the morning when everyone else was still asleep.”
The memory of the way they had circled each other for those three weeks only intensified what Serena was feeling now. She could recall so well how he had looked, and now she was touching him. The hair on his chest felt rough beneath her fingers. Comfortingly masculine like the taut muscles beneath.
Pulling Yasha close, so that their naked torsos were pressed together, Serena slid her hands around to his back. She smoothed her palms across his shoulder blades and down toward his waist. Then she followed the curve of his belt around to the buckle and started to work it free.
Yasha helped her out of her own jeans and, once she was completely undressed, lifted her off her feet and placed her gently in the center of the bed.
If sleeping with Julian had reminded Serena what it felt like to lust after someone, then going to bed with Yasha reminded her of the real meaning of “making love.” Yasha didn’t take his eyes off hers, ensuring Serena that it wasn’t just her body he wanted to connect with.
Yasha’s hands were warm and soft as they followed the contours of her body. He murmured his approval of her smooth skin. He placed a kiss on each of her nipples and a whole line of them connecting the notch at her throat to her belly button. He rested for a moment with his head on her stomach.
“I want you,” she said.
“I want you too.”
But he wouldn’t let her have him. Not quite yet. Instead he teased her with more fluttering kisses across her body and down to the place where her hips met her pubic bone. Feeling his hot breath on her pubis, she sighed at the exquisite agony of wanting what he wouldn’t yet give her. She felt herself arch toward his mouth.
When finally he entered her, his long hard shaft encountering no resistance from her waiting body, Serena wanted to cry. She held his head in her hands as he moved inside her. She kissed his face. He kept his eyes on hers.
When he came, he begged her to hold him. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him so close.
• • •
Afterward, they slept for what seemed like hours. Serena felt safe in his arms. When they woke, the sky outside was dark. They turned to face each other and murmured their happiness.
They were interrupted by Yasha’s phone.
“I have to go out,” said Yasha as he frowned at a text.
Serena put her arm across his body. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sorry.” He got out of the bed and began searching for the clothes he had discarded.
“Shall I wait here?” Serena asked hopefully.
“Look. The more I think about it, the more I think you’re right. We need to be more careful. You need to stay away from me. At least until all this is concluded. You should leave now. Go back to Cornwall. Keep your head down and don’t answer questions. Never talk about the Ricasoli. Never mention my name. If anything should go wrong, I don’t want you to be connected to me in any way. It’s safest like that.”
“But …” Serena didn’t want to be disconnected from Yasha. Not now.
“It’s the safest way,” Yasha insisted. “You have no idea how vengeful my client can be.”
Yasha picked up Serena’s jeans from the floor and handed them to her. “I have to meet someone in my office. You need to go now.”
“You’re serious.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Later that night, Serena found herself in a hotel in Earls Court. There was no point going back to Cornwall when she had to pick Katie up the following day. She didn’t want to go back to the Berkeley and face Jane’s questions. So she booked into the kind of hotel that made backpackers wonder why they’d ever left Bondi, and cried. Much as she wanted to believe Yasha’s insistence that they had to stay apart for her safety, she couldn’t help wondering if he simply hadn’t wanted her to stay the night.
CHAPTER 60
Serena wasn’t the only person surprised by the news that The Virgin was up for auction. Yasha hadn’t seen Julian Trebarwen face-to-face since that night in Cornwall. But as soon as the sale of The Virgin was announced, Trebarwen was on Yasha’s doorstep, as large as life and twice as ugly. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. He was sporting a scruffy beard and exuded alcohol fumes as though he had been marinating in whiskey.
“You look tired,” said Yasha. “So I suppose you ought to sit down. Now, what is this about?”
“As if you don’t know. I see you’re selling The Virgin through Ludbrook’s.”
“Not me,” said Yasha. “It’s not my picture.”
“But you commissioned it. You know it’s a fake.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You think Ludbrook’s would consign a fake?”
Julian snorted.
“It’s real,” said Yasha. He assumed that Julian was bluffing. How could he know that the painting Ludbrook’s would be selling wasn’t genuine? Nat Wilde hadn’t been able to tell.
“Prove it.”
“And if I can’t? What are you going to do about it?”
“That depends on what you can do for me. Tell your client I need a million. I’ve got to get away.”
“A million in exchange for what?”
“My silence. And these.” He brought an envelope out of his pocket. It contained a series of grainy printouts, pictures of Serena working on the painting. “She sent them to my mobile phone, which is currently in a bank vault.”
“Is this blackmail?” asked Yasha.
“If that’s what you want to call it. One million for my old phone’s SIM card, and you’ll never see me again.”
Yasha shook his head. “Trust me, Julian. It’s really not a good idea to talk to anyone about this. There is no question of you making any money out of this situati
on. It’s simply not going to happen. But should you choose to make things difficult, then the cost to you could be far greater than you could ever imagine.”
The two men stared at each other across the desk. Julian’s hard-man act was let down by the shakes that were a symptom of alcohol withdrawal.
“I need the money.”
“You need to take a bath and go to bed.”
“I’ll tell the police everything about you and Serena and Italy.”
“What is it with you people, thinking that’s the worst you can threaten me with? You need to keep your mouth shut, Mr. Trebarwen.”
“Get me a plane ticket. Five hundred grand.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“You need to make sure I keep the fake a secret. That’s worth at least a hundred.”
“Take me to the vault,” Yasha said, and sighed.
CHAPTER 61
Contrary to Yasha’s predictions, the police were back, and very quickly. Less than a week after she’d left Yasha’s bed, they were on Serena’s doorstep again. Different officers—in uniform. And this time they did ask to come in.
“Is your daughter here?” asked DC Arnold.
“She’s with her father in London,” said Serena.
“That’s a good thing.” He nodded. “Mrs. Macdonald, I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to come with us into Truro. For questioning.”
It was worse than Serena could ever have imagined. Julian Trebarwen had been found at last. But he was dead. He’d been discovered floating facedown in the Thames. Of course, the circumstances were suspicious, given the fact that the police had already been keen to question him in connection with a series of fakes. Suicide was what they thought at first. It was a possibility, but not much of one. He’d been found with a bloody nose that the forensic scientists soon decided was not due to the impact of a fall from a bridge. He’d almost certainly been punched in the face before he’d taken his dive.
A yellow police board was placed on Hammersmith Bridge, asking members of the public whether they had seen anything suspicious on the night Julian had gone into the drink. So far no one had called the hotline.
“I don’t understand,” said Serena, standing in the door to the cottage and feeling her body temperature rise quite uncomfortably. “What has all this got to do with me? I told you I met him once, at his mother’s funeral. Oh, and he came round for some milk one night after that, but that’s all. Why are you here?”
The older policeman gave her a wan smile. “Because shortly after two officers paid you a visit to inquire about his whereabouts—that very night, in fact—you used your credit card to place a call to Julian Trebarwen’s mobile from the phone booth in Old Trelawney.”
Oh God. She was finished. Julian Trebarwen had been murdered, and the police knew for certain that she had been closer to the dead man than she’d claimed. There was no way to save her skin but to tell the truth about the paintings and hope that they would believe she had been coerced into collaborating with him. She just had to make them believe that she would not have murdered him. Surely, she thought, they couldn’t consider her a murder suspect? Julian was a good seventy pounds heavier than she was. She could never have pitched him over the side of Hammersmith Bridge and into the Thames. Though she knew someone who did have the strength. She thought of Yasha and Leonid, with his arms as big as thighs.
“We need to know everything about your involvement with Julian Trebarwen. We need to know everything he ever told you. You might hold the key to the mystery of who killed him.”
Thank God Katie was with her father that weekend, Serena thought as she watched the countryside stream by en route to the main station in Truro.
“I think I’d like to have a solicitor present,” she said to the officer sitting in the back of the car with her.
And so a solicitor was called and Serena found herself in the type of room she had only ever seen on television. It was a dark room, painted a shade of green that had probably been proved to calm the criminal mind. No decoration. Just a table and four chairs. One for her, one for her lawyer, and one each for the two police officers conducting the interview. DC Arnold placed a recording machine in front of Serena and adjusted the microphone.
She was brought hot tea and biscuits. She didn’t touch them. How could she eat right then? Every minute that passed intensified the horror. Julian was dead, and Serena was going to have to put her own head in the noose to absolve herself of any suspicion.
She weighed a fast way out of the interview room against the possible cost of implicating Yasha. If she sent the police to his door, would she be the next to die? His promise to “take care” of her took on a sinister tone.
At last the solicitor, a woman, arrived. She seemed terribly young but was reassuringly matter-of-fact. She assured Serena that there was nothing to fear. All she had to do was explain where she’d been when Julian Trebarwen had died.
“Julian and I were lovers,” Serena confirmed as the tape began to roll.
Despite her worst fears, Serena was back at home in her own bed that night. The interview had not gone as she’d expected. The first question DC Arnold asked was whether Serena was aware that Julian had also been seeing a girl called Annabel. It was clear that DC Arnold hoped for an explanation as simple as a woman scorned. The paintings did not come up. And Serena decided against offering the information. Julian was dead. She couldn’t bring him back with a confession of fraud. She was released without charge, though told to keep the police appraised of her whereabouts. But the landscape of her world had been irrevocably changed. She knew that much. She would have to tell Tom, because if she didn’t and her being questioned under caution came to the attention of his lawyer at a later time, it could present problems with the divorce. Serena had to get her side of the story to Tom first and make sure he knew that Katie had never been in any danger. Serena could almost convince herself that was true. But it wasn’t how she really felt.
Someone had taken Julian’s life. Someone had gotten angry enough to beat Julian to a pulp and then throw him into the river. Was he unconscious when it happened? Serena wondered. Did he try to swim to the shore? Was he already dead when he hit the water? Serena hoped so. The mythology of death said that drowning was a nice way to go, but Serena had never believed that. Just thinking about it made her heart begin to pound. She imagined the muddy water of the Thames in her own nostrils, filling her lungs. She could almost feel that burning sensation that comes with inhaling liquid. How could breathing in water make you feel like you were on fire?
There was only one explanation. Apart from Yasha and his associates, Julian had been the only person who’d known that Serena was the artist behind a painting that was about to go on sale for millions. What more motive did anyone need to get rid of him? Was this what Yasha had meant when he’d promised to “sort things out”?
CHAPTER 62
Mathieu Randon was in his apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris. He’d just finished a very simple dinner. Plainly cooked lamb chops and boiled potatoes, water instead of wine, of course. And now he had retired for a moment of quiet contemplation. He chose his library, as he always had done when he’d wanted a moment to himself, though these days the only book he read was the Bible. Many of the others in his collection had been burned in the huge stone fireplace flanked by his favorite reading chair and another chair that was always empty.
That night, however, Randon was not reading. Instead he sat in his chair and stared into the empty grate. It was too warm for a fire. And yet he thought he could see some kind of light there. He stared without focusing.
What was real and what was not? Since Randon had awoken from his coma, the dark-eyed girl had been trying to tell Randon something important. He’d assumed she was a messenger sent from God. Now he realized with sickening clarity that the woman he’d thought was an angel was merely a shard of the shattered glass globe that was his memory.
Getting up, he crossed the room to
his desk and opened a locked drawer. He took out the bag of items that Carrie had brought to him at Claridge’s. Looking at the three locks of hair, he remembered everything. Worse still, as the memories became clearer, he reacted in the way he used to. That anguished look still excited him. It made him hard.
Oh God. He slammed shut the drawer and turned to his rosary. He needed to know what to do next. He prayed for God to give him guidance.
He had his driver take him to the Domaine Randon office on the Champs-Elysées. The building was empty but for a security guard. Randon locked himself in his office and spent the night reading and rereading all the press cuttings on Domaine Randon from the period he’d spent in a coma. There was a lot about one man in particular: Axel Delaflote. The young man was one of the people Randon didn’t remember so well, but Bellette had explained that Delaflote had risen very suddenly through the ranks to head up Maison Randon. His fall had been equally sudden, unexpected and dramatic, resulting as it did not from a professional mistake but from a murder charge.
“Is This the Face of a Serial Killer?” asked the newspapers. Axel Delaflote looked out, wide eyes and white cheeks, stricken. He had claimed that he’d had nothing to do with the murders of two young prostitutes, but his card had been found in the handbag of one of them. He had been seen leaving a hotel with the other on the night of her death. His DNA was found on her body. That had been more than enough for the jury.
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