After Innocence
Page 43
But it had not been destroyed. Somehow it had traveled from a palace in Russia to Argentina, but no one knew how long the work had been in South America, only that it had come to Christie’s from Buenos Aires. Gossip had been running rampant in the New York art world ever since Christie’s had made its acquisition of the work public. Rumor held that the owner, who insisted upon anonymity, was one of Hitler’s last living Nazis, and that he had fled Germany after the fall of the Third Reich with Innocence and several other fabulous works of art that he had also looted. As the work had not been seen since its acquisition by the Russian nobleman in 1902, not even in textbook representations, most of New York’s art world had been to Christie’s all week to view the painting.
Mara had come as well. She had been astounded and overwhelmed by her grandfather’s portrait—and never had she been more proud of her grandmother, for her talent, yes, but even more, for her courage and her love.
And the critics were saying that it was the most important work of her grandmother’s “early period” and one of the most important in her entire career as well, not as much for its beauty and power as for the subject matter. Mara had often wondered about her grandmother’s daring. She had admired her so. How hard it must have been to be a woman artist at the time—and how brave it had been to break taboos long held to by female artists and to risk scandal and censure by portraying a male nude in such an intimate manner.
“Lot number 1502,” the auctioneer boomed as the circular stage turned. The Vlaminck disappeared and After Innocence rotated into view. Mara made a small cry, tears filling her eyes, as the auctioneer said, “We have an offer of one hundred thousand dollars. Do I hear two?”
It felt as if her heart had stopped beating. Mara gazed at her grandmother’s portrait of her grandfather as a young man and was overwhelmed yet again. He was so rakish and so handsome, and she felt as if he might walk out of the canvas and into the room at any moment. Tingles swept up and then down her spine. How beautiful it was. How powerful, how strong. And this was how her grandfather had looked at—and felt about—her grandmother once upon a time.
The bidding had become fast and furious. Mara realized that there were three serious bidders, two men and a woman. One of the men was a young Saudi prince renowned ever since he had paid two million for a Monet four years past. The other man was an agent for a very avid and ferocious Japanese collector. Mara wondered who the woman was. She was in her thirties and looked to be wearing a dark Armani pantsuit, a pair of oversize tortoiseshell glasses hardly concealing a lovely and classic face. Dark blond hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon.
The woman raised her hand, five fingers spread.
Mara sat up straighter, shooting the woman a glance, instantly recognizing her determination.
“Five hundred thousand dollars!” the auctioneer cried. “I have five—do I have six?”
The prince raised his hand. The auctioneer rattled, “Six!”
The Japanese agent nodded. The auctioneer cried, “Seven,” and looked at the woman.
She smiled. The auctioneer shouted, “Eight! Do I have nine?”
The prince nodded. The auctioneer looked at the agent. He nodded. The woman raised her finger; her nail was red. The auctioneer was sweating as he turned back to the prince. “I have one million dollars. Do I have one five?”
A sharp nod—but the prince was drawn and tense now, looking worried. The agent had been listening to a cordless phone, undoubtedly receiving his instructions from the Tokyo collector, and his arm shot into the air.
“Two!” the auctioneer cried, turning to the blond woman.
She was cool, unruffled. “Three million dollars,” she said in a precise and silken English accent.
The auctioneer’s face lit up as he turned to the Saudi prince. Mara tore her gaze away from the woman with an effort, and saw the prince shake his head negatively. She looked at the agent of the Tokyo tycoon. He had gone pale beneath his natural coloring and he was speaking frantically now into the wireless receiver. He looked up and nodded.
“Four million dollars!” the auctioneer cried.
“Five,” the woman said.
The agent was on his cordless phone again. The auctioneer stared at him. “Five? I have five!” he cried. The agent was now listening, sweat dripping from his temples. “I have five once, five twice …” His gaze was inquisitive. Mara held her breath. The agent removed the phone from his ear and shook his head. No. The Japanese tycoon would not make another bid.
“Sold!” the auctioneer boomed. “After Innocence is sold for five million dollars!” His gavel banged down hard on the wood podium where he stood.
Mara sank back in her seat, trembling with sheer disbelief. God—After Innocence had sold for five million dollars—beyond the gallery’s estimates, beyond anyone’s estimates—in a recession year. Sudden elation—euphoria—rose up in Mara, swelled in her veins. How thrilled Sofie and Edward would be if only they knew! If only they knew!
And then she caught a fluid movement of black wool crepe out of the corner of her eye. Mara swiveled to see the woman leaving the room, her strides long and sure. Mara tapped the man in front of her on the shoulder. She knew him vaguely—he had an elitist gallery uptown on Madison Avenue. “Who bought the Sofie O’Neil?” she cried. “Who was that woman?”
The man turned to face her. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen her before this week—but she was here every day to view the canvas, Mara. Clearly she is an agent.”
Mara was frozen. She had to know who had bought After Innocence. She had to know—because the oil could not possibly disappear again after so brief an appearance into the art world. It could not. It must not. It was so unfair.
Mara leapt up and dashed down the aisle and through the two swinging doors of the auditorium. She rushed down the green marble stairs. In the lobby she saw the woman exiting through the front door. Mara cried out. “Wait! Wait!”
The woman looked over her shoulder. Their gazes met. Then the woman lengthened her stride, crossing the sidewalk and stepping out into the street, raising her hand for a cab.
Mara ran across the lobby and through the front door. “Wait … please!”
But it was too late. The woman slid into a yellow cab and the taxi peeled away before Mara could reach the door to bang on it and stop her. She stood on Park Avenue staring after the disappearing taxi, dismayed.
“It doesn’t matter, Mara.”
Mara stiffened at the sound of her grandfather’s voice, knew she was hallucinating at the very least, but turned anyway, almost expecting him to be standing behind her, smiling in his warm, inimitable way. But no one was there except Christie’s doorman, and he raised a brow at her.
Mara turned abruptly, head down, and she began to walk slowly up Park Avenue. She told herself that it didn’t matter. They were dead, but their souls lingered; Mara could almost feel them with her, and she knew they were happy and proud. But … the painting belonged to the public. Mara knew she could not rest until she had learned who had bought After Innocence.
“And who did buy it, Edward?”
“Do you think I know? Come, Sofie, let’s leave the mystery to Mara—for I can see that she’s dying to solve it.”
A laugh sounded, soft and feminine. His voice rumbled again, but this time low and intimate, impossible to clearly hear.
But even had a passerby heard the ghostly exchange, no one would have cared. After all, this was New York City in 1993, and stranger things happened all the time.
About the Author
BRENDA JOYCE
A dreamweaver who entices and enchants, a masterful creator of unforgettable characters and incomparable romance, BRENDA JOYCE works magic—from the spellbinding passion of Splendor to the searing sensual power of the bestselling Beyond Scandal.
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Avon Books by
Brenda Joyce
VIOLET FIRE
CAPTIVE
BEYOND SCANDAL
THE GAME
AFTER INNOCENCE
PROMISE OF THE ROSE
SECRETS
SCANDALOUS LOVE
THE FIRES OF PARADISE
FIRESTORM
INNOCENT FIRE
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AVON BOOKS
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
Copyright © 1994 by Brenda Joyce Senior
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-123526-9
ISBN-10: 0-06-123526-1
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EPub Edition © AUGUST 2010 ISBN: 9780062045959
FIRST EDITION
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