The Mistress

by Danielle Steel

  “They have none of his work to sell either.” He had inquired. “I understand that his work never comes on the market anymore,” Vladimir said with an intense expression.

  “Not since his death twelve years ago,” Maylis said politely.

  “You’re very fortunate to have so much of his work,” Vladimir said pointedly to the owner of the restaurant and the artwork.

  “Yes, I am,” she agreed. “I hope you enjoy your dinner.” She smiled warmly at both of them and then withdrew to where she normally stood when guests arrived. She found Theo standing there, staring at Vladimir’s table. “We have an important guest here tonight,” she said in an undervoice, and Theo appeared not to hear her. He was watching Natasha’s every move, as she and Vladimir discussed the menu.

  “I never understand why women are with men like him. He’s old enough to be her father,” Theo said, looking disgusted, although his father had been forty years older than his mother.

  “In their case, it’s about the money,” Maylis said simply.

  He was instantly irritated by his mother’s comment. “It can’t just be about that. She’s not a prostitute. She looks like a work of art herself. A woman like that is not in it for the money.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her, as she talked quietly to Vladimir, and looked every inch a lady. He had even noticed how graceful her hands were as she held the menu, and he saw a thin diamond bracelet sparkling on her wrist in the candlelight.

  “It’s about power and lifestyle, and everything he can do for her. Don’t waste your time fantasizing about her. Women like that are a special breed. And when it’s over with him, she’ll find someone else just like him, although men as rich and powerful as Stanislas are hard to find. He’s in a league of his own, the most important one of his kind.” Theo didn’t answer her. He just continued to watch Natasha, and then as though shaking himself out of his reverie, he went to check on several of the tables, and walked past theirs on the way back. And for the merest fraction of an instant, Natasha met his eyes. She had seen him watching them before.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked her politely, and Vladimir answered for her.

  “We’re ready to order,” he said in a tone that was used to command, and Theo nodded but looked unimpressed. There was nothing to indicate that he was one of the owners, or that his mother was. He was just a maître d’ making the rounds.

  “I’ll send your waiter right over.” Theo walked away then, sent the waiter to their table, and continued watching Natasha from the distance. It was hard to think of being with a woman like Chloe again after seeing someone like Natasha. Everything about her was delicate and graceful. She moved as though to music only she could hear, in a private ballet of some kind, and she was totally attentive to her man.

  Theo heard from the sommelier that Vladimir had ordered their most expensive bottle of wine. And halfway through dinner, Theo saw Vladimir take his cellphone out of his pocket and answer it—it must have been vibrating. And he quickly rose from the table after saying something to Natasha, and walked outside through the archway into the street to continue the conversation. Theo heard him speaking Russian as he walked by.

  Natasha finished her dinner and felt uncomfortable sitting alone at the table, and a few minutes later, she got up and walked into the house, to visit the art again. She stopped in front of the same painting Vladimir had admired, and she stood gazing at it for a long time. Theo felt himself pulled inexorably into the house, and smiled at her from across the room.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he commented to her.

  “Is it his wife?” Natasha asked him. He could hear her Russian accent and found it attractive. And she had a soft sexy voice that ran a finger down his spine.

  “Yes,” Theo said, watching her, “although she wasn’t his wife then. They married much later. They’d been together for more than twenty years and had a son before they married.” He gave her some family history without admitting it was his own.

  “The little boy in the paintings is their son?” Theo nodded, but still had no intention of telling that it was he. He preferred remaining anonymous, which made him feel almost invisible. He had no need to be “seen,” he just wanted the pleasure of looking at her, in the same way that she was enjoying the art. She was every bit as beautiful as the paintings of his mother. “She’s right not to sell them,” Natasha said softly. “It would be too hard to give any of them up.” He loved the sound of her voice. She almost purred as she spoke, and looked innocent and shy, as though she didn’t speak to strangers very often.

  “That’s why she doesn’t, although she has a lot of them. And he gave many of them away when he was young, to friends or collectors of his work. He was never interested in money, only in the quality of his work. None of the paintings here are for sale,” he said quietly. “His widow won’t sell them.”

  “Everything has a price.” They both jumped at the sound of the voice behind them, and turned to see Vladimir standing in the doorway, with the same expression of annoyance on his face. He didn’t like things he couldn’t buy. “Shall we go back to the table?” he asked Natasha, which was more a command than a question. She smiled pleasantly at Theo and walked back outside, as he followed her with his eyes. He saw that they had a cheese course, and ordered dessert, and after that Vladimir lit one of his cigars, as she smiled at him. He had just told her that she was even more beautiful than the art.

  Maylis frowned when she saw Theo watching Natasha. She walked to where he was standing quietly. Most of the guests had left, and only a few tables were still occupied with people enjoying the last of the evening, after a splendid meal.

  “Don’t do that to yourself,” Maylis said to him, looking worried. “She’s like a painting in a museum. You can’t have her.” He remembered what Vladimir had said about everything having a price. “Besides, you can’t afford her.”

  “No, I can’t,” Theo said, as he smiled at his mother. “She’s pretty to look at, though.”

  “From the distance,” his mother reminded him. “Women like that are dangerous. They break your heart. She’s not like the women you know. For her, this is a job.”

  “You think she’s a hooker?” He looked surprised, and Maylis shook her head.

  “Far from it. She’s his mistress. It’s written all over her. Her dress cost more than one of your paintings. Her bracelet and earrings are worth one of your father’s. It’s a profession, belonging to a man as rich and powerful as he is.”

  “I suppose it is. I’ve seen his boat. It’s hard to imagine anyone having that kind of money…and a woman like her.” There was longing in Theo’s voice as he said it, and not about the boat.

  “You have to be as rich as he is to have a girl like her, although I have to admit, she looks better than most. It must be a lonely life. He owns her. That’s how it works.” Thinking about it made him feel sick. His mother talked about her as though she were a slave, or an object he had bought. Everything had a price, or that was how Vladimir saw it. Even the girl with him.

  They left a little while later. Vladimir paid in cash and gave the waiter an enormous tip, equal to half the bill, as though money meant nothing to him. And Maylis thanked them with a warm smile for coming. Theo was in the kitchen then, talking to the chef, and trying not to think of the girl who had left with Vladimir. He wondered if his mother was right, and if Vladimir felt he owned her. It was a frightening thing to say about another human being, and as he thought about her, he knew he had to paint her. It was the only way he could get close to her, or see into her soul, to paint her, and make her his.

  He was still thinking about her when he left the restaurant, tossed his suit jacket into the backseat of his car, pulled off his tie, and called Chloe. He had a sudden longing to see her, but she didn’t sound happy when she answered. It was nearly one in the morning by then, and she had been asleep.

  “Do you still want company?” he asked in a voice raw with desire, and she sounded instantly incensed.
r />   “For a booty call? No, I don’t. You finish working for your mother and want to get laid on the way home?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Chloe. You said you wanted to see me. I just finished work.”

  “Call me tomorrow, and we’ll talk about it.” And with that, she hung up, and he drove home. His mother was right—he was crazy to be fascinated by the girl he’d seen at the restaurant that night. She was someone’s mistress, it had nothing to do with him. And he wouldn’t have known what to do with a woman like her, although she had been so easy to talk to, with her gentle voice, when he followed her inside when she went to look at the art again.

  He walked into his house, and tossed the car keys onto the kitchen table, sorry that Chloe hadn’t let him come over. He had no idea why, but he had never felt so alone in his life. He went into his studio and pulled out one of the blank canvases he had leaning against a wall, and all he could see as he looked at it was Natasha’s face, begging to be painted.

  —

  Natasha and Vladimir had reached the dock in Antibes by then, where the tender was waiting to take them back to the boat.

  “I have a visitor coming tonight,” he said quietly, as the tender sliced through the water at high speed. The sea was flat, and the moon was high, casting light over the water. She didn’t ask him who the visitor would be, but she knew it was someone important, if he was coming late at night. “I have to read some papers before our meeting, and I don’t want to keep you up. I’ll stay in my office until he arrives.” She knew from what he said that it was someone who didn’t want to be observed meeting with him. They were usually very important men, who had dealings with him. She was used to it. She would hear them arrive on his helicopter, and then leave again before dawn.

  Vladimir walked her to their bedroom, put his arms around her, and kissed her with a slow smile.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said. She had liked the restaurant and the art, and her time with him, before he went back to work.

  “It’s a silly place with none of the paintings for sale.” She could see that it had bothered him, but they’d had a good time anyway. He kissed her again, and left her in the cabin. He had work to do. And just as she fell asleep, she heard the helicopter land, and knew that Vladimir’s visitor had arrived. She was sound asleep by the time the Russian president got out of the helicopter and walked to where Vladimir was standing, waiting for him, and shook his hand, with bodyguards lining the deck. Vladimir and his visitor walked down a flight of stairs to Vladimir’s soundproof, bulletproof office. They had work to do that night, and a deal to sign by morning.

  Chapter 3

  When Natasha woke up in the morning, the bed next to her was empty, and she opened her eyes to see Vladimir smiling at her, wearing city clothes, and carrying his briefcase. He appeared tired but satisfied, and she knew he’d had a long night, with the visitor who had come by helicopter to see him. He had that fierce look in his eyes that he got when a deal had gone well, like an animal that had eaten its prey. He looked sated and victorious.

  “Are you going somewhere?” she asked, as she stretched her long, exquisite body, and he sat down beside her.

  “To Moscow for a few days” was all he said to her. They had signed the preliminary agreements the night before, for a major mineral deal that would bring him billions. Now they had to sign the final papers to seal the deal. It was worth a trip to Moscow. He had been in competition with two other major players on the Russian scene, and his manipulations and connections had won him the prize. They almost always did. He knew just where to apply pressure, to what degree, and on whom. He knew all his enemies’ and competitors’ weak spots, and never hesitated to use them. “I’ll call you later,” Vladimir promised her and leaned over to kiss her, wishing he had time to make love to her, but he needed to get down to business, and his plane was waiting for him at the Nice airport for the flight to Moscow. “Do some shopping while I’m gone. Go to the Hermès in Cannes.” And there was a Dior she liked there too. She had been to Chanel a few days before, but there were plenty of shops on the Croisette to keep her busy. It was at times like this that she sometimes wished she had a girlfriend to go with her, but women in her situation had no time for women friends. She was always on call for Vladimir, and his plans could change in an instant. His schedule was as mercurial and unpredictable as he was. Being always there for him was part of their unspoken arrangement.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find something to do.” She put her arms around him, and he felt her breasts rub against his chest, and he leaned away to cup them with his hands.

  “I should take you with me, but I’ll be busy, and you’d be bored in Moscow. Stay on the boat. Don’t go to the house without me.” She knew the risk of random attacks and burglaries, and never went to the house in St. Jean Cap-Ferrat without him. “We’ll do something fun when I get back. Maybe St. Tropez or Sardinia.” She looked pleased at the idea, and followed him to the door of their bedroom for a last kiss. He slipped his hands into her satin nightgown, and dropped it to the floor at her feet, to reveal her remarkable body in all its splendor. It still thrilled him to know that she was his, like a dazzling piece of art he owned, and he knew that he was envied by all who saw her. They kissed one last time, and then he stepped out of their bedroom, and gently closed the door behind him, as Natasha headed for the bathroom, smiling as she thought about him, and turned on the shower. And as she got into it a moment later, she heard the helicopter take off from the upper deck. She didn’t even think about why he was going to Moscow, and didn’t need to know. There were questions she never asked herself. All she needed to know was that she belonged to him, and in his own way, to the extent that he was capable, he loved her. It was enough. And she loved him too—he was her savior.

  —

  Maylis was going over the restaurant books that morning when Gabriel called her from Paris. She kept a close eye on everything, and always made sure that no one was stealing. Their food bills were high, the produce costs were ridiculous, flown in from all over Europe, and their wine bills were astronomical, but so were the prices they charged, and everything appeared to be in order. She sounded serious when she took Gabriel’s call.

  “Is something wrong?” He was sensitive to all her moods, and tried to solve all her problems. He had protected her almost like a child since he began representing Lorenzo, and did so even more now that he and Maylis were lovers. He treated her with all the respect due a wife, and the concern of a loving father, although he was only four years older than she was. And at sixty-seven, he looked considerably older than she did. They both had white hair, and hers was no longer premature, but her face was youthful and unlined, and her body was still sensual and appealing, just as it had been when she modeled for Lorenzo.

  “No, I was just going over the books. Everything looks fine. When are you coming down from Paris?”

  He smiled at the question. “I just left you three days ago. I have to spend some time here, or Marie-Claude will scold me.” He spent as much time as possible in St. Paul de Vence, even though he still owned the gallery in Paris. For the past three years, since becoming a couple with Maylis, however unusual their arrangement, he tried to be with her as much as he could. But in her mind, she was still married to a dead man, and treated Gabriel like an illicit lover. She rarely admitted to anyone that she and Gabriel were lovers, but he accepted all her quirks and eccentricities to be with her. And his daughter Marie-Claude had run his gallery for years now. She had just turned forty, was married to a successful lawyer, and had two teenage children, whom she said Gabriel saw too little of, because he was always in St. Paul de Vence with Maylis, and far more involved with her and Theo than with his own family. It upset Marie-Claude, and she had resented it for years, and was very vocal about it with her father.

  “Marie-Claude can manage without you. I can’t,” Maylis said simply, and he smiled, and knew that it was true. Maylis had proven capable with the restaurant, but was much more i
ntimidated handling her own financial affairs, or Lorenzo’s, which were considerably more complicated. Gabriel had a great head for finance and loved taking care of her in any way he could, and making her life easier. He had done it for years. His daughter was an excellent businesswoman too, but she didn’t like being in constant competition with the Lucas for his attention. She thought his single-minded attachment to them unhealthy, and his efforts unappreciated. She thought Maylis was an incredibly selfish woman who never hesitated to monopolize her father’s time, to his detriment, and used him.

  “I’ll be back soon. I thought I’d spend a week here and see what Marie-Claude has been up to. She signed a flock of new artists.” In recent years, he had become barely more than a silent partner in the gallery he had founded. Lorenzo’s affairs still took up all his time—the estate was huge, and more intricate than ever to manage. He wanted to make sure that Maylis would be in great financial shape forever, in case anything happened to him, and he also advised Theo and managed his finances for him. Theo was more astute about his affairs than his mother but preferred focusing on his painting. “I had a call this morning that I want to discuss with you, Maylis.”

  “Oh, please don’t tell me they’re raising my taxes again, and how you want to manage it. It always gives me a headache.” She sounded instantly nervous as she said it. “Can’t you just take care of it for me?”

  “Not this time. It’s not about taxes—you have a decision to make. I got a call from an attorney in London, representing a client. He wishes to remain anonymous but is an important art collector. He wants to buy a painting he saw at the restaurant.”

  “Don’t bother going any further,” Maylis said brusquely. “You know I’m not selling. There are ‘Not for Sale’ signs on every painting in the house.”