Deceptions (26 page)

She didn't, but she remembered Sabrina's photographs. As the others watched the gyrations of a spectacular belly dancer, she slipped away and walked up the open staircase to the floor above.

She wandered from room to room in delight and pride. Sabrina had created an air of playfulness and exuberance that most designers, heavy-handed and pompous, never achieved, and now Stepanie could understand why the house was still being photographed for design magazines in America and Europe.

What luck, she thought enviously, to have such a chance - to take an empty house and create a home, an atmosphere, a place for parties and privacy and love ... oh, what a chance.

She stood before a whimsical Miro painting and gazed at the thick, childlike strokes, strong and full of purpose. What I wouldn't give for such a chance, she thought.

*Honey, you all right?*

She turned. 'Yes, I've been rude. I'm sony.'

'It's your party and almost your house. If you want to be alone, don't apologize. What's he really like, your Antonio?'

'Occasionally crude.'

'That I know. That we just saw. And?'

'Occasionally pleasant.'

'How else could he keep you interested for almost a year? Okay, you'd rather not talk about him. Want me to show you something I discovered recently? You'll recognize it.' She led Stephanie downstairs to a dim comer of the salon and pointed to the floor. 'Isn't that amazing? Who do you suppose thought of such a thing?'

Stephanie bent down and looked at the small distinct S in

the design of the parquet floor. 'Clever,' she murmured, smiling. Sabrina had sent her a photograph of it, thinking no one else would ever know.

'Clever, indeed. You know, honey. I'm so thrilled with this place, you could have carved it six feet high over the front door. You didn't have to hide it.'

Still smiling, flushed with the pride and sense of ownership Sabrina had felt in completing the house, Stephanie touched the small letter with the toe of her shoe. 'It's big enough,' she said softly. 'It was enough that I knew I had left my mark.'

The next morning, haunted by her sister's mark in the floor, Stephanie went to Ambassadors. It was Brian's day off, and the shop was closed. She tried the keys on her ring until one of them opened the door.

She had been here before with Sabrina. Now she raised the shades on the front window and walked down the long narrow showroom modeled after an eighteenth-century salon. It was uncrowded and elegant, with a few fine pieces arranged in twos and threes, brightened by sunlight or the diffuse light of shaded lamps. At the back of the room, through a doorway, was Sabrina's office with the cherry table she used as a desk.

Stephanie sat at the table, taking in the long, low, crowded book-shelves, windows draped in antique velvet, oriental rugs and deep armchairs for visitors. Success and accomplishment were here, along with self-confidence, money, even power. She felt as small as her reflection in the silver tea service on a side table as she recaptured her feelings of the night before: pride, envy, ownership - and longing.

'I have to do something,' she said to her reflection. 'I've only done one thing, really: be a housewife. I've had one home for twelve years, one failed business, one man ... ' Wait, she told herself. Think about something to do, about getting back my own business. That's enough for now. Don't think about other failures. Only that one.

The chimes at the front door startled her. I forgot to lock it, she thought, and went to the showroom to explain that the shop was closed

'Aha. someone home after all,' said a heavyset man

hunched on a Regency armchair. He was taking off his shoes and massaging his feet> 'Lucky for you; you ahnost lost a sale. You work here? Well, of course you do, what a question. And you are one beautiful girl, which I'm sure you don't mind my saying. You have what Betty - my wife, that is - calls an English complexion. The wife says one thing about me: I can spot a foreigner even before they open their mouth, and I would know you for English anywhere. I see you're looking at your little chair here. I had to sit down, the wife's been dragging me in and out of antique shops all day. Couldn't even see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, I thought my feet would fall off. She's somewhere, I came in here, your door was unlocked. I won't break your chair, if that's what's worrying you.'

'And what may I show you?' asked Stephanie, keeping her eyes lowered to hide the laughter in them. 'You could surprise your wife with something quite remarkable. For instance' - she went to a back shelf and returned with a French beaded evening bag and a magnifying glass - 'this dates from about 1690, a stunning piece of work- here, use the glass to look at it. Do you see the individual beads? And the stitching?'

He looked closely. The beads were no bigger than grains of sand, the stitches between them even tinier. Without the magnifying glass the floral design looked like a painting; under the glass it became a mosaic of wondrous delicacy.

'Not bad,' the man said admiringly. 'How the hell d'fiiey do that?'

*I believfe children made them. They probably suffered eyestrain, but the great ladies of the royal court had to have their evening bags.'

'Not bad.' he repeated. 'Betty'd like to be a great lady. How much?'

'Six hundred pounds,' said Stephanie, guessing from French bags she had seen in Bond Street.

'Don't give me pounds, give me dollars.*

'Twelve hundred dollars.'

He whistled. 'You've got a nerve, little lady. Two hundred, and that's probably too much.'

Stephanie was fUrious. How dare he tiy to bargain with her

as if Ambassadors was a stall in a flea market? She wanted to make this sale; it was suddenly very important that she sell something from Ambassadors, but she would make it on her terms, not those of some crude bargainer. She smiled gently. 'Where are you from, Mr—?'

•PuUem. Omaha. I'm in meat.'

Stephanie pictured him up to his chin in ground beef. 'And you go to Chicago on occasion? San Francisco? New York? New Orleans?' He nodded each time. 'And you take Betty.'

'Course. Kids are grown, nothing for her to do at home.'

'Do you know, Mr Pullem, in all those cities, and in every other city in America, Betty will be the only woman with an evening bag like this one? Everyone will beg to look at it. Every woman will want one. But there is no other exactly like it anywhere in the world.'

There was a pause. He turned the bag in his hands. 'Six hundred.'

'Is that in pounds?'

'Dollars! Dollars! Pounds are for meat, not money.'

Gently, Stephanie took the bag from him. 'I'm sorry, Mr Pullem. I would have been pleased to help you make your Betty a great lady.' She walked to the back of the store.

'Seven hundred!' he said. 'Make it seven-fifty and that's it.'

Stephanie turned. 'Mr Pullem. We do not bargain at Ambassadors.' She was arranging the bag on the shelf when she heard him stand up.

'You drive a hard bargain. Shoulda been an American.' He laid twelve one-hundred dollar bills on the table beside him. 'Betty doesn't like it I can return it, right?'

Stephanie wrapped the bag in tissue and a small box she found in Brian's office. 'Of course. I think you need not worry, however,'

He put on his shoes and reached for the box. As Stephanie gave it to him, with a receipt, he held onto her hand. 'You're one beautiful girl, you know. Hard bargains and all. Maybe I'll bring the wife in some day. When I make my second fortune.' He winked as he left.

Jubilantly, Stephanie let out her breath in a long sigh. I did it, she sang to herself; I can do anything. She locked the front

door and put the money with a note in Brian's desk and twirled from his office to the cherry table. Standing there, she looked with a different air around the office and into the showroom. Now she belonged here. Like her sister, she had left her mark.

Annabel's only seems noisy to those who want a quiet evening. For most, the music and talk mean excitement: marriages begun or ended, affairs budding or withering, agreements concluded, acquaintances struck. The membership of Annabel's is distinguished, and so is the menu. In any season diners can order raspberries, asparagus, truffles or snails, flown in from private sources and elegantly served. Annabel's is a place to dine and dance, but more important, to see the ebb and flow of one's social world.

Maxim Stuyvesant often used Annabel's as a meeting place. The chatter and dim lights gave him more privac} than his office, and the staff would save his comer table for hours if they knew he was coming. In all the cities of the world where he conducted business and sought pleasure. Max looked for such a place. Aimabel's, on Berkeley Square, was his favorite.

On Thursday night he arrived at nine with his guest, a small bearded man with piercing eyes magnified by round glasses and a cultivated air of boredom. As they settled themselves at Max's table, their waiter brought from the wine cellar a bottle of Chardonnay and opened it. Max sniffed the cork. 'The fish tonight?'

'Swordfish in sea urchin sauce. Very delicate. Very fine.'

He looked at his guest, who nodded. Tor both of us,' Max said. 'Let Louis select the rest of the meal. Bring some pat6 now, and give us half an hour before you serve the soup.'

'Louis?' asked his guest.

The chef. He provides an excellent meal.'

'With half an hour for business.'

'With half an hour for pleasant conversation to put us in a proper mood for dining. Our business should take no more than a few minutes.' He filled their wine glasses. To the glories of the past.'

Ronald Dowling nodded, sipped, raised his eyebrows at the

quality of the wine and sipped again. 'The vase is all you claimed. I am impressed. Even in your dingy warehouse— '

'Not mine. Westbridge Imports.'

'They're the ones who brought it out? Across the Mediterranean to - where? France? Or directly on to Britain?'

Max smiled. 'Annabel's is noisy tonight; I didn't hear you. The Etruscan vase you saw comes from the collection of a noble English family forced to sell one of its estates to raise money. Westbridge Imports handled the estate sale; when they saw the vase they called me, knowing my clients are interested in ancient treasures and can afford to pay for them.'

Dowling smiled thinly. '1 saw the listing in the catalogue you sent me. You may tell that story to others, Stuyvesant, but I flew in from Toronto especially to see this vase. I'm paying you a million and a half dollars for it, and in return I expect the truth, not a faiiy tale.'

'In art and sex one is never sure of the truth.'

'I'm not joking, Stuyvesant.'

'Ronald, if I told you an item was smuggled out of Turkey and listed as part of a duke's estate sale; that the duke was paid twenty thousand pounds to swear, if asked, that the item had been in his family for generations; and that the item will be smuggled into the country where its purchaser lives - would you not say that that sounds more like a fairy tale than my first story?'

Dowling's eyes gleamed. 'I'd say it sounds like more fim than drilling for oil and gas in western Canada - and a damn sight more dangerous.'

Max shrugged. 'Life is full of dangers. Try getting safely across Fifth Avenue in New York. Or the Via Veneto in Rome.'

They chuckled,

'All right,' Dowling said. 'Tomorrow I will deposit to your account in Switzerland ten percent of the purchase price in gold. When you deliver the vase to my home in Toronto, you'll receive the balance.'

'Not quite, Ronald. When the vase reaches Canada, approximately four weeks after the deposit of the gold, you will be notified. You will wish to examine it. When you are

satisfied, you will arrange for the balance to be paid. And then you take possession/

Dowling nodded. *I was told you were a careful man. I like that. I'll call my agent in the morning.'

Max signaled to the waiter with his hand. 'Another bottle/ he said, and sat back, surveying the crowd. His survey stopped at a group of three people being shown to a table across the room. He gazed at one of them thoughtfully.

•—your other activities, * Dowling was saying. 'Real estate, you said? And art galleries? With so many legitimate—'

Max stood. 'Excuse me one moment; I must speak to someone.'

He moved smoothly between the tables and brass-covered pillars and was speaking as he reached the group. 'My dear Brooks, good to see you again after all these years. And Sabrina.' He lifted her hand to his lips. 'I had heardyou were in South America. A malicious rumor?'

Looking up, Stephanie saw only the man, his bulk blocking her view of the room. His dark suit was superbly cut and his bearing assured, even arrogant. Red hair shot with gray frizzled in a mock halo around his head, and his flat eyes reflected her image, revealing nothing of himself. Her hand closely held in his, Stephanie was conscious of his power, and excitement flared within her. She lowered her tyts to hide it. but his face subtly changed and she knew he had seen. She had no idea who he was and glanced at Brooks, who was introducing Gabrielle.

'Max Stuyvesant, Gaby. Max. Gabrielle de Martel.'

Max deftly switched from Stephanie's hand to Gabrielle's, but the kiss he gave it was perfunctory. '1 believe you came to Lx>ndon about the time 1 left for New York.'

'Three years ago,' said Gabrielle, examining him with open curiosity. 'I've heard so much about you.'

He smiled amiably and turned back to Sabrina. 'Was it a malicious rumor that you were in Brazil?'

'Malicious or hopeful,' she said. 'Depending on who began it.'

He laughed. 'Your wit has not diminished. Later, after we have dined, will you dance with me?'

'1 haven't—' she stopped. She hadn't danced in years, but had Sabrina? 'I'm sorry; I don't think so.*

'It would be a favor; I am assumingyou would not criticize my lack of practice.'

She looked up at him, at the small smile on his lips, the flat gray eyes, watching. 'All right, I'd like to.'

'Until then. Brooks, Gabrielle; a pleasant dinner.' He bowed slightly and left.