Roulette (25 page)

When I open one shutter, it’s like pulling aside a curtain onto some magical world. The city, with all of its turquoise waterways, the island of Giudecca in the distance, the water taxis and gondolas and vaporettos, is spread out before us. “Oh, Isabel,” I whisper. She is standing right beside me.

“Thanks so much for inviting me, Miki. I think it’s going to be really special.”

We stand there with one arm around each other’s waists and just stare out at the bejeweled city as it gleams and sparkles beneath the glittering summer sun.

All I can think is,
Rome is out there somewhere
. I can feel him.

I squeeze her quickly. “Okay. I think lunch first, then a gondola ride, then—”

“Oh, I forgot! Mom hired someone to take us around. I made her swear it wasn’t going to be, like, a horrible tour guide with an orange flag, and she promised me it would be cool. She should be here at one o’clock.”

I look at my watch and see it’s ten ’til. “I’m sure the guide will be stylish and fabulous if your mom hired her. Let’s get our stuff together so we’re ready when she gets here.” I pull out my cell phone and see that Alexei has sent me a couple of messages about the Indonesia deal. I reply quickly and then slip the phone into one of the pockets of my casual green sundress. I grab my small credit-card holder and put it in the other pocket. After I put my sunglasses on my head, I turn to Isabel. “I’m ready!”

Isabel is rifling through her backpack, trying to decide what to bring. “Do I need my iPad?”

“What? No! We’re in Venice, silly! Bring your phone to take pictures, and forget everything else. Come on!”

She laughs and puts her cell phone into the back pocket of her far-too-tight-but-I’m-not-saying-anything shorts. We walk down the grand staircase holding hands, and there’s an older, white-haired butler type waiting for us in the front hall.

“Signora Voyanovski?” he asks formally.

I extend my hand to greet him. “Yes.”

“I am Signor Moretti.” He shakes my hand, then clasps his hands behind his back. “If you have any requests while you are here, please let me know.”

“Thank you. Everything looks perfect, but if we need anything I’ll be sure to ask.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Mr. Moretti pulls the door open.

A tall woman with long, dark hair smiles at us. She is probably in her midtwenties and positively beams enthusiasm. “I am Teresa. The guide?”

“Excellent!” I’m so excited not to have to stare at a map all afternoon, I want to hug her. She’s very smiley, and she’s already chatting with Isabel, asking what my young charge is most interested in seeing and doing. I turn to Mr. Moretti. “We’ll see you later. Thanks again.”

He shuts the door behind us, and we begin walking down the narrow
via
that runs alongside the house. “I do have one fixed appointment, to take you to a private art collection. Your mother mentioned you both like Matisse. Is that right?” Teresa asks. “Would you like that?”

“Yes!” Isabel cries. “Right, Miki?”

“Of course—that would be fabulous.”

“
Perfetto
!” Teresa says in her charming Italian. We walk for an hour or so and end up at a villa on the Grand Canal, not far from the villa where we are staying, but on the other side. It’s in spectacular condition, beautifully renovated but retaining all of its original, five-hundred-year-old details.

“How incredible!” I look up at the ornate facade and stretch my neck to see the intricately carved stonework at the roofline. “Who is the owner?”

“He’s very private,” Teresa explains, “so we’re not permitted to say. He allows three special tours each day during the month of August, through the public areas only, of course.”

“Of course,” I agree. It’s probably some Russian oligarch of my acquaintance. The cultural connection between Saint Petersburg and Venice has a long history, and many of the nouveau-riche Russians have places here.

We walk in, and a guard answers the door, looking like a cross between an Armani model and an assassin. “
Benvenuto.
”

He speaks to Teresa in rapid Italian. She opens her well-worn messenger bag and extracts a printout of our confirmation form. The killer Italian nods and returns the piece of paper.

“This way, please.” He leads us into a spectacular drawing room overlooking the canal, then steps into a corner and touches his ear, obviously using a security system to let command central know we’ve entered the inner sanctum.

Teresa starts telling us about the collection. I realize the guard is going to accompany us throughout the tour, and I quickly return my attention to what Teresa is saying. I just sort of sigh into the whole experience when I see we’re looking at a Titian. Isabel has the same reaction. We hold hands and listen to Teresa tell us about the history of the family who built the palazzo to house their art and sculpture collection. For generations, they filled the house with exquisite pieces, until the family gradually fell into financial ruin. The palazzo was shut down for many years, and most of the artwork put into high-security storage, until, about ten years ago, a philanthropist negotiated a long-term lease with the Italian government. The agreement, Teresa explains, allowed him to purchase the place and restore it to its former splendor, on the condition that it would revert to the Italian nation upon his death.

We go into the next room, also vast, and begin looking at the antiquities. Isabel is slightly less interested in the sculptures and urns, so I suggest we continue to the next painting gallery. Teresa agrees and leads us upstairs to an expansive gallery with about ten windows on one side and an equal number of twentieth-century modern masterpieces on the other. Picasso’s
Rêve
is there, and I gasp at the sight.

“How . . . ?”

“It is so beautiful, isn’t it?” Teresa smiles. “It’s new this summer. Several of the acquisitions in this gallery are from the past few months. I love getting to see them up close.” There’s a bench in front of the painting, so the three of us sit down and just stare at it for a while. I’m holding Isabel’s hand again.

“So
not
boring, right, Isabel?”

She looks at me, then back at the canvas. “It’s awesome.”

I’ve heard that the Wall Street mogul who bought the painting from a Las Vegas mogul sold it recently, but the new buyer’s identity has been very hush-hush. The colors that I’ve seen many times in art-history books are much more vibrant in real life: the red of the chair, the bright yellow of the sleeping woman’s pearl necklace, the primitive pattern on the wall behind her.

After a few more minutes of admiring silence, Teresa recollects that she’s supposed to be telling us things and starts informing Isabel about the history of the painting and why it’s important. We move to a Matisse next, and, out of nowhere, I start crying.

“What is it with you and the Matisses?” Isabel asks impatiently. Teresa pulls a packet of tissues out of her magical satchel, and I take it gratefully.

“You are heartless, Isabel. One day you’re going to have a crush on someone and I’m going to make fun of you, and you can see how it feels.”

“I’m sorry, Miki.” She looks genuinely contrite, so I give her a watery smile.

“No worries, sweetie.”

“Is it still the same crush from when we were in LA?”

When she says it like that, I realize it must seem like light-years have passed in her world since then. I nod resignedly. “Yes. Same crush. Can’t quite seem to shake it.”

“Well, maybe it’s not just a crush after all?”
Oh, Isabel of my heart.

I dry my eyes and we continue around the room. I realize the entire collection is really a symphony of beautiful women. The Picasso, the Matisse, a Modigliani nude, a Léger. I am starting to lose my breath. I ask Teresa if we can sit down again at the end of the gallery.

“Of course. Are you unwell? Shall we cut the visit short?”

“No. I’m fine. I just . . . I guess all these paintings remind me of someone, and I’m a little overwhelmed.”

Teresa smiles. “It’s a very seductive gallery, eh?”

“Yes,” I answer. Teresa takes Isabel over to a Bonnard, and I keep looking at the Modigliani. It kind of washes over me, all that love. There’s no question that the man who put this collection together adores women, or one woman in particular; it’s in every brushstroke, every dab of color.

A few minutes later, I take a deep breath. “Okay. Whew!” I laugh briefly as I stand up. “I think that bit of drama has passed.”

“Good!” Isabel says with relief. “I’m not sure how much more of that I could take.”

“Oh, cut it out.” We finish hearing about the rest of the twentieth-century modern pieces, and then Teresa and the assassin lead us up to the next floor to see the jewelry collection. There are ancient Roman and Etruscan earrings and cuffs; and then some Buccellati, Verdura, and Bulgari twentieth-century pieces; and everything in between. When we’ve finished looking, we make our way out of the final gallery and walk down the large circular staircase behind our silent escort.

At the second-floor landing, a door swings open and a woman walks out holding a pile of papers, speaking in rapid French. She nearly bumps into me but scoots around me quickly, saying “excuse me” in Italian. Then she looks up, catches my eye, and bursts out laughing. “Miki! Is it you?”

It’s Zoe Mortemart, Étienne and Jules’s cousin. I’m stunned into silence, and she reintroduces herself.

“Zoe! Zoe Mortemart? From Margot and Étienne’s wedding, remember?”

Of course I remember
! I want to yell.

“Zoe, how great to see you again,” I manage. “This is Teresa, our guide, and my goddaughter, Isabel Travkin.” Zoe turns to Teresa and Isabel and gives them a big smile.

“Nice to meet you both.” She turns back to me. “So, what are you doing here?”

“We just finished having a tour of the art collection.”

“Really? I’m surprised you would darken the door!” She’s speaking, as always, as if I have any idea what she’s talking about, as if the two of us are part of some secret society of knowing females.

“Well, Teresa was able to get us a private tour, so we—”

Zoe starts laughing again. “You mean you don’t even know whose house it is?” She wheezes between the words, she’s laughing so hard. “Priceless!” She shakes her head when she gets hold of herself. “Come with me.” She grabs my upper arm, and there’s nothing I can do but follow her back into the room she’s just emerged from. I look over my shoulder and widen my eyes at Teresa and Isabel to let them know I haven’t a clue.

After shoving me into the large room, an office of some kind, Zoe shuts the door behind me. She’s left me standing alone in the middle of a book-lined library with a large partners’ desk in the middle. I’m staring at the back of Rome’s head.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

J
esus, Zoe. Do you ever fucking knock?” he asks, without looking up from the document he’s working on. “Seriously. I’m not going to give you any more information. Just run the story about the Matisse and leave me alone already—”

He swings around to face my direction, and I try to stay standing as his expression goes from peevish to confused to adoring.

“Miki?”

“Hi.” It’s the only stupid thing I can think to say, and it sounds sort of breathless to boot.

He tosses his pen onto the desk and stands up. I’d forgotten how tall and strong he is, how he pulses in real life. I feel like I’m starting to tilt backward when he slowly approaches me, like he’s the heat of the sun or something and I should be shielding my eyes. He reaches out to touch me, and my whole body goes into some weird defensive mode. He senses it immediately and drops his outstretched hand.

“How are you?” he asks, with so much tenderness and concern. I’m still holding the used tissue in my right fist, and I feel like I’m going to start crying again. He’s so beautiful, just like the Matisse and the Modigliani, all that love and . . . and . . . something I can’t describe, but it feels sweet and peaceful. It feels like what I imagine home feels like, to people who have a home.

I miss you
, I want to whisper, to just let it come out like the tears before—to let the words and the feelings and everything just fly out of me. But what if—oh, I don’t know—what if there’s a blond woman under his desk or he just had sex with Zoe or hell knows what else? “I’m good,” I answer.

“Good,” he agrees too quickly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was nervous. But this is the world-renowned playboy billionaire; he doesn’t have nerves. Oh, but he does. I know he does. He’s looking at me and he licks his lips quickly, and I feel my heart start to pound, and not just in my chest. “Are you free . . .” His voice falters. “Are you free for a drink? Or dinner?”

I remember Isabel. “I’m here with my goddaughter . . . I should probably go.”

He strides past me to the door and pulls it wide. Zoe is standing there, grinning, with the silent guard and Teresa and Isabel behind her on the landing. “Zoe, go away,” Rome says bluntly, barely looking at her.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you, Rome!” She laughs and skips down the stairs, showing herself out.

“Vittorio.” Rome starts speaking to the guard in fluent Italian. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I hear the words
prosecco
and
antipasto,
and the next thing I know Vittorio is gone and Isabel and Teresa are standing in the library with us.

“Will you please stay for a drink and some appetizers on the roof terrace?” He directs the invitation to Isabel, and I think she’s finally met her match. He’s so effortlessly charming.

“Uh . . .” She looks to me for confirmation. I nod my agreement. “That would be awesome.” She turns back to me. “Should we call my mom? I think she finished her meetings at five.”

Teresa is staring around the room in stunned silence, trying not to gape, then remembers she’s supposedly working. “Oh, yes!” She looks at her watch. “I promised Ms. Steingarten I would have you both home by five.”

I look at my watch and see it’s already a few minutes past. “Thanks for the kind invitation, Rome, but—”

“Miki! Mom will totally understand!” Isabel widens her eyes at me as if I am the stupidest girl in the fifth grade.

Rome smiles at his new accomplice, then looks at me. “Isabel is a very wise girl. It’s best not to pass up spontaneous invitations to a Venetian rooftop at sunset.”

The way he looks at me, well, I actually sway. “Okay.” I clear my throat because I can’t seem to get that breathiness to go away. He keeps staring at me.

“So?” he asks.

“Right,” I say, snapping out of my may-I-stare-into-your-eyes-for-the-rest-of-my-life reverie. “Teresa, we’re fine to see ourselves home. Thank you so much.” I reach out and shake her hand.

“The pleasure has been mine.” Her eyes twinkle as she smiles and shakes my hand. “Please let me know if you want any more tours.” She hands me her card.

“I definitely will. Thanks again.”

Rome opens the door and leads Teresa out to the landing. Another guard is standing there, and Rome instructs him to show Teresa out
.
I imagine his Armani assassins popping up like mushrooms—anytime
one is called away, another one appears.

When he comes back into the study, the sun is slanting through the beveled windows behind me and he looks insanely gorgeous, sporting his typical casual uniform of a white oxford shirt—rolled up to reveal his strong, tan forearms—and beautifully tailored linen trousers. The easygoing cut of his clothes somehow makes him appear even more powerful. “So, Isabel, do you want to call your mother from my landline—”

“I’ve got it!” I interrupt, pulling out my cell phone and dialing Vivian.

“Where are you guys?” she asks without preamble. “I thought for sure you’d be back by now.”

“We ran into a friend . . .” I’m dreading her impending shriek and hoping it won’t be too obvious across the room.

“Really?” she asks doubtfully.

I think she already suspects.

“Yes,” I speak quickly. “Jérôme de Villiers’s art collection . . . It’s such a funny coincidence . . . The tour guide made arrangements for us to visit this anonymous collection . . . and it turns out . . .”

Vivian is laughing hysterically, just like Zoe did. Apparently, my botched love life is sidesplitting. I keep talking over her gasping fit.

“So, he’s invited Isabel and me to have a drink on his rooftop terrace . . .”

“Of course he has!” she nearly guffaws.

“So, we’ll be home in about an hour.”

She stops laughing immediately. “Absolutely not!” she cries. “What’s his address? I’m coming over.”

Isabel and Rome are laughing about something out the window, as he points across the canal.

“I’m not sure that’s—”

Rome calls over from the other side of the room, “Please tell Vivian I’d love to meet her if she’d like to join us.” Of course he says it loudly enough that Vivian can hear.

“Oh, thanks, but—” I try.

Vivian yells into my ear, “Yes!”

“She’d love to,” I answer lamely.

“Great.” Then he’s looking at me again, and it’s like Isabel and Vivian and his bazillion-dollar Venetian palazzo and the whole universe all evaporate and he’s just looking at me. “Great,” he says again, more softly.

“Okay, that’s fine,” I say to Vivian. Then I look back at Rome. “What’s the address here?”

He gives me the details and I tell Vivian, and she tells me she’ll be here in five minutes. I’m tempted to tell her not to trip on the cobblestones in her haste, but I refrain. I put the phone back in my side pocket as Rome and Isabel begin walking toward me.

“All set?” he asks.

“Yes, she says she’ll be here in a few minutes. Should we wait for her?”

“We can if you like, but one of the guards can also show her up.”

“Okay,” I answer, getting a little buzzed just standing near him.

We start to go up the stairs, Isabel and I walking in front of Rome. “So, how many guards do you have?” Isabel asks enthusiastically. I look over my shoulder and see Rome looking at me again, and I stumble on the edge of one of the stone steps. He reaches up quickly to steady me, his palm at the base of my spine, and I feel it like a brand through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He pulls his hand away once I’m steady, and I can feel the outline of where he touched me for many seconds afterward.

“There are about twenty guards, Isabel,” he continues smoothly. “But they’re not mine, really. They belong to the palazzo, because of all the artwork.”

“Cool.”

When we get to the top floor, another guard is standing by glass doors that lead out to the roof terrace. He touches a button and the doors slide open.

“Wow!” Isabel beams. “This place is seriously awesome.”

“Thanks,” Rome says, and it sounds like he really means it.

There’s already a bottle of prosecco in a silver ice bucket on the stone side table, and a platter of salamis and cheeses and small pickled vegetables for us to nibble on. Isabel walks straight to the edge of the roof, craning her neck to get a better view out over the canals.

“Be careful!” I bark.

“Seriously, Miki! You have to see this.” Isabel’s perfectly safe, with the half wall coming up above her waist.

“I’ll be there in a second,” I tell her. I’m staring at Rome while he’s looking in Isabel’s direction and opening the prosecco
. I love his hands on the neck of the bottle and how he’s twisting the large cork. My gaze travels up to his face, and he totally nails me fantasizing about his hands, having turned back at some point to focus on what he’s doing. We are looking at each other like idiots when the cork explodes from the bottle. I jump, and Rome smiles and pours two glasses for us.

He finishes making the drinks, then walks over to where I’m standing and hands me one of the flutes. He’s added a bit of fresh peach juice, and I can smell the summery, intoxicating scent as he holds it out for me to take. When I wrap my fingers around the stem, he still doesn’t release his hold, and I look up into his eyes.

“Miki, I want—”

“There you are!” Vivian cries as she explodes onto the roof deck. Rome releases the glass and takes a few steps away from me to introduce himself to Vivian and offer her a drink.

“Perfect timing,” he says with that dastardly hint of his French accent. “I haven’t taken a sip yet, so here’s a Bellini for you. I’m Rome. You must be Vivian.”

“Why, yes, I must.” She’s such an easy mark, honestly. I bet if he asked her about her husband, she would reply, “
Who?
” with complete sincerity.

I watch as she flirts with him and he spars easily. He pours another drink for himself and makes a nonalcoholic version for Isabel. The four of us sit down on the large outdoor sofas and enjoy the early evening, chatting about the film festival and some of Vivian’s more high-profile deals, all while my insides are turning into something resembling panna cotta.

Rome talks to Vivian and Isabel like they’re old friends, but even though his words are directed toward them, it’s as though his energy is somehow directed at me. He doesn’t look at me too much or do anything overly obvious, but I feel hot all over and start to get fidgety in my seat whenever he talks.

After the second round of drinks and more platters of food casually arriving, I catch Isabel yawning and know she must be feeling the jet lag. And I need to get out of here. I feel flushed and overwhelmed by the rush of all the old, unresolved emotions, and there’s nothing Rome and I can discuss in front of Isabel and Vivian, in any case.

“Getting sleepy, Isabel?” I ask.

Isabel looks like it’s the last thing she wants to admit, but she nods. “I am. A bit.”

I stand up and Isabel does, too. I want to laugh at Vivian, who looks as though she’s considering a longer visit with Rome while I take her eleven-year-old daughter back to the villa. “Vivian?”

“Oh, fine, I’m coming. But it’s just so magical here. I hate to leave.”

Rome is now standing as well. “Come over anytime. Please feel free.”

“Really? How wonderful.” Vivian may be blushing.

If we were sitting at a table with a tablecloth, I would totally kick her shin right now. “Vivian?”

“Yes?” She turns to me like she barely knows me.

“Let’s go.”

“Oh. Right.” She puts her glass on the Etruscan stone table and smiles at Rome. “Thanks again. The prosecco, the delicious food—”

“Viv,” I interrupt softly. Isabel is leaning into me, and it really is time for us to leave.

“Come this way,” Rome says, leading us back into the house as soon as he sees how exhausted Isabel is. He presses a button and opens a door to reveal a small elevator. “At your service.” He smiles at Isabel.

“Thank you,” she says with a yawn, and the four of us get into the narrow cab. As the elevator makes its smooth descent, it’s basically torture standing a few inches behind Rome. Isabel and I are at the back, and Vivian and Rome are standing right in front of us. When it mercifully comes to a stop, Rome pushes open the door to allow Vivian to exit; Isabel follows her mother into the front hall.