The Wind Dancer (50 page)

Lorenzo gazed at the statue and a curious smile touched his lips. "Yes, Your Majesty, I
believe that France is now exactly the right place for the Wind Dancer."

An errant beam of sunlight streaming through the long windows surrounded the Wind
Dancer in an aura of radiance, kindling the emerald eyes to brilliant life and striking the
parted lips of the Pegasus at an angle.

And, for the briefest instant, the Wind Dancer seemed to smile.

FROM THE AUTHOR

I have interwoven fiction and fact so closely in
The Wind Dancer
that I believe
clarification may be in order.

The historical customs, costumes, and political events of the day are as accurate as my
research could make them.

Actually the black death devastated Europe's population during the fourteenth century,
but there were still isolated outbreaks of plague during the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries.

As for the Borgias, the brilliance, greed, brutality, and ruthlessness of rope Alexander
and his son, Cesare, are well documented. Although there is no record of their
sanctioning such an atrocity as occurred at Mandara, it's certainly not beyond the realm
of possibility they would have done so. Both father and son did fall ill on that fateful day
in August, and it was indeed assumed they had been poisoned. Many historians still cling
stubbornly to the theory of attempted assassination, while others believe the Borgias
succumbed to malaria after being bitten by mosquitoes while dining al fresco with
Cardinal Adriano Corneto at his vineyards. Medical knowledge and records were so
scanty at the time that neither claim can be substantiated.

Cesare Borgia's bravo, Michelotto Corella, did raid the treasury on the night of the pope's
death. Alexander's apartments in the Torre Borgia were ransacked by his valets, and his
body lay unattended all through the night. It's entirely possible that someone could have
infiltrated the Vatican during that chaotic period.

The oleander is as deadly as I've indicated, and it did grow in Italy during the period of
the Renaissance. Though, as Lorenzo says, the poisoners of the day were principally
bunglers and lacking in skill, a master assassin such as Lorenzo Vasaro might well have
discovered and used the plant to his advantage.

So much for fact.

Could the fictional portions of
The Wind Dancer
really have happened?

The Renaissance was an age of velvet and armor, of abject poverty and untold wealth, of
plague and assassination, of saints and sinners, of Michelangelo and Machiavelli. It was a
time when the world was being reborn and boldly shaped to fit the needs of the men and
women strong enough to conquer and hold it.

Of course this story could have happened.

IRIS JOHANSEN, who has more than twenty-seven million copies of her books in print,
has won many awards for her achievements in writing. The bestselling author of
Firestorm, Fatal Tide, No One to Trust, Body of Lies, The Search, Final Target, The
Killing Game, The Face of Deception, And Then You Die, and The Ugly Duckling lives
near Atlanta, Georgia, where she is currently at work on a new novel.

Dear Reader,

If you've only read any of my recent suspense novels, you'd probably be surprised to
learn that I actually began my career writing historical romances. About ten years ago I
began thinking of writing a book centered on a magnificent ancient statue with mystical
powers called the Wind Dancer. But the more I thought about the book, the more
complex the concept grew, and I realized it could not be contained in one book. It was
soon clear this was to be a trilogy--the story of a family whose fate was intertwined with
the Wind Dancer through the centuries--and although they were love stories, they were
also filled with suspense and adventure. Each book stands alone, but the Wind Dancer is
central to the thread of suspense that runs through each of them.

You've just read the first book in the Wind Dancer series, The Wind Dancer.

The second book, entitled Storm Winds, takes place during the turbulence of the French
Revolution and concerns the role played by the Wind Dancer in the rescue of a member
of the royal family. It's also a love story and follows the lifelong friendship between two
women.

Reap the Wind, the third and final novel in the trilogy, is a contemporary suspense. It's a
thriller on a global scale, and moves from the streets of Paris to the White House.

The characters came alive for me and the enthusiasm for writing these books became
obsession. I've always believed that some books are written with the mind and others
with the heart. The Wind Dancer books involved both my mind and my heart, and the
characters and mystique stayed with me long after I finished writing the trilogy.

Even though a decade has passed since I finished the Wind Dancer books, I couldn't
resist bringing the statue back to ignite the swirl of violence and intrigue in one of my
most recent thrillers,
Final Target
. After
Final Target
came out, I found myself
inundated with mail from my readers asking about the history of the Wind Dancer, so I
was delighted to be given this opportunity to explain the link to my earlier titles.

As you might have already noticed, the books in the Wind Dancer trilogy are a little
different from my more recent thrillers, because they're a bit more sensual. But if you
want to find out more about the Wind Dancer, there's no better place to go. You can read
more about the Wind Dancer's history in
Storm Winds
and Reap the Wind. I think you'll
like them. I'm very proud of these books. You can read an extract from each of
them--just turn the page.

I guess it's obvious that I'm one of the lucky people who truly love their work. I'd like to
thank you for reading my stories and making that work possible. I'll try never to
disappoint you.

Iris Johansen

Ile du Lion, France

June 10, 1787

Jean Marc Andreas strode around the pedestal, studying the statue from every angle. The
jewel-encrusted Pegasus was superb.

From its flying mane to the exquisite detail of the gold filigree clouds on which the horse
danced, it was a masterful piece of work.

"You've done well, Desedero," Andreas said. "It's perfect."

The sculptor whom some called a mere goldsmith shook his head. "You're wrong,
Monsieur. I've failed."

"Nonsense. This copy is identical to the Wind Dancer, is it not?"

"It is as close a copy as could be made, even to the peculiar cut of the facets of the
jewels," Desedero said. "I had to journey to India to locate emeralds large and perfect
enough to use as the eyes of the Wind Dancer and spent over a year crafting the body of
the statue."

"And the inscription engraved on the base?"

Desedero shrugged. "I reproduced the markings with great precision, but since the script
is indecipherable that is a minor point, I believe."

"Nothing is minor. My father knows the Wind Dancer in its every detail," Andreas said
dryly. "I paid you four million livres to duplicate the Wind Dancer--and I always get my
money's worth."

Desedero knew those words to be true. Jean Marc Andreas was a young man, no more
than twenty and five, but he had established himself as a formidable force in the world of
finance since taking over the reins of the Andreas shipping and banking empire three
years before from his ailing father. He was reputed to be both brilliant and ruthless.
Desedero had found him exceptionally demanding, yet he did not resent Andreas.
Perhaps it was because the young man's commission challenged the artist in him.
Certainly Andreas's desperation to please his father was touching. Desedero had loved his
own father very much and understood such deep and profound affection. He was much
impressed by Jean Marc Andreas's wholehearted zeal for replicating the Wind Dancer to
please his ill and aging father.

"I regret to say I do not believe you have gotten your money's worth this time, Monsieur
Andreas."

"Don't say such a thing, sir." A muscle jerked in Andreas's jaw. "You have succeeded.
We've
succeeded. My father will never know the difference between this Wind Dancer
and the one at Versailles."

Desedero shook his head. "Tell me, have you ever seen the real Wind Dancer?"

"No, I've never visited Versailles."

Desedero's gaze returned to the statue on the pedestal. "I remember vividly the first time I
saw it some forty-two years ago. I was only a lad of ten and my father took me to
Versailles to see the treasures that were dazzling the world. I saw the Hall of Mirrors."
He paused. "And I saw the Wind Dancer. What an experience. When you walked into my
studio some year and a half ago with your offer of a commission to create a copy of the
Wind Dancer, I could not pass it by. To replicate the Wind Dancer would have been
sublime."

"And you've done it."

"You don't understand. Had you ever seen the original, you would know the difference
instantly. The Wind Dancer has... " He searched for a word. "Presence. One cannot look
away from it. It captures, it holds"--he smiled crookedly--"as it's held me for these
forty-two years."

"And my father," Andreas whispered. "He saw it once as a young man and has wanted it
ever since." He turned away. "And by God, he'll have it. She took everything from
him--but he
shall
have the Wind Dancer."

Desedero discreetly ignored the last remark, though he was well aware of the lady to
whom Andreas referred. Charlotte, Denis Andreas's wife, Jean Marc's stepmother, had
been dead over five years. Still the stories of her greed and treachery were much passed
about.

Sighing, Desedero shook his head. "You have only a
copy
of the Wind Dancer to give to
your father."

"There's no difference." A hint of desperation colored Andreas's voice. "My father will
never see the two statues side by side. He'll think he has the Wind Dancer until the day
he--" He broke off, his lips suddenly pinched.

"Your father is worse?" Desedero asked gently.

"Yes, the physicians think he has no more than six months to live. He's begun to cough
blood." He tried to smile. "So it's fortunate you have finished the statue and could bring it
now to the Ile du Lion. Yes?"

Desedero had an impulse to reach out and touch him in comfort, but he knew Andreas
was not a man who could accept such a gesture, so he merely said, "Very fortunate."

"Sit down." Andreas picked up the statue and started toward the door of the salon. "I'll
take this to my father in his study. That's where he keeps all the things he treasures most.
Then I'll return and tell you how wrong you were about your work."

"I hope I'm wrong," Desedero said with a shrug. "Perhaps only the eye of an artist can
perceive the difference." He sat down in the straight chair his patron had indicated and
stretched out his short legs. "Don't hurry, Monsieur. You have many beautiful objects
here for me to study. Is that a Botticelli on the far wall?"

"Yes. My father purchased it several years ago. He much admires the Italian masters."
Andreas moved toward the door, carefully cradling the statue in his arms. "I'll send a
servant with wine, Signor Desedero."

The door closed behind him and Desedero leaned back in his chair, gazing blindly at the
Botticelli. Perhaps the old man was too ill to detect the fraud being thrust upon him.
Whole and well, he would have seen it instantly, Desedero realized, because everything
in this house revealed Denis Andreas's exquisite sensitivity and love of beauty. Such a
man would have been as helplessly entranced with the Wind Dancer as Desedero always
had been. Sometimes his own memories of his first visit to Versailles were bathed in mist
from which only the Wind Dancer emerged clearly.

He hoped for Jean Marc Andreas's sake that his father's memories had dimmed along
with his sight.

Jean Marc opened the door of the library, and beauty and serenity flowed over him. This
room was both haven and treasure house for his father. A fine Savonnerie carpet in
delicate shades of rose, ivory, and beige stretched across the highly polished parquet
floor, and a Gobelin tapestry depicting the four seasons covered one wall. Splendid
furniture crafted by Jacobs and Boulard was placed for beauty--and comfort--in the
room. A fragile crystal swan rested on a cupboard of rosewood and Chinese lacquer
marquetry. The desk, wrought in mahogany, ebony, and gilded bronze with mother-of-pearl inserts, might have been the focal point of the room if it had not been for the
portrait of Charlotte Andreas. It was dramatically framed and placed over a fireplace
whose mantel of Pyrenees marble drew the eye.

Denis Andreas always complained of the cold these days and, although it was the end of
June, a fire burned in the hearth. He sat in a huge crimson brocade-cushioned armchair,
reading before the fire, his slippered feet resting on a matching footstool.

Jean Marc braced himself, then stepped into the room and closed the door. "I've brought
you a gift."

His father looked up with a smile that froze on his lips as he looked at the statue in Jean
Marc's arms. "I see you have."

Jean Marc strode over to the table beside his father's chair and set the statue carefully on
the malachite surface. He could feel tension coiling painfully in his every muscle as his
father gazed at the Pegasus. He forced a smile. "Well, do say something, sir. Aren't you
pleased with me? It was far from easy to persuade King Louis to part with the statue.
Bardot has virtually lived at court this past year waiting for the opportunity to pounce."

"You must have paid a good deal for it." Denis Andreas reached out and touched a
filigree wing with a gentle finger.

His father's hands had always been delicate-looking, the hands of an artist, Jean Marc
thought. But now they were nearly transparent, the protruding veins poignantly
emphasizing their frailty. He quickly looked from those scrawny hands to his father's
face. His face was also thin, the cheeks hollowed, but his eyes still held the gentleness
and wonder they always had.