“Michael is in Zurich on business,” she said, and couldn’t stop herself from adding, “He’s away on business a lot.”
“That’s a shame,” Randall said. “You must miss him.”
Katrina bit her lip and took another sip to keep herself from blurting out more truth. She put down her glass and gave him a small smile. “And how about you? Is there a Mrs. Miller?”
Randall shook his head. “Nope. Never found the right one. It’s just possible that my standards are too high,” he said ruefully. “Like with art? I just can’t be satisfied with 99 percent of the crap they pass off as art nowadays.”
“I know just what you mean!” Katrina said, relieved to be past the awkward stuff. She told him of a show last month—in a reputable SoHo gallery, too!—that had been an appalling waste of time and space. He responded with som
ething similar he’d seen in London, and they relaxed into a safe zone, just two art lovers enjoying a drink, and each other’s company.
Afterward, Katrina couldn’t remember much about what they’d said, just that it was light, inconsequential, amusing stuff. On top of being truly knowledgeable, he had a way of making you like him, trust him, a quality that was a combination of charm and believability. And Randall was very funny, in a dry kind of way Katrina thought he might have picked up in England. He made her laugh, which was something she hadn’t been doing a lot of—certainly her husband seldom even brought a smile to her face nowadays.
When dinner was announced, Randall took her to the head table and thanked her for a lovely evening. His seat was far away in the back of the room, and she watched him go with real regret. And later on, when the interminable damn dinner and endless speeches were finally over, she looked for him as she left the ballroom. But of course, he’d been seated in the back—the “cheap seats,” as he’d called them. So he must have left much more quickly than Katrina could manage since she also had to stop and say a few words to all the important people she met on her way out. There was certainly no reason why he would wait for her, a married woman. They’d had a pleasant half hour of talk, and that was the end of it. Katrina went home, to her massive modern palace, and went to bed alone.
But she could not get Randall Miller out of her mind.
CHAPTER
10
The two paintings were easy, just as Monique had known they would be. The Rauschenberg was a simple matter of matching the images and the colors of the paint-over. The Jasper Johns was a simpler design, since he didn’t usually deal with images as complex as Rauschenberg, and it went much quicker. She was finished with both paintings in only two weeks, which gave her a little free time. She thought about taking a quick trip to the Islands, maybe Antigua, or working on something of her own, or even just hanging around her apartment, watching TV and eating too much.
Nothing really appealed to her. Leisure was not something she appreciated; Monique hated having nothing meaningful to do, no task she could focus on. It made her restless, cranky, even a little mean.
For two days she fretted, paced, ran meaningless errands around the city, and let the self-loathing of not working build up until she felt like screaming and kicking small animals.
And thinking about Riley and the mysterious job he had for her just made it worse. And of course the ridiculous things he said about the size of the score, which made her even madder. Ten figures? TEN?! For the love of God, was he serious? And that was just her cut? It was flat-out impossible. Where would that much money come from? And how could he hope to get his hands on it? And what on earth would she do with that much money anyway?
Early on in working with Riley, she had discovered they had something important in common: Neither of them was truly driven by money. Oh, it was lovely stuff, and wonderful to have too much of it, and neither one of them was an ascetic of any kind. But it was not what motivated either one of them. For both of them, it was the challenge, the feeling of stepping all the way out there on the thinnest branch of the tree and plucking the ripest apple, the one nobody else could get.
So Monique knew that with a payoff this big, the risk had to be equally big. Whatever Riley had in mind, it would be dangerous, impossible, ridiculous, something no one else would even consider conceivable. That went for her part in it, too. Not that she would be risking her life, probably. But certainly there would be a large element of risk. Which was just fine with her. And after all, there was the money . . .
But for the love of God, what would she do with that much cash? And then she thought, with an uncharacteristic giggle, she didn’t have a thing to wear while spending it! It was such an absurd thought—but she enjoyed it. And she realized it had helped her decide what to do with a few free days and just before she went completely off her rocker, too. Why not? she thought. I deserve something wonderful.
Before she could even figure out what she had meant by that, or what justified it, Monique had booked a suite at the Mandarin Oriental spa for two full days. She checked in with little more than a bathrobe and slippers and spent an hour looking through the menu of services offered by the spa. And then she made appointments for every single one. She spent the two days running through everything the spa offered: Oriental Essence massage, Calm Mind Retreat, Thai Yoga massage. Then onto Clearing Factor, aromatherapy, and Restorative Detox Wrap. She went to bed after the first day feeling as if her body was made of overcooked spaghetti.
The second day she dove into the beauty treatments: Áyurvedic Facial, HydraFacial, and all the more traditional options. She left the next morning feeling like a completely different person—and half convinced she looked like one, too. And she dove directly into part two of her program. She went on a tour of Manhattan’s high-end boutiques, indulging in an absolute orgy of shopping and spending some rather large chunks of what she still secretly thought of as her Ill-Gotten Gains. She bought an entirely new wardrobe and took it back to her studio, where she laid it out, sorted it, and gloated over it. Some of it she would probably never wear—but she could, she told herself, and that was what mattered.
She was still admiring her new glove leather boots when the door’s buzzer sounded. Frowning, puzzled at who might be calling on her now, she looked through the peephole. Although she had never seen that particular face before, she had seen several others wearing the same jacket. And she knew the owner of that jacket changed his appearance the way other people change shirts. It was Riley Wolfe.
She rolled her eyes and opened the door.
* * *
—
Ithought I might surprise Monique—either because of the way I looked or because I was using the door this time instead of the window. No such luck.
The door swung open, and Monique stood there with the same half-pissed-off expression she always wore. I liked to think she put it on so I wouldn’t know she liked me.
“You’re three days early,” she said, tapping her right foot.
I just looked at her for a few seconds, and I had to smile. “You knew it was me,” I said. “Even though I used the door.”
Monique snorted. “Don’t get too excited. It’s that stupid jacket,” she said. She had to say my Yankees jacket was stupid. She was a Pittsburgh Pirates fan, of course. She stepped to one side. “Come on in.”
“I knew you wouldn’t need three whole weeks for those two paintings,” I said as she closed the door behind me. “I bet you finished two days ago and you’re bored out of your skull.”