The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [83]
“And if she refuses?” Genie had asked.
“Then we shall pursue our claim in the international courts.”
“You won’t … I mean, the ‘Lady’ is not in any danger?”
He had laughed. “The revolution was a long time ago. We are not savages. We are civilized men and women, just like you. We do not even want the money from the sale of the jewels. All we want is for her to return to Russia what is rightfully hers.”
Genie had breathed a sigh of relief as he had gone on to tell her what he wanted her to do. Then she had sat back on the soft striped sofa in the Hotel Beau Rivage, thinking.
Valentin had watched her silently, taking in her smooth oval face, the broad brow, her troubled blue eyes, and the soft mouth whose sweetness belied the professional hardness she assumed, like a cloak, to disguise her vulnerability. She was wearing a simple black dress and her blond hair shone under the lamplight, and he thought she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen.
She had caught the message in his eyes and known what it meant. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll do it, Valentin.” And then it was back to business again as they had made arrangements to meet in Paris tonight.
He switched back the curtains and stared into the courtyard, automatically checking the windows opposite. All the shades were closed and a thin layer of snow covered the small, leafless trees. He was pretty sure he had lost the KGB men, but they were smart and you never knew. He thought of his father in Moscow. A worried man.
He had gone over his father’s story a thousand times in his mind, and of course there was no doubt it was true. But try as he might, he could not think of himself as Prince Misha Ivanoff’s grandson. His grandfather was the peasant, Grigori Solovsky, a man who had loved him and whom he had loved as only true flesh and blood can. It seemed unfair that the past should return to haunt his father. After all, he was just a helpless little boy when it happened. His only crime was to be the son of a rich, aristocratic man.
“I cannot let my father suffer for this,” Valentin told himself again. “I cannot let him be exposed. Not because of myself, but for Grigori’s sake too. Our whole family would be discredited. Why doesn’t Boris see that?” The trouble was, he didn’t know Boris’s true game. Did he really mean to go through with his scheme against his father? Or was he simply intent on covering himself in glory by recovering the Ivanoff treasure for Russia and ensuring his place in the Wall of Honor in Red Square? But he knew Boris was an unpredictable man and a cruel one, and his father had said he would stop at nothing.
“Nor,” Valentin vowed grimly to himself, “will I.”
It was eleven o’clock when his phone finally rang. Genie’s voice sounded shaky. She was downstairs in the lobby, and he told her quickly to come up.
He knew at once something was wrong. Her face was drained of color; her pupils were dilated, making her eyes dark. He put his arms protectively around her.
“What is it, malenkaya?” he asked.
She was shaking so much at first she couldn’t speak; then all the pent-up fear and emotion she had kept under control on the journey suddenly cracked and she began to cry.
Valentin took off her coat and sat her down on the bed. He pulled off her smart brown cowboy boots and rubbed her frozen feet briskly. Then he went to the minibar and poured her a shot of brandy, standing over her while she sipped it.
She looked up at him, her eyes still brimming with tears. “It’s Markheim,” she whispered, “he … he’s dead. Shot … murdered….”
He sat on the bed next to her. “Where? Where did you find him, Genie?”
“In his