I knew about this, of course.
Brigitte, seeing that Scarlett was lonely in a foreign country, had invited her to explore the French countryside with her and her brother, but when Scarlett arrived at the appointed spot, it was only the ballerina’s brother. Or better known asthis fucking guy. He asked her out again, of course he fucking did, but she had canceled after I’d sent her roses.
My usual.
The eleventh of every month, crimson roses were delivered to her apartment. A simple reminder. I had every intention of coming for mine.
“Ah!” He smiled. “You did not forget me!”
She smiled but didn’t respond to the comment. “How did you find me?”
“Brigitte. She asked around for me. Ah, what is her name?” He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Cerise. She told Brigitte where I could find you. My friend—” he pointed to another woman in the crowd, speaking to someone else “—she is a journalist. I could not get close enough to you, otherwise.”
“I see,” she said.
“Your purpose here,” I said.
He patted his suit, unable to remove his eyes from Scarlett’s face until he had to. He dug in his front pocket, pulling out a picture. He handed it to her.
It was a photograph of her.
She had on a strapless white dress, one of the straps lowered to the elbow, but it wasn’t the strap that attracted my attention. It was the focus point. Her breasts. The dress seemed to scoop, embracing her body, making for one hell of a sensual picture.
The lowered strap added another level to it.
Her head was cut off, only part of her leg visible. The tint to the photograph made it almost seem blurry, out of focus, all but the focus the photographer wanted the eye to see.
Rainer tapped the picture. “I took your advice. I quit the family business and pursued my dreams. This picture started it all for me. It has been in an art gallery for years. It has traveled all over the world. The girl in the picture is unknown. This is what gives it a mystical feel.”
“When did you take this?” she whispered. Her eyes were glued to the picture.
“That night. I had to. I was moved…You were—” He looked at me and stopped this moving speech in its tracks. “As you can see.”
“I’ll have the money for the picture wired to you,” I said. “The one in the gallery and any copies you have. You’ll send them to our place in Tuscany. My man will take care of the details.”
Donato would take care of it for me, using any means if he put up a fight.
Scarlett looked up at me, her mouth open. I didn’t need to look at her to know. I could feel her eyes on me, judging my reaction, feeling me out. She was scared for him.
“The picture is not for sale,” Rainer said. “It is my art.”
“It’s my art. You’ll be fairly compensated.”
If he were a smart man, he would take my meaning clear enough. It wasn’t the words but the tone. I wouldn’t make him another offer—then I’d just take. Just like I took the picture from her hand, stuffing it in my coat pocket.
He stared at the spot, clearly wondering if it was worth it to try and take it back.
Another look at my face and he shook his head.
“It was—good seeing you again, Scarlett,” he said. “I will be sure to tell Dr. Winter how wonderful you look.” He glanced at me, fire in his ice blue eyes. “Now.”
Without another word, he turned and headed into the crowd of dancers, in search of his journalist friend.
Scarlett went to turn around, to huff at me, but too slow, I was one step ahead. Keeping my hand on the small of her back, I navigated her through the crowd, through the palazzo, opening doors to find an empty room.
Finally, I found one, and made her go inside. It was doused in red— red wallpaper, red loungers, red bedspread, with crystal touches breaking up the monotony. The candlelight seemed to pick up on the blood hue and spread it.
“I had no idea he took the picture,” she said, the dress balled in her clutched fists.
