Chapter Seventeen #2
“Interesting. Very interesting,” Anastasia mused after Raisa had made her final pitch — er, goodbyes — and departed at the end of her thirty-minute time slot.
Marius silently covered the painting for maximum dramatic effect on the next candidate. Gordon’s idea, no doubt.
“What do you think?” Anastasia asked me.
I thought Raisa’s “museum” was more of a private club — if she ever actually launched it. Until then, whatever paintings she managed to secure with her investors’ money would be at her disposal.
Aloud, I was more tactful. “An interesting business model, but perhaps overly ambitious.”
Marius smirked. You got that right.
Fifteen minutes later, Roux ushered in the next candidate.
“Mr. Bogdan Karachanov,” he announced, then retreated.
I steeled myself, because this was the arms dealer.
Surprisingly, though, Bogdan turned out to be a bit of a charmer and not at all what I’d been expecting. Well, apart from the Eastern European accent and sturdy, bear shifter build.
“Madame. My pleasure.” He bowed deeply to kiss Anastasia’s knuckles.
At least, I figured that’s what he said, because he said it in Russian.
Her eyes danced, and she motioned him to take a seat much more warmly than she’d invited Raisa.
“Anastasia Nikolaevna,” she insisted, using the patronymic common to both their cultures.
His nostrils flared, and from under his thick, bushy eyebrows, his eyes darted to Marius.
Clearly, his bear side had caught the scent of dragon.
Then again, as an associate of Gordon’s, he wouldn’t question the presence of another shifter at a deal like this, especially if that shifter was a closemouthed dragon assigned to security.
Bogdan and Anastasia quickly switched to English, thank goodness, except for side remarks Bogdan threw in from time to time in Russian to keep Anastasia’s happy vibes going.
He did the same in English, tossing in little colloquialisms to show what a nice, down-to-earth arms dealer he was.
He didn’t get them right all the time, but hey — bonus points for effort in what had to be his second and third languages.
You hit the nail on the hammer, was one such comment, and A blessing in the skies another. The effect was unexpectedly endearing.
He and Anastasia hit it off instantly, as only a couple of aging Marxists who missed the good old days could. Bogdan’s old-world manners rivaled Henrik’s, which Anastasia clearly appreciated. The man could even quote Pushkin, to her delight.
“Better the illusions that exalt us than ten thousand truths,” he commented in a quote I remembered my father citing.
Clearly, Bogdan was a man of the world and a bit of a silver fox — er, silver bear? — with a head of thick hair and shoulders big enough to set off his slight paunch. All in all, a man I could see laughing and sipping brandy with my godfather.
And that was exactly what made me keep my guard up.
For years, Gordon had hidden his dark side from me.
He was still hiding it — and worse, he didn’t shy away from using me for his own purposes.
Like now, when he’d set me up to lower the average age in the room and contribute occasional observations about art that gave all this a cultured, legitimate air.
I felt sicker and sicker with every passing moment.
Anastasia played with her pearls, chuckled, and blushed like a schoolgirl. She even pulled a miniature album out of her purse to show Bogdan a picture of herself at age six.
“That’s me, presenting Nikita Khrushchev with a bouquet of flowers…” she narrated.
Bogdan oohed, aahed, and reminisced about happy days in Komsomol youth camps.
She had a picture of that, too, and of her father in his Red Army uniform. Even I leaned in for a peek at that one.
“Oh yes. Very handsome,” I murmured, indulging her.
Marius stared off into the distance in a master class in feigning disinterest.
I smiled faintly, thinking of how he’d done the same in his first days at the chateau, when he, Bene, Roux, and Henrik had just moved in. But that mask had cracked, and I’d caught glimpses of the real him — and his interest in me.
My body warmed. We were a true love story.
Then I frowned, because even true love needed honesty and open lines of communication.
He must have read my mind, because his eyes caught mine and swore, I’m working on it.
I gulped, sympathizing for once. Our circumstances didn’t exactly allow for openness and honesty. Not as long as we were submerged in Gordon’s world of intrigue and shady business deals. But the moment we were free…
I flashed him a smile, but only a quick one, because again…those pesky circumstances.
Meanwhile, Bogdan continued charming Anastasia.
He danced around his line of work, calling himself “an investor in post-Soviet surplus industries.” (Gordon’s file called it retrofitting Cold War weapons for modern mercenary use in developing countries, a business that had earned Bogdan billions.) He styled himself as a budding philanthropist rather than someone trying to sanitize his public image, and he was humble about his art knowledge, patiently allowing Anastasia to lecture him on that subject.
I looked at my watch, wondering if they would ever get to the painting. So far, this was more of a first date than an art deal.
“Well, I won’t brush around the bush any longer,” Bogdan chuckled in another of his mixed-up idioms. “May I see your painting?”
Anastasia gave Marius the go-ahead to unveil it, which he did in his usual straightforward manner. Anastasia, I guessed, would have preferred a little more flourish.
“Magnificent,” Bogdan immediately proclaimed.
Anastasia looked at it like a proud parent at a high school graduation, and it occurred to me that she probably loved that painting more than she’d ever loved a person. That sad thought went right to my heart, where it resonated in warning.
Anastasia waxed on poetically about all the details of the painting, and Bogdan listened attentively, interrupting only to butter her up.
“My goodness, you do know your art. I can only hope to sound as cultured one day,” he joked.
Which, I suspected, was his goal — to earn (or buy) a place in high-class society.
If Roux hadn’t popped his head in to point out the time, who knew how long Anastasia and Bogdan might have kept up their flirting. She even stood to see him out the door, and afterward, she gripped his business card like a winning lottery ticket.
“A very appealing candidate, don’t you think?” she murmured, stepping to the window to wave goodbye when he appeared in the street below.
I answered carefully. “I think his values align with yours.”
Anastasia smiled coyly. “Yes, they do. They certainly do.”
Marius’s lips twitched.
Even Roux’s knock on the door didn’t break her dreamy reverie.
“Your last appointment is here, ma’am,” he called softly.
She frowned, and I did too. “What appointment?”
“Mr. Jensen.” Roux admitted a tall, thin man, then disappeared back into the hallway.
I caught a glimpse of a svelte young woman holding a tablet. The tech billionaire’s personal assistant?
“Nils ?ren Jensen,” the man corrected, folding his arms and staring at the painting.
Marius looked at me, then at the drop cloth, but it was too late for that now.
“Who?” Anastasia crooned, clearly displeased.
“Nils ?ren Jensen,” he repeated, icy blue eyes still fixed on the painting.
He was in his early forties, I estimated, with thinning, unkempt hair and very pale skin. Clearly, he didn’t get out much. According to Roux’s files, the guy had a brain the size of London but, yeesh. Zero social skills.
Anastasia frowned at me, and I flipped through my clipboard of notes. “Um, Mr. Jensen isn’t on my schedule.”
He didn’t seem to hear or care, creating a truly awkward moment. One I felt compelled to smooth over, though it wasn’t of my making.
“I believe Mr. Jensen works in software,” I said, stepping to the door.
He nodded absently. “Neuro-mapping software, but I’m moving into neuroaesthetic optimization.”
Neuro-what? I wondered.
“Well, he’s not on the schedule,” Anastasia declared.
I opened the door, confronting Roux, who didn’t even have the grace to look apologetic.
“Gordon added him to the schedule,” he said curtly. “He believes Madame Petrova will find it worthwhile to hear out Mr. Jensen.”
Anastasia crossed her arms and glared.
“I don’t like him,” she announced as if Jensen weren’t even there.
He moved to consider the painting from a new angle, unperturbed. Either he hadn’t heard, or he was accustomed to inciting that kind of reaction. People skills were definitely not part of his portfolio — a very hefty portfolio, if I remembered correctly.
Anastasia huffed. “I said—”
“Eighty-six million,” Jensen cut in.
Anastasia looked stunned, then offended. “Are you suggesting money is all I’m after, young man?”
“I’m suggesting a price. Everything else is irrelevant,” he said in one of those enviably unaccented Scandinavian “accents.”
I shivered. What a scary world he lived in. Doubly scary, because Roux’s brief had noted that Jensen’s billions afforded him insider access to politicians and other influential figures.
“Eighty-six million dollars in an offshore account that no one has to know about,” Jensen went on.
We all stared.
“Not even that woman suing you for her share of your late husband’s estate,” Jensen added, pointing his laser gaze at Anastasia. “His illegitimate daughter, correct?”
My jaw dropped. This was straight out of Oprah.
Anastasia stiffened. “His daughter from before our marriage.”
Jensen shrugged. “Neither she nor anyone else needs to know about the painting or our transaction.”
I stared. Was that a threat?
Every potential buyer had signed a nondisclosure agreement, but I had the feeling Jensen was accustomed to finding ways around such things.
If there really was an illegitimate daughter suing for part of the Petrov estate, and if she discovered that it included a painting as valuable as The Tower of Blue Horses… Well, not optimal for Anastasia.
Her eyes blazed as she came to the same conclusion.
“Do you know anything about art?” she huffed. “Do you care?”
The man had the air of someone who would sell out his own mother, so no. I really doubted it.
He shrugged. “It’s my aim to democratize high art. We’re developing methods that can map every feature of a masterpiece in ways never before attempted.”
“You want to digitize the painting?” Anastasia sniffed. “Well, I think you should be digitized.”
This really had the makings of an Oprah moment. I could see it now: Anastasia slipping off one of her heels and brandishing it like a weapon while Jenson grabbed a chair to defend himself.
A good thing Jensen was so calm and detached, even robotic. Otherwise, they might have gone at each other.
He gazed at her wordlessly, thought a little, then upped the ante. “Eighty-seven million.”
Anastasia looked scandalized…but also tempted.
Jensen glanced at the painting, then headed to the door with a casual, “Your people have my contact details.”
Actually, I didn’t, but I bet Gordon did.
“Let me know once you’ve reached your decision,” he said, striding toward the elevator.
Roux stared at him, then at us with a What the hell just happened? expression.
I felt the same way.
“The nerve.” Anastasia grabbed for her teacup and stirred violently. The motion grew slower and more thoughtful over the next few seconds, though, and she murmured without looking at me. “How much did he say?”
I swallowed hard. “Eighty-seven. Million.”
Well below the market price for a painting of this caliber, but this wasn’t exactly an open market.
Anastasia gazed down at the street, watching him leave, while stirring and mumbling to herself in Russian.
I couldn’t be sure what she said, but I was willing to bet it was Eighty-seven million…