Perfect (7 page)

T  W  E  L  V  E

I dressed with intentional understatement, new black Chanel jacket with black and navy blue fringe, straight-legged trousers, a simple black T-shirt, sling-back pumps, several strings of pearls and plain pearl earrings. No diamonds, no sparkles at all. My entire operation to recover the queen’s stolen jewels depended on my success this evening. It was important for me to be relaxed, elegant, and low-key.

At precisely eight o’clock, there was a sharp rap on my door. A man with a serious expression, an earpiece, and an expensive suit waited. It didn’t look like he had a gun, but I imagined he did.

“Princesse,” he said. “If you’re ready I’ll escort you to Mr. and Mrs. Naxos’s residence.”

“Thank you.” I gathered up my pashmina and short black kid gloves, tucked my handbag under my arm, and followed him to the waiting elevator. I was prepared for whatever happened. I wondered where they lived—in a grand
hôtel particulier
in the eighth or a villa on the grounds of the Bois or in a restored multistory seventeenth-century town house in Place Dauphine on the Ile St. Louis with an upriver view of the entire city. Wherever it was, I knew it would be extraordinary. I wondered if there would be other guests.

He slid a plastic card into a slot, placed a key into a lock and up we went. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would live in this building. But why not? It was a lovely location—not the best, but after all, Naxos did own it. I was a little disappointed.

The elevator door opened into a small, bare, pure white chamber—almost like an air lock except there was no sealed door at the end. There was, however, an unattended airport-style security setup. It was bizarre and creepy and it did cross my mind that maybe I’d gone a little too far in my pursuit of George Naxos. Maybe he was a crazy recluse, like Howard Hughes or John Paul Getty, Sr.

I turned around and the man was gone, the elevator doors were closed, and there was no visible call button to summon it back.

One thing was certain: the only way out of here was forward.

A little shiver of excitement sped up my spine as I laid my purse and shawl on the conveyor, which started up immediately and silently, controlled by some invisible being. It was like being in a James Bond movie. I crossed through the gateway and found myself before two white front doors, one of which clicked open automatically. I retrieved my belongings and stepped into an entry hall that was unadorned with the exception of an astonishing composition of branches laden with orange blossoms in a large square vase on a glass table. The arrangement was so massive, it was as though someone had cut off the entire top of the tree and brought it inside. Behind their fresh fragrance, I discerned an almost undetectable back note of chlorine, as though there were a swimming pool nearby.

A butler greeted me, a tidy little man with lively eyes and a friendly smile.

“Welcome, Your Highness. I am Cookson. Mr. Naxos asked if I would escort you to the sitting room.” He indicated the direction down the hallway. “Please.”

“Thank you, Cookson.”

He made no allusion to the high-security welcome process, but then, what could he say? It was what it was.

The look of the place surprised me completely. For Paris, which so often basks in the opulence of its Bourbon and Napoleonic excesses, it was contemporary and uncluttered. The floors were pale, almost caramel-colored wood and the fabric-covered walls were white, with the smallest tint of sage or eucalyptus. A handrail ran along the wall beneath lighted paintings by contemporary artists. At the end of the gallery, we entered the living room, which was surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling glass walls and ran the entire width of the building. Outside was a wraparound terrace with now leafless trees in gigantic pots spaced every eight or nine feet apart. The trees were dimly lit. The view of Paris was beyond spectacular. Dame Joan Sutherland and Robert Constantin were singing
“Un dì felice,”
from
La Traviata.

Did I wish my Thomas were there to share this amazingly romantic, once-in-a-lifetime moment with a view of the most beautiful city in the world—the trees, landmarks, and boulevards ablaze with lights—accompanied by one of the most romantic duets ever written? Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a small twinge. Did I let it get in my way? Heavens, no.

“Mr. Naxos will be here shortly. What may I bring you to drink?”

“Scotch, please. On the rocks.”

“Twist?”

“Please.”

He went to a mirrored bar set into the wall. And while he fixed my cocktail I scanned the room’s reflection in the windows with my thief’s eye, as I always did, looking for ways in and ways out, hiding places, secret doors, and invisible panels—although I had virtually no intention of robbing the Naxoses. This part of the apartment was ideally protected in terms of access from outdoors. In front of each set of doors was an imperceptible pressure panel built into the floor. Tiny camera holes were positioned in each corner of the room. The huge sheets of glass were bulletproof. The terrace was three-foot squares of white marble and I assumed a number of them were pressure sensitive, as well. I was terribly impressed. Unless the system were completely disabled, there was no way for a burglar to sneak in from the outside.

And inside, any of the fabric-covered wall panels easily could have opened into another world, and probably did. The ceiling was high, maybe eighteen feet, and the furniture modern, chrome and glass, upholstered in tan leather, almost the same color as the floor. There were a few white area rugs under the seating arrangements, but the general feeling was one of sparseness. I was surprised to see a dining table at the far end of the room. The table was set for two. It seemed they weren’t expecting me to stay to dinner. Well, I would do what I could to change that.

Although I was posing as the widow of Mr. Naxos’s prep-school roommate, poor, long-dead Prince Freddy of Romania, there was no way George and Alma Naxos were going to invite me to dinner sight unseen. I needed to be vetted. Seriously vetted.

I heard sharp footsteps coming down the hall and turned to see George Naxos striding toward me. What a wonderful-looking man. Not handsome in any traditional sense, but so confident, it made no difference. Of average-to-short height, short waisted and quite, quite round, his face glowed with good health and his light brown eyes sparkled with vitality behind rimless glasses. He was impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, green-and-blue silk tie and glossy black banker’s shoes—everything clearly made to order. It was like watching a king arrive at a press conference. He had a warm smile on his face and extended his hand as he approached.

“Princesse,” he said. “George Naxos. What a wonderful treat that you’re able to join us tonight on such short notice.”

“Please, call me Margaret, Mr. Naxos—I’m a princess only by a long-ago marriage. And the treat is all mine. I’m delighted, and I must say a little surprised to meet you.”

His smile was warm. “Please call me George. The front desk keeps me informed of all our guests and since my wife doesn’t go out in public, I try to bring the world to her, on a very limited basis, of course. I’m glad you were available for a drink—I imagine you have a busy schedule. Everyone does in Paris.”

Cookson, the butler, handed me a crystal tumbler of scotch and handed Mr. Naxos the same, and then disappeared behind one of the padded panels.

“Alma will be here shortly. Would you like a tour of our paintings while we wait?”

“Between the view and the paintings, I’m not sure which to look at first.”

He smiled. “It is beautiful. We are extremely blessed.”

Blessed? Did he say “blessed”? Because of my long career at the auction house, and my brushing up against Flaminia and Bill Balfour’s powerful friends occasionally in Les Baux, I have been in close contact with any number of movie stars, industrialists, royals, dictators, and wealthy individuals. This was the first time in my life I’d ever heard a single one of them say that he was blessed, or give credit to anyone but himself for his success. I imagine I’ve become jaded, but I have little respect for people of influence or privilege who are simply spoiled and feel they not only deserve what they have but need and deserve more. These were people with the power to damage and crush with a single instruction, and many didn’t hesitate to exercise it if they didn’t get their way. To hear the richest man in the world say he was blessed amazed me.

“Oh,” he turned to the hallway. “Here she is.”

I hadn’t heard her coming but turned with him and saw Alma. She was as beautiful as I remembered. And she was in a wheelchair.

T  H  I  R  T  E  E  N

I knew my expression didn’t betray any of the bewilderment I felt, but was this something everyone on the planet knew but me? That Alma de la Vargas was in a wheelchair? No. This was tangible evidence of the far-reaching power of Naxos—if you were fortunate enough to see into his world, you knew enough to keep your mouth shut. I was sure that although various media outlets were aware of Mrs. Naxos’s condition, none would dare publicize it—they counted on his favor too much for hard news items and advertising revenue.

I stepped toward her and offered my hand. “Mrs. Naxos, what a pleasure to meet you in person. I’ve always been such an admirer.”

Her nails were dark red and her hand was snow white. As delicate and fine boned as one would expect a prima ballerina’s hand would be. Except it was tight with arthritis and fragile and soft as a bird. I took it very gently and looked into her eyes. Large, dark blue eyes that had flashed from the greatest stages in the world, electrifying sold-out audiences with the pathos of Juliet, the innocence of Aurora, and the terrifying anger of a wronged, brokenhearted swan. They were clear, unforthcoming, and assessing. Even from her physically vulnerable position, she was still Alma de la Vargas, the epitome of grace and elegance, commander of center stage. She was magnificent.

“Thank you. I’m glad you could join us on such short notice.” Her voice was deep and modulated. Her accent British.

The butler handed her a flute of Champagne and then took up his place behind her chair, ready to follow directions.

“Just at the sofas, please, Cookson.” She had on a fitted navy taffeta jacket with a portrait collar and a single string of perfect, very rare, slate gray eighteen-millimeter pearls. They gleamed like blue steel. Her earrings were matching pearls encircled by diamonds that sparkled with the fire-like energy that comes only from perfect stones. Her black hair was pulled straight back into a chignon topped by a flat velvet bow and her strong-boned face was nicely toned up for a woman her age, firm but not tightly pulled. When she turned her head to talk to the butler I saw the iconic profile that had made her one of the ballet world’s most powerful, recognizable images. It was undiminished by time or illness. She had the profile of Queen Nefertiti.

A smooth navy cotton blanket covered her legs and feet.

The room’s sparseness now made sense. Wherever there was a seating arrangement, there was room for a wheelchair to become a natural part of the setting without any fussing or rearranging. Cookson placed her at the end of a coffee table, where a normal chair would normally be. She put down her Champagne and opened a silver cigarette box. Cookson held the lighter.

George sat to her left in a low-backed armchair and I sat to her right on the sofa.

“Are you in Paris for long?” Alma asked. She had a way of speaking and a demeanor that wasn’t rude or cold or unfriendly, but distant, wary and weighing, possibly even sedated. I had the feeling that those eyes were looking right into the innermost part of my soul, but I couldn’t tell if they liked what they saw.

“I’m not sure.” I took a salmon canapé from a white-uniformed maid who had materialized from behind another of the panels with a tray of hors d’oeuvre. “I’m . . . between things at the moment.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Ah.” She nodded and waved off the toast points and took a puff of her cigarette. “Between what sorts of things?”

I was gauging Alma as closely as she was me. Her husband had done everything in his power, short of ceasing all communication with the outside world, to protect them from schemers and users, kidnappers and extortionists. They were large targets, and she wasn’t going to let an unknown princess, a minor royal, even if there was a long-ago, completely uncultivated—and as yet unacknowledged—connection of our husbands, breeze through their door and rip them off. She intended to put me through my paces and I had to deliver. I required acceptance by both Mr. and Mrs. Naxos, not just one or the other.

There would be no funny business with Alma de la Vargas, no inane social chatter. No name dropping.

I returned her look and smiled. “Now, Alma. Don’t you think we should at least hold hands and kiss before we tell each other all our secrets?”

She laughed, caught off guard by my candor. “You’re right. Forgive me.” She ground out her cigarette and removed another from the silver box. “I find other people’s problems so much more interesting than my own.”

“Don’t we all? Actually, I’m on my way to a spa in Switzerland, but need to be in Paris for a few days. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about your hotel, and I was delighted when there was room.”

“This is your first visit to Trois?”

I nodded. “I usually stay with friends but they’re out of town and redecorating, so I decided this was the perfect opportunity to see what everyone’s been talking about.”

Alma’s laugh was breathy and smooth and, unfortunately, followed by a painful bout of coughing. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Are you ready, madam?” The butler asked.

“Not quite, Cookson. Margaret, are you by any chance free for dinner? We’d love to have you join us.”

I’d passed the first test—I didn’t have two heads.

“That would be splendid.”

“Cookson, I think we’ll have another drink.” She turned to me. “My mother used to call the cocktail hour ‘the hour of charm.’ ”

“How delightful,” I said. Charm might as well be my middle name.