“There’s something dark and unsettling about it. At the same time, it’s bright with celebration,” Bellasar said. “A study in contrasts. The paradox of beauty.”
“That was the idea,” Malone said.
“Then I understand it.” Bellasar was pleased. “You see, whatever your opinion of me, I do have an appreciation of art. There was a moment, I confess, when your attitude made me wonder if I’d chosen the right artist.”
Potter nodded, his spectacled eyes fixed not on the portrait but on Malone.
“What do you think, my dear?” Bellasar turned toward where Sienna stood uncomfortably in the background. “How does it feel to have your beauty immortalized? The glory of beauty – the sadness that it doesn’t last. But here in this painting, it’s preserved forever.” Bellasar looked at Malone for reassurance. “You did say the materials were chosen to last an unusually long time.”
“Oil on canvas tends to crack after several hundred years,” Malone said. “But tempera on wood… with six layers of foundation beneath the paint and the glaze I put over it…”
“Yes?” Bellasar’s eyes were intense.
“I don’t see why, in a thousand years, it’ll look any different.”
“A thousand years. Imagine.” Bellasar was spellbound. “Impermanent beauty made permanent. Dante’s Beatrice.”
Although Malone understood the reference, Bellasar felt the need to explain. “When Dante was nine, he saw a girl a few months younger than himself. Her beauty so struck him that he worshiped her from afar until her death sixteen years later. Her name was Beatrice, and she so inspired Dante to meditate about ideal beauty that the Divine Comedy was the consequence. Sienna’s beauty inspired you in a similar way. And of course the inspiration will become greater as you work on the second portrait.”
“Second portrait?” Sienna sounded puzzled. “But this one turned out so well, why would you want -”
“Because the second will emphasize your body as much as this does your face.”
“My body?”
“Nude.”
“Nude?” Sienna turned toward Malone. “Did you know about this?”
Reluctantly, awkwardly, he said, “Yes.”
She spun toward Bellasar. “I won’t have anything to do with this.”
“Of course you will. We’ll talk about it upstairs.” Bellasar gripped her arm, the force of his hand whitening her dark skin as he led her across the library. At the door, he glanced back at Malone. “If you’re curious about Dante and Beatrice, Rossetti translated Dante’s autobiography.” He gestured proprietarially toward the far wall. “You’ll find an 1861 edition of Dante and His Circle over there, although naturally, my own preference is to read the original Italian.”
Then Bellasar and Sienna were gone, leaving Malone with Potter and the servant who had poured the champagne.
Potter stopped scowling at Malone and addressed his attention to the portrait. His slight nod might have been in approval, but the sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. “A career-defining work. It’s too bad no outsider will ever see it.” He gestured to the servant, who set down the Dom Pérignon and draped a dust cloth over the portrait.
“Coming?” Potter asked Malone. “You’ll want to get ready for dinner.”
“I think I’ll stay here a moment and find that book.”
With a gaze that made clear nothing Malone did would ever be good enough, Potter left the room.
Malone turned toward the bookshelves, making a pretense of searching for the book. Behind him, he heard the servant lift the portrait off the easel and take it from the library.
Malone waited ten seconds, then followed. He reached the vestibule in time to see the servant carrying the portrait up the curving staircase. Keeping a careful distance, Malone started up as the servant passed the next level and proceeded toward the top.
A carpet on the stairs muffled Malone’s footsteps. The servant couldn’t hear him climb higher. Peering beyond the final steps, Malone watched the servant carry the portrait to a door halfway along the middle corridor.
As the servant knocked on the door, Malone eased back down the stairs.
FOUR
1
A chopper took off and roared away, its blades glinting in the morning sunlight, but as far as Malone could tell, the man he had seen arrive the first day wasn’t aboard. Finishing his calisthenics by the pool, scanning the estate, he couldn’t think of a way to get Sienna out. As soon as he finished the portraits and left – if he was allowed to leave – he was supposed to tell Jeb how to rescue her. But now that he had studied the compound’s defenses, it was obvious that even the best extraction team would have trouble.
To add to his apprehension, this was the first morning he hadn’t seen her ride from the stable. It was so important a part of her routine that he could imagine only the worst reasons for her to have abandoned it. Had Bellasar decided that one portrait of her was enough and it was finally time to rid himself of an unwanted spouse?
Making his way to his room to shower and dress, he tried to convince himself that there might be an innocent reason for Sienna to have failed to go out for her ride. She might not be feeling well, for example, in which case she would send word via a servant while he was having breakfast. But all the while he sat alone on the terrace, no messenger arrived.
“I wonder,” he asked the servant who brought his coffee, “if you know why madame isn’t joining me this morning? Have you heard if she’s ill?”
“No, monsieur, I haven’t heard anything.”
A half hour later, Sienna still hadn’t arrived, and Malone was forced to admit she wasn’t coming. His stomach uneasy, he decided that his only option was to ask a servant to knock on her door and try to find out what had happened. He felt his pulse speed with the premonition that she was in trouble, perhaps unconscious from a drug Bellasar had given her. On edge, he rose to tell a servant to check on her – and froze with relief when Sienna stepped onto the terrace.
2
She wore dusty boots, faded jeans, and a denim work shirt, as if she had dressed to go riding but had been detained. Her long hair was tied back in a pony-tail, emphasizing the classic contour of her chin and jaw. But her pulled-back hair also emphasized a severity in her eyes that Malone hadn’t seen before. An anger. Something had happened. Whatever vulnerability hid behind her beauty was definitely not in evidence this morning.
“I’m glad to see you,” Malone said. “When you didn’t show up for breakfast, I got worried.”
Without a word, Sienna walked resolutely toward him, her boots and jeans emphasizing her long legs and tightly belted waist.
“What’s wrong?” Malone asked. “You look as if -”
“I’m late.” Her words were clipped. “We’re wasting time.”
“Wasting time? What are you talking about?”
“Let’s get to work.”
“But what’s the matter? Tell me what -”
Sienna pivoted and crossed the terrace, marching toward the sunroom.
Malone followed, mystified, noting her resolute stride and rigid posture. Although the sunroom was bright, it was less so than outdoors, and his eyes needed a moment to adjust to the difference.
He was twice as mystified and suddenly alarmed as she angrily unbuttoned her shirt and threw it onto the floor.
“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “Why are -”
She jerked off her bra and hurled it past the shirt.
“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” Malone said. “I don’t -”
“I’m getting ready for work!” She yanked off her boots and socks.
“For God sake, stop! What’s happened? Tell me why you’re -”