Rhapsody (7 page)

She didn't know, but she wanted to get this
shoot over with. Pronto. Get out of here and get back to the
hotel.

And that, she knew, was the key to the larger
part of the problem. Me, she thought. Her usual patience had
deserted her today. She was not trying her hardest, not giving it
her usual best shot. The reason for this she knew unequivocally:
she was nervous, and had been ever since yesterday, after running
into him. Misha Levin.

Before she had spoken to him last evening,
she'd promised herself that she would set certain ground rules over
the telephone. That she would tell him yes, that she would like to
see him, but that they must meet on "neutral" ground—neither's
hotel room—and that under no circumstances should he expect
anything more than a friendly chat, a catching up with each
other.

The sound of his voice had changed all that.
A total meltdown of defenses, she thought. That's what it was. The
deep, resonant baritone, with the merest hint of an accent, had
immediately weakened her resolve, made any rules or restrictions
seem unimportant—silly even— in the light of the possibilities that
were held within its promising timbre.

Misha had been as excited as she by their
encounter, of that she was certain. And it was most definitely not
the excitement of two old friends running into each other. No. It
was much more than that. It was as if two electrically charged
elements had crossed paths, creating a heretofore unknown form of
power and magic, that in its potency was an all-consuming force of
such depth and dimension that it could not be denied. Their
encounter had been one of two former lovers meeting.

Serena shook her head, as if to clear it of
these obsessive thoughts. I've got to get busy, she thought. Forget
this shit. She turned her attention back to die task at hand.

"Bennett," she said, "move that umbrella on
the right about a foot toward me."

"You got it." He jumped up to do as she'd
asked.

Serena watched him, then nodded when the
reflector was repositioned exactly like she wanted. Then she turned
to the men before her. "Just a couple more shots, gentlemen," she
said, smiling. "Then I'll let you go."

Thirty minutes later, she had thanked her
subjects profusely and was busy helping Jason and Bennett pack up.
There was a lot of equipment, but Serena didn't mind helping out.
She hated traveling with an entourage of assistants, so she'd
trained Jason and Bennett to do nearly everything. What the three
of them couldn't do together, or was simply too time-consuming, she
usually hired local freelancers for. Like the hair stylists and
makeup artists she'd used today.

They had left now, and she and "the boys," as
everyone referred to them, were just about ready to start taking
equipment down to the rented van outside, when the staccato click
of Coral's Manolo Blahnik heels on the marble announced her
arrival. "How did it go?" she asked.

"It was not a picnic," Serena said simply,
turning to look at Coral. She looks like a modern-day empress,
Serena thought. Dressed to guide paying tourists through her throne
room.

"What happened?" Coral asked, a look of alarm
on her magnolia white face.

"Nothing, Coral. Nothing important, anyway,"
Serena replied. "It's just that they acted like a bunch of guys
that just found out what they've got in their pants, if you know
what I mean."

Coral's right eyebrow lifted in an arch, and
she nodded. "I see," she said. "But you got all the shots you
needed?"

Serena shot her agent a scornful look. "Of
course I got what I needed, Coral," she said. "I always get what I
need."

Coral flinched. "I was just asking, Serena,"
she said defensively. She brushed at imaginary lint on the sleeve
of her black wool, sable-trimmed coat, an Yves Saint Laurent. "I
see that you're a little testy. Shall we go back to the hotel so
you can change? Then go to lunch?"

"I'm taking Jason and Bennett to lunch,"
Serena said, winking at the two of them. "But you're welcome to
join us, Coral." She hadn't planned on this, but decided it would
be just the diversion she needed to take her mind off Misha Levin.
She pulled off her baseball cap and eyeglasses and loosened her
long, black hair, shaking it out.

The boys shot each other amused glances,
knowing that Serena was deliberately baiting Coral.

"Why, yes," Coral said, surprising them all.
"I would like that very much, I think." She turned to Jason and
Bennett. "It's time we talked, boys," she said. "I've looked at
some of your proofs, and I think that you have great promise as
photographers in your own right."

Jason and Bennett exchanged glances again,
more a mixture of surprise and awe than amusement this time.

This news—and it was fantastic for them—came
from straight out of the blue.

"That'd be great, Coral," Jason said.

"Yeah," Bennett seconded.

"Good," Coral said, her brows knitted as her
eyes ran up and down the two of them, scrutinizing them closely. My
God! she thought. She had a feeling that they might as well forget
a restaurant with any stars to its name. For that matter, was there
any restaurant in Vienna that would even admit them? "I hope you
have some clothes at the hotel," she said, smiling sweetly.
"Something a little more ...suitable, perhaps?"

Jason shrugged, and Bennett just stared at
her. They were both dressed as always, as if headed for an East
Village club. Jason, his nearly waist-length dark brown hair with
bold, blond skunk stripes, wore shiny black PVC pants with logger
boots and an artfully slashed, asymmetrical Helmut Lang T-shirt,
which exposed his numerous tattoos. Black leather pants with
futuristic sneakers and a leopard print shirt adorned Bennett's
skinny frame. His wildly chopped—that was the only word to describe
it, Coral thought—hair was dyed platinum and had black roots, an
effect he worked hard to achieve.

"Their clothes aren't a problem," Serena
piped up, ruffling Bennett's hair with her fingers. "In fact, I'm
not going to bother to change. We're going to a really hip bar I
heard about." She threw her agent a lofty glance. "
You're
the one who'd better change, Coral," she said. "Unless you want to
chance getting that sable spray-painted."

As they stepped into the sunlit courtyard,
Vera's head was still aswirl with the glories of the Schatzkammer,
the Hofburg's Imperial Treasury. "It's like going to a really
fabulous art exhibition," Vera said, turning to Misha. "My mind
will be flashing a kaleidoscope of colors for days. All those
beautiful things." She sighed somewhat wistfully. "And to think
that the Hapsburgs took nearly all the imperial jewels with them
into exile."

"What was your favorite?" Misha asked her,
putting an arm around her waist. "Oh, wait. I think I can
guess."

Vera laughed. "You know me too well, Misha,"
she said.

"Emeralds and rubies and sapphires and
diamonds," Manny sang. "These are a few of my favorite things." He
turned to Vera and grinned. "Am I right?"

"You know me almost as well," Vera said.

"If I were a betting man," Misha said, "I
would guess that your very favorite objet was perhaps green? As in
emerald?"

"Certainly not the 1,680-carat Colombian
Emerald," Manny joked.

"I don't think I've ever seen a precious
stone that big," Vera said. "And the old imperial crown! It's
enormous, with all those diamonds and rubies and sapphires!"

"Hitler liked it so much he took it to
Nurnberg in '38," Manny said.

"All the gold and precious stones were
dazzling," Vera said seriously, "but you know what?"

"What?" Misha asked, looking at her.

"My very favorite things," Vera said
thoughtfully, "were actually the christening robes that Maria
Theresa embroidered for her grandchildren."

"They were magnificent," Misha said.

"Yes," Vera nodded, "but they were also
sweet. I mean, the work that went into them, the thought. It's not
something that an empress has to do for the grand …

Vera suddenly slowed her pace and peered off
to her left.

Wasn't that.. . ?

She was certain that she recognized the tall,
thin raven-haired beauty loaded down with photographic equipment
who was striding across the In der Burg courtyard, two wildly
clothed young men alongside her, and …

My God! It has to be!
she thought.

...Coral Randolph, jet black helmet of hair
and white-white face, in a sable-trimmed coat, leading the way.

Unmistakably
. Unmistakably Coral,
therefore almost certainly ...

Vera quickly resumed her pace.

...
Serena Gibbons
.

"What is it, darling?" Misha asked. "You look
as if you've seen a ghost."

"Nothing," Vera said lightly. "Nothing at
all. I thought I had something in my shoe for a minute, but I
don't." She smiled up at him, searching for any indication that he
had seen what she had. If he had seen her, she thought, I would be
able to tell it from his face. But apparently he hadn't, for she
saw nothing in his expression or manner that was a tip-off.

"You two still game for the crypt?" Manny
said quickly. Oh, God! he thought. I've got to get them out of
here. And fast! He couldn't believe what he'd just seen, but knew
his eyes hadn't fooled him—especially considering Misha's peculiar
behavior since lunch yesterday.

Serena Gibbons. She explained everything.

Serena eyed herself critically in the
bathroom mirror, then made hollows of her cheeks by sucking them
in. She picked up her sable-tipped makeup brush, dipped it in the
tinted powder, and whisked another touch of Mata Hari blusher onto
her cheekbones. She looked again. "Purrr-fect," she told her
reflection. Then on second thought, she puckered her Cabaret-coated
lips just so. "No more," she decided. "Enough's enough." She bent
over double and began brushing her hair furiously, from the base of
her neck over her head, back to front, back to front, then stood
back up, swung her head from side to side, shaking her hair, and
gave it a few strokes from under the ears down. "There," she said.
"All done."

With that, she twirled out of the bathroom
and into the suite's bedroom, where she quickly slipped on a black
wool boat-neck sweater and quilted black leather micro-miniskirt.
Both by Iceberg, but anything but cold. She eyed herself in the
bedroom mirror for a moment, then heaved a sigh. "Shit!" she said.
She turned and slumped down onto the bed, arms on her knees, chin
in her hands.

Another promise broken, she thought. And to
the most important person around: me.

She sighed again, then got up and poured
herself a glass of mineral water and brought it over to the bed.
She put the glass on the nightstand and spread out. She'd promised
herself that she wouldn't make any special efforts for her meeting
with Misha today, that she would take their seeing each other in
stride. She would not let nervousness and excitement rule the
day.

Famous last words.

During lunch with Coral and the boys, she had
been anything but helpful in the discussion of the boys' careers.
She simply couldn't concentrate and had gotten increasingly
anxious, finally becoming so overwrought that she'd jumped up from
the table, told them she didn't feel well, and deserted them there
in the restaurant. Same reason, of course. She'd fallen prey to her
thoughts of Misha.

She took a sip of the mineral water and sat
up in bed. I'd better finish getting ready myself, she thought.
Now, what have I forgotten? I know I've forgotten something, but
what? Then it dawned on her: perfume. She jumped to her feet and
dashed into the bathroom, where she'd left a bottle of exotic scent
that had been specially concocted for her in Paris. She dabbed the
stopper on her neck, behind her ears, between her breasts, at her
wrists, and reaching up under her skirt, she swiped drops down her
thighs.

At that moment she heard a knock at the
door.

Shit! she thought. Countdown's over! It's
ground zero!

She dashed back to the bedroom but didn't see
her shoes. Screw it! She forced herself to stand still for a
minute, taking deep breaths of air. Then, forcing herself to take
slow, measured steps, she padded on bare feet through the sitting
room to the door. When she reached it, she squared her shoulders
and took another deep breath, then opened it wide.

Misha stood in the hallway, his hands crossed
in front of him, a shopping bag dangling from them. He stood there
a moment, mute, his dark, liquid eyes feasting on her.

His lips spread into a disarming smile.
"Hello," he said simply. Ah, the beauty of her! he thought. The
long raven hair. The perfect skin on those exquisite features. The
hint of ample breasts that he knew were concealed beneath the
sweater. The endlessly long, slender legs beneath the minuscule
leather skirt.

Serena returned his smile. "Come in, Misha,"
she said in her smoky contralto. Oh, my God, she thought. She'd
already forgotten how handsome he was, how he exuded a kind of
power. How his very presence was so commanding.

He stepped into the suite, and Serena closed
the door and followed him in. "Here," she said, "let me take your
coat."

He set his shopping bag down and shrugged out
of his long cashmere overcoat. When she started to take it from
him, he said: "I can hang it up, Serena." He smiled. "As I
remember, you weren't all that keen on hanging up clothes."

"You would remember that," Serena said with
laughter in her voice. "Let me have it anyway." She took the coat
from him and hung it in a closet. "I've gotten a wee bit better
about housekeeping," she said, turning to him. "Not much"—she held
her thumb and forefinger up—"but a little better anyway."