The Silver Fox and the Red-Hot Dove

DEBORAH SMITH

 

T. S. Audubon loved to make an entrance. He might laugh privately at his vanity, but he enjoyed the drama of his life. Richmond’s magnificent old Parklane Hotel was the perfect backdrop for his unique looks, and as he crossed the lobby he knew that more eyes were on him than on its Victorian opulence. In his own way he was just as much a monument to Southern aristocracy as the hotel, and to the ladies who watched him even more awe-inspiring.

The scent of roses halted him beside a Gothic table bearing a gilded vase. A hint of the gracefulness in the movement of his long, indelicate-looking fingers, he snapped a small white rosebud from the arrangement. If he curved his fingers around a violin, they made impressive music. If he curved them around a stock portfolio, they made millions. When they stroked the trigger of a gun, they made respectful enemies. When they stroked a woman’s desires, they made exquisite friends.

He tucked the rosebud into the lapel of his black tux, liking the white-on-black elegance. The white rose was the perfect accessory for his thick mane of white hair. “Good evening,” he told a matronly hotel employee who had combined staring at him and walking with unfortunate results. He appreciated
women who bumped into ugly rococo sofas on his behalf. “I hope you’re not hurt.”

“Mr. Audubon! It’s so nice to see you again! Oh, no. I’m not hurt, Mr. Audubon. I’m sorry, sir. I’m so clumsy. So—”

“Please, relax. It’s all right.”

She twisted her hands, apparently anxious to get away from him. “The rosebud looks wonderful with your hair.”

“Why, thank you. Premature gray will always be good for something, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t mean to insult you. Please, forgive me.”

“I’m not insulted, I assure—”

“Oh. I’m sorry. So dense. Excuse me, sir. I have to run.” Her head down, she hobbled away before he could say anything else.

Audubon’s long legs took him across the lobby with an effortless speed and balance learned from years of meditative T’ai Chi and cutthroat amateur basketball. He grimaced, dismayed and distracted as he climbed the steep, central staircase. Inspiring admiration in a woman was one thing; inspiring her fearful respect was another. His grandfather had sold this hotel thirty years before, and Audubon expected to be treated as an ordinary visitor. But when seven generations of ancestors had been greedy and manipulative, when the family name was mentioned in the state’s history nearly as often as Washington, Jefferson, and Lee—but with not nearly as much praise—and when a man’s father was remembered as the man who destroyed the state’s most beautiful tidewater marsh to build a fish-processing factory, people nominated you to the filthy rich Hall of Fame, with an emphasis on the filthy.

His mood subdued by the matronly employee’s reaction, Audubon reminded himself that he was here to indulge a hobby and have a good time.

A glittering maze of people was pressing slowly through stately double doors propped open at the end of the upstairs foyer. The smell of expensive
colognes and perfumes was as familiar as the scent of old money. Audubon stood back from the crowd, scanning it for familiar faces and nodding to people he recognized. Those who nodded back immediately provoked whispers from onlookers.

He knew that the gossips believed that the Audubons’ only heir was adding to the family fortune by immoral, illegal means. He had lived with rumors of that kind for twenty years. And so it would always be, he assumed, because his unique work demanded secrecy.

Pulling a special invitation from an inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket, he moved through the crowd and presented it to a three-piece-suit type—undoubtedly FBI—stationed at the door to keep out any international riffraff. After all, Dr. Gregori Kriloff was Russia’s leading researcher in paranormal science and one of the top five experts on the subject in the world.

“T. S. Audubon,” the agent said with a slow whistle of awe under his breath. “Aren’t you—”

“Just here to meet the doctor.” It was not a place to talk business.

“Audubon!” A hostess from the staff of the university’s administration embraced him with the enthusiasm that he, as a five-million-dollar donor, deserved. “I’ll introduce you to Dr. Kriloff personally! We’re about to form a receiving line, but I’m certainly not going to make
you
stand in line. Are you going to attend his lecture tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

The woman guided him through the packed ballroom past a long table groaning with the weight of platters of delicacies. White-coated waiters hurried about with trays of glasses full of champagne, while bartenders poured liberally from bottles of vodka. Spring flowers exploded in massive arrangements set in tall urns around the room, and under a crystal chandelier a small orchestra played chamber music. Audubon searched his memory. Rachmaninoff.
Appropriately Russian—solemn, grand, filled with dark eroticism.

While his guide chattered about Russian tea, Audubon set his gaze along the line of her intended path, searching for Dr. Kriloff. The cluster of three-piece suiters with tiny lapel pins bearing the Russian flag was as subtle as the FBI man at the door.