Precious Gifts (8 page)

He gave her his suite number, which was on the sixth floor, two floors above hers, and she put on another cotton dress and went upstairs. Petrovich was waiting for her when she got off the elevator, and he led her into a spectacular suite, with an enormous wrap-around terrace with a view of all of Rome. It was the presidential suite. A doctor was waiting for her in the living room, and there was a beautiful woman lying on the couch. Petrovich spoke to her in Russian, and with a glance at Véronique and the doctor, the girl disappeared into the bedroom without a word. She looked very young, and had been wearing shorts and a halter top and had the body of a goddess.

Véronique felt slightly overwhelmed, as Petrovich told her to sit down, and the doctor examined her hands and knees. She had noticed that there was dirt from the road in both. And her host was obviously someone who was used to telling people what to do. He treated her like a child as she sat there, just as he had the girl he sent to the next room. And the doctor looked in awe of him, too, while Petrovich explained what had happened. The doctor asked her then if she had hit her head, or been unconscious, and she said she hadn't. She had fallen on her hands and knees when she was thrown, or pushed, or whatever had occurred, which she still didn't understand. Something or someone behind her had pushed her out of the way with superhuman force. Either a person or her destiny.

The doctor cleaned her wounds with disinfectant and confirmed that she didn't need stitches. The cuts were superficial and not deep, and most of the bleeding was from scrapes. He said there were no broken bones.

The tall Russian looked relieved. “I almost killed her,” he confessed unhappily to the doctor, who smiled at them both. He could see that they were both badly shaken by the experience, but he assured them she'd recover quickly and no serious damage had been done.

“Fortunately, you didn't,” he said cheerfully. “She will be fine.” And by then Véronique was feeling better and smiled at them both. She was mortified by all the fuss that had been made. The doctor asked for her name then, so he could write it down for his report. She told him, and the Russian looked at her and said his name was Nikolai Petrovich, and she realized instantly who he was. He was one of the most powerful men in Russia, a multibillionaire who kept yachts all over the world, had homes in Paris and London, and was known for his vast collection of fast cars and beautiful girls. She had inadvertently picked a very important man to run her down. And the doctor left discreetly as Nikolai opened a bottle of champagne, poured a glass, and handed it to her.

“Drink, you will feel better. I am very sorry I hurt you,” he said, as he poured a glass for himself.

“I'm very sorry I didn't move,” she said again, as he indicated the terrace and opened the door, and she followed him out, still holding the glass of champagne. And as soon as she was outside, she was in awe of the breathtaking view. It had to be the best view in the city. You could see everything. They walked around, then sat down on two deck chairs, and she finally started to relax after a sip of champagne.

“I always stay here, for the view,” he said, looking out at the city again, and then he turned to gaze at her. “You have beautiful eyes,” he commented, “like sapphires.” He was clearly a man of expensive tastes, but there was something rough about him. He was simple and direct to the point of being blunt. “Where do you live?”

“Most of the time in New York, and sometimes in Paris.”

“You're here alone?” She nodded, and he seemed surprised. “You're not married?” He had looked for a ring, and her hands were bare.

“Neither am I,” he said matter-of-factly. She had assumed he wasn't, judging by the girl she'd seen on the couch when she walked into the suite. She hadn't reappeared. “I'm divorced,” he said almost proudly, as though it were a status symbol of some kind. “My ex-wife hates me,” he announced out of the blue, and the way he said it made her laugh. “I was a very bad husband.” He smiled at her then. Paul had been, too, but she didn't say it.

“My ex-husband just died. I've been upset about it, which is why I was probably distracted when I was crossing the street. We were good friends.”

“You must be a good woman to be friends with your ex-husband,” Petrovich said, looking at her intently.

“We'd been divorced for a long time.” She didn't know why, but they were exchanging all the details of their lives, as though they mattered, but maybe nearly dying under the wheels of his car had created an instant bond between them. He seemed to want to know everything about her.

“Do you have children?” She looked young to him, and he guessed her for younger than she was.

“I have three daughters. Two are in New York, one is in L.A.”

“You shouldn't travel alone,” he scolded her. “It's too dangerous for a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. She didn't say that she had no choice. And she didn't feel beautiful, she felt disheveled, her hands and knees were hurting more than they had at first, and the disinfectant had burned. She could still feel it, although the champagne had calmed her nerves.

“I have four daughters,” he volunteered. “I always wanted to have a son.” She nodded and thought wistfully about Bertie, who had been such a disappointment, despite the love she'd lavished on him.

“Girls always love their fathers,” she said gently, as he smiled and admitted that that was true.

“Do you like boats?” he asked her, and she nodded. “You must come to dinner on one of my boats. Do you go to the South of France?”

“I'll be there in a few weeks with my daughters. Sometime in August.”

“You must all come to dinner.” He laughed then and looked more relaxed. The incident had frightened him, too. “We will celebrate that I didn't kill you.”

“I think someone pushed me out of the way,” Véronique said pensively, thinking about it again.

“It wasn't your destiny to die,” he said solemnly. “Now you must enjoy your life more than before, because you are alive.” He struggled with the words. His English was fluent but far from perfect, but she understood what he was saying. “Every day is a gift.” She hadn't thought of it that way, but he was right. She felt as though she'd just been given a second chance at life. If something hadn't moved her out of the way, her children could have been burying her, too. It was a sobering thought. They both sat for a long moment, admiring the view. It was peaceful under the Roman sky at dusk. He walked to the railing then, and she joined him as they looked down at the spot where he had almost run her over. The traffic looked insane from there, and the fountain more beautiful than ever.

“I made three wishes today,” she said wistfully, thinking of the three coins she had thrown in.

“Then they will come true,” he said, smiling at her. “Wishes are magic. You're a good person—that's why you were saved today.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” she said with a cautious smile, beginning to feel the effect of the champagne. He had filled her glass again. “I think I was just lucky.”

“We get the luck we deserve,” he said, sounding profound, as he set down his glass and looked at her. “Will you have dinner with me?” She was startled by the invitation and wondered what had happened to the girl in the bedroom. He didn't seem concerned.

“I'm not in any state to go out,” she said, indicating the wrinkled dress she had pulled out of her suitcase in haste to see the doctor, and her battered knees and hands.

“We can have dinner here. The food is very good,” he said simply. In spite of the fancy car and obviously expensive trappings of his life, he was without artifice, and he liked talking to her. He never met women like her, and spent all his time with young girls who were there for the money. Véronique was from a different world. He handed her the room service menu then and ordered for her.

They sat chatting on the roof, about Rome, and art. They talked about Venice, and the painting Paul had left her. Their dinner arrived half an hour later with three waiters to serve it. She had ordered truffle pasta and lobster salad at his insistence, and he had ordered caviar as their first course. It was a sumptuous meal, and the sommelier had chosen an excellent wine to go with it, a Chassagne-Montrachet.

By the end of dinner, Véronique was relaxed, had had a wonderful time talking to him, and felt a little tipsy. Not drunk, but pleasantly relaxed and giddy. It had turned into a most unusual day, she had almost been killed on the streets of Rome, and now she was having dinner on the most extraordinary terrace in the world, with one of the most powerful men on the planet. She couldn't even imagine explaining it to her daughters. And she knew that what he had said was true. She had to seize life with both hands and enjoy every moment. He looked as though he did, with his yachts and planes and houses, exotic cars, and racy women. And he was clearly having a good time with her.

After the waiters left and took the tray away, Véronique thanked him for dinner and said she thought she should go to bed. It had been an exciting day, and he had told her he was leaving early in the morning on his plane to go to London—he had business there.

He walked her back to her suite and handed her his business card. All his numbers were on it, and he had asked for hers before they left his suite. He promised to call her, and reminded her of his dinner invitation in the South of France.

“And be careful crossing the street!” he admonished her, looking fatherly for an instant, and she smiled.

“I had a lovely time tonight, Nikolai. Thank you, and I'm sorry I was so much trouble.” She still felt guilty for her part in their near disaster. He had more than made it up to her for what had happened. He had been kind and attentive and generous with his time, and the meal. It had been entirely unexpected, and she appreciated it.

“You're a very troublesome woman”—he wagged a finger at her—“and a dangerous one with those big blue eyes.” No one had ever called her dangerous before, and it startled her. Their lives had almost been changed irreparably that day, and they were both grateful that nothing terrible had happened. In fact, it had turned into a perfect evening, and she knew she had made a new friend. “We will see each other again, in the South of France, or before. You'll hear from me,” he promised, and then gave her a warm hug after she opened her door. He was a big bear of a man. “Take care of yourself, Véronique,” he said, and then strode back to the elevator with a smile as she waved and closed the door. She felt as though she had been living someone else's life for the past several hours. She didn't know whose, but definitely not hers. She got a text message from him, telling her to sleep well and have sweet dreams. She was already half asleep when she read it and followed his advice. And by then, he was in the arms of the girl who had been waiting in his bedroom for hours, and she knew better than to complain. And he had had a delightful evening with Véronique.

N
ikolai had already checked out of the hotel when Véronique woke up the next day. And she groaned when she saw herself in the mirror. Her knees looked like hamburger, and there were bruises up and down her legs. Her hands still hurt, and she had a hangover from the champagne.

“You are a mess,” she said to her reflection, and then got into the bathtub, to soak her bruises and relax. She felt better by the time she dressed and smiled when she thought of the remarkable evening she'd had on the terrace of the presidential suite. Nikolai was an extraordinary man, and she wondered if she'd ever hear from him again. It seemed unlikely, but it would be fun to introduce him to her daughters if he actually did show up in the South of France. They would be astounded that she'd met him, and she was still surprised herself. He wasn't the sort of person she normally ran into in her quiet life, and on the surface they had nothing in common, but he had been interesting to talk to, and he was wise about life. He was a person who obviously lived each day to the fullest, and had advised her to do the same. It had amounted to nothing more than a mild flirtation, but there was no denying he was a very intriguing and attractive man. She couldn't imagine becoming romantically involved with him, they were too different, and given his reputation, she was much too old, but he would be fun to know, and she hoped she'd hear from him again.

She was in good spirits when she checked out of the hotel. The concierge had rented a car for her, and she drove to Venice on her own. She could have flown, but she preferred to drive and enjoy the Tuscan scenery along the way. She left at noon and arrived in Venice in the late afternoon. The trip had been easy, mostly on highways, as she circled Florence and Bologna on the way. The Hotel Cipriani, where she had a reservation, had a boat waiting for her at the parking stand where she returned her rental car, and they took her to the hotel, where she was given a suite with a view of the lagoon. It was a beautiful warm night, and after she unpacked, she had one of the hotel's boats take her to the Piazza San Marco so she could walk around. She couldn't wait to explore Venice again. It had been years since she'd been there.

The city was even more beautiful than she remembered, with the enormous church, the Doge's Palace, and outdoor cafés where people were eating and drinking wine. There were tourists everywhere, but she didn't mind. She felt safe and at ease as she walked around for two hours, bought a gelato from a street vendor, looked at the cathedral all lit up at night, and watched people getting into gondolas to glide under the Bridge of Sighs. She thought it was the most romantic city in the world. It brought back memories of her honeymoon with Paul, and she tried not to think about it. As Nikolai had said the night before, the past was gone, and it was time to look ahead to the future and enjoy today. It was good advice. And she was pleasantly tired when she got into the boat to return to her hotel. She looked at the lights of Venice as she crossed the lagoon to the Cipriani.

She stood on her small balcony when she got back to her room, remembering the incredible view of Rome she'd seen the night before. She thought of Nikolai, her dinner with him, and their near disaster, and then she went to bed. She got a text from him just before she fell asleep, and she smiled when she saw it. He said he hoped she was feeling better and was no longer suffering the ill effects of the day before. She responded immediately, thanked him again for dinner, and assured him that she was fine and was thoroughly enjoying Venice, and hoped to see him again.

She woke up early the next morning, had breakfast on her balcony, and got dropped off at Piazza San Marco again, and this time she intended to explore the town in depth. There were narrow serpentine alleyways, and every time she thought she was lost, she would find herself in a familiar place again. Streets seemed to double back and intersect, and little by little she began to find her way. She walked into small beautiful churches, and admired the intricate marble designs and the exquisite frescoes in every church and made new discoveries everywhere she went. The art was so breathtaking that it was exciting just being there. After several hours of walking, she sat down on a bench in a small square and looked around. She had no idea where she was, but it didn't matter, because she knew she'd find her way back to Piazza San Marco, and every inch of Venice was beautiful to look at.

She had been sitting there for a few minutes, when a man sat down next to her. She didn't know why, but he seemed vaguely familiar, and he had a camera hanging from a strap on his shoulder. She had the feeling that she'd seen him somewhere, but she couldn't place his face. She saw that he glanced at her, too, and he winced when he saw her battered knees in her short pink dress. Her knees were much better than they'd been the day before and didn't hurt as much, and they hadn't slowed her down. She knew they still appeared terrible, but they were healing. She looked as though she'd been dragged behind a horse on her knees, and he winced again when he saw her hands.

“That must have been a nasty fall,” he said sympathetically with a noticeably British accent. He knew she spoke English from the guidebook she had next to her on the bench. She had been trying to figure out where she was, and couldn't. She smiled at him. He had a young face, salt-and-pepper gray hair, and serious dark brown eyes.

“I had a close encounter with a car in Rome,” she explained easily. “It's not as bad as it looks.” He didn't seem convinced. The bruises on her legs had turned purple by then. She'd clearly been in the wars, but she didn't seem upset about it. She was too fascinated by her surroundings to think about her scrapes and bruises.

“At least you won't get run over by a car here,” he said, amused. And then he mentioned a church that he'd just seen and thought was worth a visit. She thanked him and picked up her guidebook to find a description of it, and a few minutes later he walked away. She still had the feeling that she'd seen him somewhere, but decided it was her imagination and forgot about it. She thought about backtracking to the church he had suggested, but was afraid she'd get lost again when she saw it on the map. It was down several alleys and was complicated to reach. So she kept moving forward, and as she thought she would, she eventually wound up back at Piazza San Marco. Her morning of exploring had been successful, and she'd seen wonderful things, and many tiny churches and chapels filled with the Renaissance art so typical of Venice. Once in the square again, she stopped at a sidewalk café, sat down at a table, ordered coffee and gelato, took a notebook out of her bag, and began to sketch. She was hungering to draw, after all the art she'd seen there and in Rome the day before. She sketched the faces of some of the people sitting in the café, and was engrossed in what she was doing. She sipped her coffee, ate some of the gelato, and didn't look up until she finished a small drawing of a woman a few tables away. And as she glanced around when she set her notebook down on the table, she noticed the man with the camera again. He was sitting two tables away, smiled when she noticed him, and pointed at her with a quizzical expression.

“Are you following me?” he asked, and she laughed at the question, and shook her head. It was the second time their paths had crossed that day, but Venice was a tiny city, and all paths led back to Piazza San Marco.

“I think you're following me,” she accused him jokingly, and he denied it. Without asking, when the table between them became free, he sat down next to her, and observed admiringly what she'd drawn.

“You're very good,” he complimented her, and she was embarrassed and put the notebook away. She never liked showing off her work and was shy about it. And she rarely even sketched anymore. But she'd been inspired since that morning. And being in Italy made her want to paint again. “So explain something to me,” the man with the intense brown eyes and gray hair said casually, “why are you following me all over Venice? Are you CIA or KGB?” He pretended to be serious but had a mischievous glint in his eyes. There was something vaguely sarcastic about him, and it made Véronique laugh the way he said it. But they were visiting all the same places, and it was easy to run into the same people. He was just more distinctive-looking than the other tourists she'd seen on her walk around the city, so she recognized him each time. “Have you been to the Doge's Palace yet?” he asked with interest.

“I was there this morning—it's spectacular. I tried to get into the cathedral, but the line was endless.” She didn't usually talk to strangers, but there was something very easy and open about him, and the conversation was harmless, so she didn't mind talking to him as they sat at their tables at the café.

“I'll tell you a trick to get into the cathedral,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “If you tell one of the guards you're going to mass, they let you in immediately. A friend told me about it, and it works. I tried it today.”

“Seriously?” She glanced at him in surprise, grateful for the tip. She didn't want to wait in line for hours in the heat.

“Seriously. Try it,” he advised her, as his eyes seemed to search hers.

“I will, thank you.” She smiled at him, and had that same haunting feeling that she'd seen him somewhere other than on the bench that morning. It was a powerful sense of déjà vu. She glanced at his camera then, and suddenly she remembered. She had seen him at the Fontana di Trevi in Rome, when she was about to make her three wishes. She had seen him watching her as he held his camera, and then he'd disappeared, and she'd forgotten all about him until then. “I saw you two days ago in Rome,” she said pensively. “I think you were about to take a picture of me, when I was going to throw coins into the fountain.” He nodded. He had recognized her earlier. He had been struck by how beautiful she was and the unusual color of her eyes, somewhere between lavender and blue.

“I saw you again after that,” he said, with a guilty expression, and pointed at her knees. “I'm afraid I'm responsible for those.”

She shook her head. “No, I almost got hit by a car,” she said and then she remembered the force of the push that had saved her from the Ferrari, and wondered what he meant.

“I'm afraid I got a little carried away. I thought you were going to be killed.” He watched her eyes as he said it.

“
You
pushed me?” She was stunned as he nodded with a sheepish look. “I thought somebody had pushed me, but I couldn't tell. I thought it was the hand of destiny,” she said, smiling at him gratefully.

“No, it was just me. You didn't seem like you were going to move. You were too frightened to react.” She didn't want to admit to him that she still didn't know why she had stayed rooted to the spot, watching Nikolai's car barrel toward her. “You were lighter and flew farther than I thought. I hit you damn hard,” he said apologetically. “I felt terrible when I saw your knees this morning.”

“You saved my life,” she said with amazement. “Why didn't you stick around? I looked around afterward and I didn't see anyone, and after that I was sitting on the curb, and I was pretty shocked.”

“I saw the driver get out of the car to help you, and there were people all over you after you fell. I didn't think you needed me around, too. I knew you'd be all right then,” he said quietly. She was still amazed that it had been him and that they'd met again in Venice.

“Do you do that a lot? Go around saving people's lives when they're about to be run over?” She was seriously impressed to be meeting her benefactor and to be able to thank him in person. He had pushed her so hard that she had literally flown to safety, despite the awkward landing.

“Never. I'm a terrible person. Normally I push old ladies down the stairs.” But he was far less believable as a villain than a hero. “Besides, you were standing right in front of me, and I thought if he hit you, he might hit me, too. So it was a totally selfish act.” He was mischievous again. He had a dry sense of humor.

“I don't believe you,” she said, and he laughed.

“Anyway, you owe those lovely knees to me, and your hands. I apologize for the brutality.”

“They don't even hurt. Getting hit by the car would have been a lot worse,” she said gently.

“Yes, it would. Messy, too,” he said, sounding very British.

“I actually flew through the air,” she informed him. “The poor driver was scared to death.”

“He should have been. He was driving too fast, and he damn near hit you.” Her benefactor seemed upset. “Everyone drives too fast in Rome.” They both knew it was true, but the man with the camera thought the driver of the Ferrari was entirely to blame, and she'd been very lucky.

“It was really my fault. I didn't get out of the way. I don't know why, but I just froze,” she confessed.

“Which is why I pushed you as hard as I did. I didn't realize the landing would be so rough. I'm glad you didn't break anything,” he said, sounding relieved. He had thought of her the night it happened. The experience had been powerful for him, as he saw her about to die. “I'm Aidan Smith, by the way.” He held out a hand, and they shook hands properly.

“Véronique Parker,” she said politely.

“It's nice to meet you,” he said pleasantly, mock serious again. “Now stop following me, Véronique Parker.” He stood up then, paid for his coffee, and was preparing to leave as she stood up, too.

“I'll try to,” she promised. “I'm going back to my hotel now, so you don't need to worry.” She was laughing as she said it, and so was he.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Cipriani.” It didn't surprise him. It was one of the best hotels in Venice, and she was right for the part.

“How elegant. I'm staying at a little inn on the Calle Priuli dei Cavalletti. It's one step above a youth hostel, but it's cheap.” Which the Cipriani emphatically was not.