“You don’t want it in here?”
Denis shook his head. “Looking at it would disturb the fine and fragile fabric of the dream.” His gaze drifted to the portrait of Charlotte Andreas over the fireplace. “You never understood why I did it, did you? You never understood about dreams.”
Looking intently at his father, Jean Marc felt pain and sorrow roll over him in a relentless tide. “No, I suppose I didn’t.”
“That hurt you. It shouldn’t.” He once again opened the leather-bound volume he had closed when Jean Marc came into the study. “There must always be a balance between the dreamers and the realists. In this world strength may serve a man far better than dreams.”
Jean Marc stood up and moved toward the table on which he had set the statue. “I’ll just get this out of your way. It’s almost time for your medicine. You’ll be sure to remember to take it?”
Denis nodded, his gaze on the page of his book. “You must do something about Catherine, Jean Marc.”
“Catherine?”
“She’s been a joy to me, but she’s only a child of three and ten. She shouldn’t be here when it happens.”
Jean Marc opened his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly. It was the first time his father had indicated he knew the end was near.
“Please do something about our Catherine, Jean Marc.”
“I will. I promise you,” Jean Marc said thickly.
“Good.” Denis looked up. “I’m reading Sanchia’s journal, about old Lorenzo Vasaro and his Caterina.”
“Again?” Jean Marc picked up the statue and carried it toward the door. “You must have read those old family journals a hundred times.”
“More. I never tire of them.” His father paused and smiled. “Ah, our ancestor believed in dreams, my son.”
With effort Jean Marc smiled. “Like you.” He opened the door. “I don’t have to return to Marseilles until evening. Would you like to have dinner on the terrace? The fresh air and sunshine will be good for you.”
But Denis was once more deeply absorbed in the journal and didn’t answer.
Jean Marc closed the door and stood a moment, fighting the agony he felt. His father’s last remarks shouldn’t have hurt him, for they were true. He was no dreamer; he was a man of action.
His hand clenched on the base of the statue. Then he squared his shoulders. The pain was fading. Just as he had known it would. Just as it had so many times before. He strode across the wide foyer and threw open the door to the salon.
Desedero’s gaze was searching. “He knew?”
“Yes.” Jean Marc set the statue back on the pedestal. “I’ll have my agent in Marseilles give you a letter of credit to our bank in Venice for the remainder of the money I owe you.”
“I don’t wish any more money,” Desedero said. “I cheated you.”
“Nonsense. You did what you were paid to do.” Jean Marc’s smile was filled with irony. “You were given my livres to create a statue, not a dream.”
“Ah, yes.” Desedero nodded in understanding. “The dream . . .”
“Well, I’m only a man of business who doesn’t understand these idealistic vagaries. It appears a duplicate won’t do, so I will have to get the Wind Dancer for him.”
“What will you do?”
“What I should have done in the beginning. Go to Versailles myself and find a way to persuade the queen to sell the Wind Dancer. I didn’t want to leave my father when—” He broke off, his hands again slowly clenching. “I knew he didn’t have much time left.”
“But how can you expect to succeed when she’s clearly so determined to keep it?” Desedero asked gently.
“Information.” Jean Marc’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “I’ll find out what she most desires and give it to her in exchange for the statue. I’ll take lodgings in an inn near the palace and before two weeks are gone I’ll know more about the court and Her Majesty than King Louis does himself, even if I have to bribe every groom and maid in the palace.”
Desedero gestured to the statue on the pedestal. “And this?”
Jean Marc avoided looking at the Pegasus as he strode to the door. “I never want to see it again. You may sell off the jewels and melt it down.” He jerked open the door. “God knows, I may need the additional gold to tempt Louis into selling the Wind Dancer.”
The door slammed behind him.
Bantam Books by Iris Johansen
No One to Trust
Body of Lies
Final Target
The Search
The Killing Game
The Face of Deception
And Then You Die
Long After Midnight
The Ugly Duckling
Lion’s Bride
Dark Rider
Midnight Warrior
The Beloved Scoundrel
The Magnificent Rogue
The Tiger Prince
Last Bridge Home
The Golden Barbarian
Reap the Wind
Storm Winds
The Wind Dancer
REAP THE WIND
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam mass market edition published 1991
Bantam revised edition / September 2002
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1991, 2002 by Iris Johansen.
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eISBN: 978-0-553-89696-1
v3.0
Iris Johansen, Reap the Wind
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