The Collector

  several colleagues more knowing on Fabergé and the era of the tsars than I. There are rumors, always. Perhaps one of the lost eggs is in Germany. It’s reasonable to believe an Imperial egg was confiscated by the Nazis with other treasures. Out of Poland, the Ukraine, Austria. But none can be substantiated. There’s no map, such as we have for the two.”

  “One in New York,” Lila said, “one in Italy—or hopefully in Italy.”

  “Yes, Ashton tells me you’re going there, to try to track the Nécessaire. There are collections, public and private. Some of the private, as we discussed, are very private. But I have some names, in my notes. Possibilities. One to me stands out.”

  He leaned forward, dangling his hands between his knees.

  “There was a man, Basil Vasin, who claimed to be the son of the Grand Duchess Anastasia, the daughter of Nicholas and Alexandra. This is long before it was proven Anastasia was executed along with the rest of the family. After the execution by the Bolsheviks and for decades after, there were rumors she survived, escaped.”

  “They did a movie,” Lila recalled. “With . . . Oh, who was it? Ingrid Bergman.”

  “Anna Anderson,” Kerinov confirmed, “was the most famous of those who claimed to be Anastasia, but she was not the only. Vasin made this claim, bilked many wishing to believe it. He was very handsome, very charming, and convincing enough to marry a wealthy heiress. Annamaria Huff, a distant cousin of the Queen of England. She began to collect Russian art for him, a tribute to his family, including Fabergé. It was her greatest wish to recover the lost Imperial eggs, but she was unable to do so—at least publicly.”

  “You think she might have acquired one?” Ash asked.

  “I can’t say. My research shows they lived lavishly, opulently, often trading off her royal blood, and his claim to his own.”

  “Then if they’d gotten one,” Lila concluded, “they’d have beat the drum.”

  “Yes. I think, but who can say? They had a son, an only child who inherited their wealth and property—their collection. And from my research, their quest to acquire the lost eggs.”

  “He’d know his father’s claims to the Romanovs were disproved. I’ve researched, too,” Ash pointed out. “They found her body, they’ve done DNA.”

  “People believe what they want to believe,” Lila murmured. “What son wants to believe his father was a liar and a cheat? There was a lot of confusion, right—also did my research—reasons why women could claim to be Anastasia with some level of credence, or descendants. The new Russian government was trying to negotiate a peace treaty with Germany, and claimed the girls had been taken to a safe location.”

  “Yes, yes.” Kerinov nodded rapidly. “To cover up the brutal murder of unarmed women, children.”

  “Rumors started to hide the murders became rumors that she’d, at least, survived. But they found the graves,” Ash added. “The science wouldn’t matter to some.” No, not to some—and he thought of Oliver.

  “Yes, some people believe what they want to believe.” Alexi smiled a little. “No matter the science or the history.”

  “When did they conclusively prove she’d been executed with her family?” Lila asked.

  “In 2007. A second grave was found, and scientists proved the two remains were Anastasia and her young brother. Cruelty,” Alexi added, “even after death, to separate them from the other family, to try to hide the murders.”

  “So, the son would have been a grown man. It would be humiliating or infuriating—probably both—to have your family history, your bloodline, proven a lie.”

  “He continues to claim it.” Alexi tapped his index finger on the envelope. “As you will see. There are many who prefer to believe the discoveries and documentation were falsified. The claim she survived is more romantic.”

  “And their deaths were brutal,” Lila added. “You think he—this Vasin—is the one Oliver acquired the egg for?”

  “There are other possibilities—I have their information in my notes. A French woman who can indeed trace her bloodline back to the Romanovs, and an American rumored to be open to buying stolen artworks. But this one—Nicholas Romanov Vasin—my mind goes back to him. He has many international interests, finance, industry, but is largely a recluse. He has homes in Luxembourg, France, Prague, and in New York.”

  “New York?”

  Kerinov nodded at Ash. “Long Island’s North Shore. He rarely entertains, does most of his business by remote—phones, e-mails, video conferences. It’s rumored he suffers from mysophobia—the fear of germs.”

  “Doesn’t like to get his hands dirty,” Ash murmured. “That fits. Hire someone else to do the dirty work.”

  “I have these names for you, and what information I could get, but there’s not been so much as a whisper about the discovery or acquisition of the eggs. I wish I had more to give you.”

  “You’ve given us names, a direction to take. Names we can mention to Bastone when we meet with him.”

  “Which we will be,” Lila said, “Thursday afternoon. Antonia contacted me before I came downstairs,” she explained. “Her father’s agreed to talk to us. He’ll contact us with details, but we’re invited to Villa Bastone next Thursday.”

  “At two o’clock,” Ash finished. “My brother Esteban’s in the same business. I had him give Bastone a nudge.”

  “Well. Good for us.”

  “The next point on the map,” Kerinov said. “You’ll keep me updated? I wish I could go with you, but family and business keep me in New York for the next few weeks. Speaking of family, I have to go to mine.” He rose. “So I’ll say udachi—good luck.”

  He shook hands with Ash, flushed a little when Lila hugged him after she walked him to the door. She turned back, rubbed her hands together.

  “Let’s Google this Nicholas Romanov Vasin. I know we have Alexi’s notes, but let’s do some digging.”

  “I’ve got a better source than Google. My father.”

  “Oh.” Money talks to money, she thought. She’d said so herself. “Good idea. You do that, and I’ll see about dinner, as promised. I guess we need to check out the other two possibilities. Maybe he knows them, too.”

  “Or of them. I haven’t forgotten he owes you an apology, Lila.”

  “It’s not on the top-ten list of things to worry about right now.”

  “It’s on mine.” He went into the kitchen ahead of her, poured two glasses of wine. “For the cook.” He handed her one. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

  Alone, she looked down at the wine, shrugged, took a sip. His father might be able to add more meat to the bone, and that’s what counted. It couldn’t matter, not now, that she’d made excuses about not attending Vinnie’s funeral—and both of them knew they’d been excuses. It couldn’t matter, not now, what his father thought of her.

  Later . . . Who knew what could or would matter later?

  Right now she had to figure out what to cook.

  He gave her nearly an hour before he wandered back through. “Smells great. What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s not scampi, it’s not linguine, but has elements of both. We’ll say it’s scampine. My head’s in Italy, I guess. Whatever it is, it’s about ready.”

  She served it in wide, shallow bowls, with hunks of the rosemary bread Ash had picked up at Luke’s bakery, and another well-earned glass of wine.

  She sampled, nodded. Just enough garlic, she decided, and a good lemony flavor throughout. “Not bad.”

  “Better than that. It’s great.”

  “Generally I have more successes than failures when I make something up, but my failures are really stupendous.”

  “You should write this one down.”

  “That eliminates the spontaneity.” She stabbed a shrimp, rolled some noodles. “So, was your father any help?”

  “He knows Vasin—in that he met him once, nearly a decade ago. According to my father, Vasin wasn’t particularly social, but not the recluse he’s become in recent years
. He never married, never was reported to be particularly attached to any woman, or man for that matter. Even back then he wouldn’t shake hands—though they met at a very high-powered affair that included various heads of state. He brought along an assistant who served him his own specially bottled water throughout the evening. According to my father, Vasin was pompous, fussy, eccentric without the charm, and physically very attractive.”

  “Tall, dark and handsome. I did a quick Google, found some photos from the eighties and nineties. Movie-star glam.”

  “Which was one of his interests at one time. He financed a few films, and was on the point of financing a remake of Anastasia—the script was being written, casting nets were going out. Then with the DNA, the general consensus that Anastasia died along with the rest of her family, the project fell apart.”

  “A big disappointment, I imagine.”

  “He got out of the movie business about then, to the best of my father’s recollection. And the event they both attended was one of the last times Vasin accepted an invitation to a major affair. He became more reclusive, gradually began doing all of his business as Kerinov said, by remote.”

  “To have that kind of wealth, and not use some of it to see the world, to go places, enjoy them, meet people.” Absently she wound more pasta around her fork. “He must be a serious germaphobe.”

  “It doesn’t, according to my father’s gauge, make him any less of a ruthless businessman. He’s been accused of corporate espionage, but his fleet of lawyers tamp that down, or pay it off—my father’s not sure which. Hostile takeovers are a specialty.”

  “Sounds like a prince.”

  “He certainly thinks so.”

  “Ha.” Amused, she stabbed another shrimp.

  “He did once allow certain access to his art collection—for articles—but that’s been shut down for a number of years, too.”

  “So he shutters himself off from society, hoards art, runs his empire of businesses through technology—all of which he can do as he’s rich.”

  “So rich, no one’s exactly sure just how rich. There’s something else that makes me lean, along with Alexi, in Vasin’s direction.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Twice that my father knew of a business competitor met with a tragic accident.”

  “That’s a big step up from ruthless,” she commented.

  “In addition, a reporter in the mid-nineties was reputedly working on a book on Vasin’s father, who was still living. On assignment covering the Oklahoma City bombing, he went missing. He’s never been heard from again, no body was ever found.”

  “You got that from your father?”

  “He dug back, thinking about what happened to Oliver. He doesn’t know what I’m after—”

  “You haven’t told him yet? About the egg? Ash—”

  “No, I haven’t told him. He’s smart enough to realize my interest in Vasin connects to what happened to Oliver. And he’s concerned enough as it is without me giving him all the details.”

  “Giving him the details would at least give him answers. And I can’t lecture you on it”—she brushed her own words away—“since all I told my parents was I’m taking a little vacation.”

  “Probably best.”

  “That’s what I told myself, but I still feel guilty. You don’t.”

  “Not in the least,” he said easily. “As to the other two names Alexi gave us, Dad doesn’t know the woman, but he does know the American, and reasonably well. My take after his rundown on Jack Peterson is the man wouldn’t quibble about buying stolen goods, cheating at cards or insider trading, he’d consider all that a game. Murder, especially of an acquaintance’s son, wouldn’t be on the table. My dad’s summary was Peterson likes to play, likes to win, but he can also take losing with good grace.”

  “Not the type to hire an assassin.”

  “No, it didn’t strike me he would be.”

  “Okay, so for now, the focus is on Nicholas Romanov Vasin. What do you think might happen if we drop that name on Bastone?”

  “We’ll find out. Did you sort out the packing?”

  “Yes, all under control.”

  “Good. Why don’t we clear this up? I guess we need to take the dog out. Then I want some more sketches of you.”

  To prolong the moment, and to postpone the dishes, the dog, she leaned back with her wine. “You’ve already started the painting.”

  “This is another project. I’m thinking of putting together some new pieces for a show, next winter.” He rose, taking up both their bowls. “I want at least two more of you, and what I have in mind first is the faerie in the bower.”

  “Oh, right, you mentioned that before. Emeralds. Like glittery Tinker Bell.”

  “Definitely not like Tinker Bell. Think more Titania, waking up from a midsummer sleep. And naked.”

  “What? No.” She laughed at the idea, then remembered she’d said no to the gypsy. “No,” she repeated, and a third time, “No.”

  “We’ll talk about it. Let’s walk the dog. I’ll buy you an ice cream cone.”

  “You can’t bribe me out of my clothes with ice cream.”

  “I know how to get you out of your clothes.” He grabbed her, pressed her back against the refrigerator. His mouth ruled hers, his hands roamed, took, teased.

  “I’m not posing naked. I’m not hanging in Julie’s gallery naked.”

  “It’s art, Lila, not porn.”

  “I know the difference. It’s still my naked . . . ness,” she managed when his thumbs brushed over her nipples.

  “You have the perfect body for it. Slender, almost delicate but not weak. I’ll do a few sketches, some concepts. If you don’t like them, I’ll tear them up.”

  “You’ll tear them up.”

  He lowered his lips to hers again, lingered. “I’ll let you tear them up. But first I need to touch you, I need to make love with you. Then to sketch you when your eyes are still heavy, your lips soft. If you don’t see how perfect you are, how powerful, how magical, you’ll tear them up. Fair enough.”

  “I . . . yes, I—”

  “Good.” He kissed her again, took his time, then eased back. “I’ll get the dog.”

  Half dreaming, Lila went to the closet for the leash. Stopped.

  She’d gone from a firm no, she realized, to a qualified yes.

  “That was very underhanded.”

  “You still have first refusal,” he reminded her, and took the leash. “And an ice cream cone.”

  “For an artist, you’re a hell of a negotiator.”

  “Archer blood.” He clipped on the leash, set Earl Grey down. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said, and grinned as the little dog danced.

  Since room wouldn’t be an issue, Lila divided what she thought she needed to take between her suitcases. Room for new that way, she decided. Though she’d intended to send a bag of not-going-to-Italy items to Julie’s, Ash took them to his place, and carted her bag of to-be-donated items with him.

  He’d take care of it.

  She had to admit it was easier, even more efficient—but she couldn’t quite pinpoint when she’d started adjusting to “I’ll take care of it.”

  Plus, she’d caved and posed nude. She’d felt awkward and self-conscious—until he’d showed her the first sketch.

  God, she had looked beautiful, and magical. And though the faerie she’d become was obviously naked, the way he’d posed her, the addition of the wings he’d given her, had added just enough modesty to relax her.

  The emeralds had become sparkles of dew in her hair, the shimmering leaves in her bower.

  The nudity was implied, she thought—but she wasn’t sure what the Lieutenant Colonel would have to say about that, if he ever saw the work.

  She hadn’t torn up the sketches. How could she?

  “He knew that,” she said to Earl Grey as she finished arranging the welcome-home flowers for her clients. “He knew he’d get just what he was after. I can’t figure out how I feel about th
at. You have to admire it, though, don’t you?”

  She hunkered down where the dog sat, watching her with his paws protectively over the little toy kitten she’d gotten him as a parting gift.

  “I’m really going to miss you—my teacup hero.”

  When the buzzer sounded, she went to the door, used the peep, then opened it for Ash.

  “You could’ve just called up.”

  “Maybe I wanted to say goodbye to Earl Grey. See you around,