Chapter 31

I

I thought of Jake as I walked through the garden of the guest villa, heading in the direction of Alexander’s studio. He was never far from my mind, and I fretted about him, worried about his safety. Often I turned on the television at night for news of the war in Kosovo but switched off almost immediately. Chaos and mayhem reigned over there.

Mike, good friend that he was, stayed in daily contact with Jacques Foucher at Jake’s photo agency and sent me updates by fax. For the moment Jake was alive and covering the war from Priština. And so I held my breath, got on with my work at the villa, and prayed for his safety.

I had liked the subject of my photo shoot right from the beginning. At forty-five, Alexander St. Just Stevens was considered to be the world’s greatest living artist, often called the Picasso of the Millennium. But to me his paintings were much more exciting, had more visual impact, and they were full of life and vibrant color.

Alexander was an extremely good-looking man with a strong, well-defined face. His dark hair was tinged with white prematurely, and the silver wings at his temples seemed to make his green eyes all that more piercing as they gazed out at the world from beneath thick black brows. Tall, well built with a wonderful physique, he was tanned and fit, and something of an athlete, enjoying tennis, swimming, and deep sea fishing.

I knew full well he was a womanizer. I hadn’t needed my brother to inform me of that. His passion for women, and his many involvements with them over the years, was well documented in the newspaper and magazine articles I’d read for my research before coming here. And in a sense his passion for the female sex reflected somewhat his passion for his art, his work.

Len Wilkinson had told me that Alexander often painted for days on end without cease. And I had noticed myself that the artist had an unusual energy and strength, visible in everything he did.

Although I had pooh-poohed the idea that Alexander was eyeing me speculatively, Donald had, in fact, been accurate. My brother didn’t miss a trick. His lively, observant eyes were everywhere, and since he was working alongside me on a daily basis, he saw everything.

But I deemed it wiser to claim ignorance, pretend I was unaware of Alexander’s interest in me, and so keep a lid on the situation. But it did worry me at times, because I knew he was more than merely attracted to me. I felt he was actually becoming involved with me, even though I had not encouraged this.

On the other hand, in the past nine days we had spent an enormous amount of time together, in the same environment, working, eating, and relaxing. We had come to know each other extremely well, without there being any sexual intimacy, of course. And we had discovered we were compatible, understood each other, and enjoyed being in each other’s company.

There had been a lot of socializing in our free time. Alexander had invited us all to dinner at the villa every night; we also had lunch together during the photography sessions. But even though two ex-wives and two ex-mistresses lived within the compound in their own villas, they had not been included in these social occasions. Len and his wife, Jennifer, were always present, as were Neal Lomax and Kevin Giles, Alexander’s devoted assistants who worked with him in the studio. Marcia Dermot, Alexander’s secretary, was often there as well, but not always, since she had a three-year-old daughter.

Alexander lived alone at the main house, the white marble villa. It was there that he did his lavish entertaining, although I knew he often worked in the studio long after we had all gone to bed. He was obsessed with his art; it was his life, he told me.

It was Jennifer Wilkinson who had explained that there was no one special in Alexander’s life at the moment. However, this had been an offhand remark, not pointed in any way. And I had merely nodded, made no comment whatsoever.

When I arrived at the studio, I paused for a moment and looked up at it. Poised as it was close to the edge of the cliff but within the encircling outside wall, it looked grand and imposing in the early morning sunlight.

Walking on, I pushed open the heavy oak door and went inside, and, as I usually did, I remained standing in the doorway, admiring this extraordinary interior.

The studio itself was one vast room with a wall of glass that soared to the ceiling and overlooked the sea. This glass wall moved up onto the ceiling to form a wide skylight, which cut through the roof at one end to allow more light to enter the space.

At another end, a raised platform, a kind of stage, was used to display the finished paintings, some of which were huge. Behind this stage there was a fully equipped kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom where Alexander frequently slept when he was working at night.

A second platform was built at the opposite side of the studio. Here light flooded in through the skylight as well as the wall of glass; Alexander painted both day and night on this platform, and overhead ceiling spots flooded the area with artificial light after dark.

I hesitated in the doorway. There was no sign of Alexander, and the studio was quiet. “Hello! Hello!” I called and walked into the room, glancing around.

“Is that you, Val?” Alexander’s voice boomed out, and he suddenly appeared from behind the stage. His face was covered in shaving soap and he was holding a razor. Bare-chested, he wore a pair of white cotton slacks badly smeared with paint, and tennis shoes that were equally as messy.

“Who else but little old me,” I said, laughing. “Good morning, Alexander, I hope I’m not too early.”

He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “No. Anyway, you could never be too early for me. Give me a minute and I’ll be right with you. They’ve already brought breakfast over from the kitchens.”

“I’ll wait for you on the terrace,” I said as he disappeared.

I went outside; the terrace was on the far side of the studio, quiet, secluded, and hidden from the rest of the buildings in the compound. It overlooked the sea, and there was a table with a sun umbrella attached, as well as four chairs. I sat down at the table to wait, and within a couple of minutes Alexander came out carrying a large wooden tray. He was now properly dressed in white cotton slacks, pristine tennis shoes, and a white Mexican shirt.

II

“I’ve been working,” he said, putting the tray down on the table.

“All night?” I asked, looking up at him.

He shook his head. “No, since dawn. I wanted to finish something—something special, I think. I’ll show it to you later.”

He served the coffee and motioned to the basket filled with thick slices of home-baked bread and pound cake, and slices of toast.

I shook my head. “I’m not hungry,” I murmured, and sipped my coffee.

Alexander also drank his coffee, then buttered a piece of toast and munched on it. And we sat together in a compatible silence for a short while.

Finally I said, “Would it be all right if we started shooting in the studio this morning? I mean, could I do the first shots of you with the finished paintings?”

“Yes, if you wish, Val.” His green eyes rested on me for a moment before he said, “I’d like to keep the pictures of me to a minimum, Val, if that’s all right with you?”

I nodded. “Okay, but I would like to get a couple of shots of you painting, as well as standing next to the ones you’ve completed. And also—” I stopped, hesitating, suddenly wary of continuing.

“You’re not going to ask me to pose with my former wives and mistresses, are you?”

I was silent.

“I know my ex-wives are somewhat reluctant to be photographed, and certainly Danielle and Carole are extremely shy. They too prefer not to be featured in the story.”

“Well,” I began, and stopped.

“Well, what?” he asked softly.

“I guess I can understand that, but—” I paused again and stared at him. “I guess I thought it would add a human touch to the story.”

He smiled at me, and very knowingly so. “Listen, Val, I’ve led, still lead, a somewhat unconventional life. Many people think I’m crazy to have everyone living here at the compound, but it’s none of their business, and I consider it best for the ladies and my small children. They are all safe, protected, well looked after, and taken care of all the time. They can come to no harm here. But I am not too certain about advertising my lifestyle to the world.”

“I realize that, Alexander, but I thought that perhaps a photo of you with the children?” I raised a brow.

He shook his head. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. The world is full of crazies, you know that, and I don’t want to expose my children to the possibility of kidnapping.”

“But they live here with you in this highly protected compound.”

“True.” He sighed, gave me a long, penetrating look, and finished, “Let me think about it.”

A silence fell between us and I did not want to break it. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts and rethink some of the photographs I’d planned on taking. I glanced away, stared up at the sky. And then I stretched slightly, turned my face to the sun, and closed my eyes for a few minutes.

At last I sat up straighter in the chair and turned to Alexander. “I’m sorry if I’ve asked too much, but the photographs are so important, and the feature is going to be appearing worldwide.”

“Oh, I know, and I want you to do the pictures, Val, but I prefer to keep my private life out of this shoot.”

“I understand,” I responded, realizing I was not going to win this one, and I didn’t want to antagonize him by pressing further.

Alexander suddenly said, “I’ve enjoyed having you here. You like Hacienda Rosita, don’t you?”

“I certainly do!” I exclaimed, my enthusiasm apparent. “It’s beautiful, peaceful . . . a paradise. And there aren’t many of those left in this world.”

“Why don’t you stay on a bit longer?”

“I wish I could, but I’ve got to leave at the end of the week. Got to get the pictures back to Paris.”

“If that’s the only reason you have to go, I can easily send Neal. He’d love a trip to Paris.”

I stared at him speechlessly.

He said, “I like you, Val. When I first set eyes on you, I knew you’d do me good.”

Still I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him, and I wondered what he would say next.

“We’ve had some good talks this past week, Val,” Alexander said in his mellifluous voice. “I’ve never opened up to anyone the way I have with you, at least not since I was an art student in Leeds.” He offered me a warm smile. “And you know all about those days now, about my whole life, about me and what makes me tick. And I know you, and what you’re all about, and that’s quite unique.”

“I feel the same way, Alexander. You’re a wonderful listener. . . .” I began to laugh. “You’re the possessor of all my secrets. I think I’ve really bent your ear, talking so much.”

“I did my portion of talking too, and I’m glad you stayed up late with me, sharing so many things. It’s not often that happens to me these days.”

“I think we’ve become truly good friends, don’t you?”

“I hope we have.” He leaned forward and pinned his eyes on me. “Stay a bit longer, Val. You’ve brought something special here.”

“I’ll think about it,” I replied, not knowing how to answer him. It was true, we had confided a great deal in each other. We’d talked about our childhoods, our lives, and those we had loved. We had become exceptionally close, although that wasn’t so surprising under the circumstances. We had been thrown together, and we had clicked.

III

It was a long day.

I shot endless film of Alexander in the studio and with his two assistants. We worked well together, and it was a smooth shoot, with Donald and Alexis backing me up. They were efficient yet relaxed about things, made no fuss.

We all had lunch together on the terrace and then went on working until early evening. Finally we packed it in at seven. I was tired, but Alexander was still full of energy and vitality. He insisted on cocktails on his terrace at the villa, a swim in the pool before supper, and after we had eaten we sat and watched a movie in his screening room, eating popcorn and laughing at the comedy he had chosen.

At midnight I said, “I’m on my last legs, I’ve got to go to bed.” I got up and started to leave the screening room with the others.

He nodded, and I knew he wanted to walk me back to the villa. But Donald and Alexis sidled up to me, and that was that.

When we got back to the guest villa there was a fax from Mike. In it he told me that Françoise was finally back in Paris and that all was well. He had not mentioned Jake, and so I assumed that he was still alive and in Kosovo.

Later I fell asleep easily, because I was so exhausted. And I had a dreamless sleep for once, awakened refreshed and rested the next morning.

IV

Toward the end of the week, Alexander asked me to meet him in the studio for a drink. He said I should come alone, because he wanted to show me something.

I’d had a good day with him, taking some marvelous pictures of him with the Yorkshire Mafia, and I looked forward to our drink as I now walked down the path to the studio.

The main room was empty when I went in, and as I always did, I called out, “Alexander, I’m here!”

He appeared instantly, coming out from behind the platform where the large paintings were displayed. He had a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other.

“There you are, Val!” he exclaimed, hurrying forward, smiling hugely. “A drop of the old bubbly first, and then the unveiling.”

“Unveiling,” I repeated, looking at him alertly. “Don’t tell me there’s a picture I haven’t yet seen?”

“Yes, there is. And it’s just finished, that’s why I haven’t shown it to you before.”

Placing the glasses on one of the tables, he poured the champagne, gave me a glass, and took one himself. Lifting his flute, he touched it to mine and said, “Here’s to you, Val, may you live a long and happy life.”

“And to you, Alexander, may you enjoy the same.”

Putting his arm around me, he led me over to the far side of the studio, to the platform where he painted. We went up the steps, walked toward an easel that was covered with a large white cloth. He positioned me where he wanted me to stand, then walked over to the easel and pulled off the cloth.

I stared at the painting. I was stunned. Alexander had painted a portrait of me, in his own very special style, but it was very obviously me. I stood against a seascape, and I looked extraordinary.

“Alexander, it’s just beautiful! I don’t know what to say . . . I’m so flattered. But how could you paint me? I mean, I didn’t sit for this.”

“From my memory of you, Val. After all, you’ve been with me practically night and day for two weeks now. Your face is engraved on my mind.”

“I am so flattered,” I said again. “It’s . . . wonderful. What an honor to be painted by you.”

“I’m happy you like it.” He took hold of my hand, led me down the steps, and out onto the terrace overlooking the sea.

After we were seated on a long rattan sofa, he said, “Stay here, Val. Let Neal take the pictures back to Paris.”

“You know I can’t do that. Anyway, I want to see the feature through to the end, and I’ve still got work to do on preparing it.”

“I was thinking the other day . . . how you can know someone all your life and yet never know them. And then meet another person and know them instantly, know all about them. I feel that way about you, Val.”

I stared at him but I didn’t respond. I had no words.

“Did you know that King Hussein of Jordan met, fell in love with, and became engaged to Queen Noor within twenty days?”

I shook my head. “No, I didn’t.”

“So can you understand it when I say this . . . I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“Oh, Alexander.”

“Please stay here with me,” he repeated.

“You know, I don’t think I’m cut out to be your mistress, or anybody’s mistress,” I said softly and sat there, frowning at him.

He laughed. “I’ve always said that when you marry your mistress, you create a job vacancy and—”

“That’s not an original line, somebody else said that before you.”

“Yes, and I knew him.”

“Oh, Alexander,” I said again, and simply shook my head, totally at a loss.

“But it would be different with you. I would be faithful. I wouldn’t be looking for someone to fill the job vacancy.”

When I still remained silent, he moved closer to me on the sofa and took me in his arms. He kissed me tenderly and I found myself responding, returning his kisses, and my arms went around him.

Pulling away, he looked deeply into my eyes. “Stay here with me.”

I was incapable of speech.

“We don’t have to sleep together tonight, if that’s what you think this is leading up to. I’ll be patient . . . if that makes you feel more secure about this old devil.”

“You’re not old,” I said, finding my voice at long last.

“You need a lot of loving, Val, to heal those hurts of yours. I can heal them with my love, you know. And you’re so good for me. Say you’ll stay here at the hacienda.”

I didn’t answer him, and so he folded me in his arms and held me close, and we sat there for a long time on the terrace.

I knew he was sincere, and I did find him attractive and compelling, not to mention sexy. Yes, I could easily become involved with him, maybe even fall in love with him and be happy at the hacienda. We could probably have the best life together.

The problem was, I loved another man. Truly loved him. I was committed to him, and he was my destiny. And that was why I would have to leave.