brunette’s lips curved. “Very much so. Mensa-level IQ. Hard. Tough as nails. But good to his friends, good to those who work for him and a marshmallow with me despite the fact his ex-wife took half his money and ran.”
“One of the good oligarchs, then.”
Juliana nodded. “Unlike some. Anton Markovic, for instance.” She gave a delicate shiver. “I wouldn’t have him in this house if Leonid didn’t do business with him.”
Frankie knew of Markovic, of course. He was one of the world’s richest men, two places higher on the list than Harrison last year. “Is he here?”
“He’s out of the country, thank goodness. I don’t have to pretend I like him.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
The smile faded from the brunette’s face. “He’s dangerous. Far too many underworld connections, far too nasty and far too unfriendly to his women.”
Frankie made a mental note to avoid Anton Markovic if she ever came into contact with him. Which was unlikely since this was probably the last time she’d ever be at a party like this.
“Anyway,” Juliana said, holding her glass up to Frankie’s, “enough about business. Cin-cin.”
Frankie sipped her champagne slowly as Juliana introduced her around. But the spirit hit her quickly as it always did. By the time Juliana delivered her to Harrison the better part of an hour later, she was in a much more relaxed mood. Harrison, unfortunately, was not. Leonid was not with him and it was clear from the tense set of her boss’s jaw he had yet to have the talk he needed to have with the Russian.
Juliana left them to facilitate the auction that was to begin shortly and Viktor disappeared to greet a guest. Harrison threw back the last swallow of whatever amber liquid he was drinking and scowled. “I have no idea why we came. He’s been avoiding me, pawning me off on his guests when he knows I want to talk to him.”
Frankie thought about what Juliana had said. Did she dare speak up or would that be the last straw for her and Harrison? She pressed her empty glass to her chin and surveyed the beast at his most riled. She had valuable information. She needed to tell him.
She took a deep breath. “Juliana said with Leonid it’s not all about business. That he needs to feel good about the decisions he’s making. She said if something is holding him back with this deal, it’s not about what’s on paper, it’s about what’s in his heart.”
The deadly stare he directed at her made Frankie shift her weight to both feet. “You discussed the deal with her?”
Her chin snapped up. “You asked me to feel her out. She was the one to bring it up. She could sense the tension between you two.”
He muttered an oath under his breath. She stood her ground, palms moist, knees shaky as he turned and prowled over to stare into one of the cascading pools. “He doesn’t need to feel good about the bloody deal,” he growled. “It’s going to save his hide.”
“And what’s going to save his pride?” Frankie returned softly. “Leonid is in financial difficulty. His empire is suffering a very public defeat, yet he throws a party like this one tonight to make a gesture. It sends a message that he is not bowed by it. That he will survive. Let him see you understand that. Show him you understand.”
He turned around, a savage light in his gaze. “This is all from Juliana?”
She quaked a little inside. “Yes.”
He scowled. “Even if I could show him I understand, how can I do it when he won’t talk? He is never alone. Kaminski hasn’t left his goddamned side for a minute.”
“There has to be an opportunity.” Frankie had always been a glass-half-full kind of person. “Juliana said the auction is very important to Leonid. He wants it to go well. Maybe he’s keyed up about it and you’ll have your chance afterward.”
“Or maybe it’s another giant waste of my time.”
“You won’t know until you try.”
The glass-half-full part of her hoped she was right.
He stared hard at her. Deposited his empty glass on the table. “Let’s go, then.”
* * *
The over-the-top ballroom done in gold and imperial red was buzzing with anticipation when they arrived. Again, as it seemed with all of Leonid Aristov’s estate, it was like nothing she’d ever seen before. Slavic in feel, it dripped with ornate, antique chandeliers, featuring a half-dozen tiny balconies that opened to a view over the man-made lake Leonid had created. All of the little balconies reminded Frankie of the inside of a Russian opera house.
Tuxedo-clad waiters circulated with trays of champagne to whet the appetites of bidders, while staff passed out gold embossed lists of the items up for auction.
The list would have been impressive, she was sure, if Frankie had known anything more about art than Viktor Kaminski had bent her ear with earlier. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head when she saw the opening bids for some of the paintings. They were in the millions.
“Wow,” she murmured. “This is the real deal.”
Harrison didn’t respond. He was scanning the list with a furrowed brow.
The lights went up. Leonid took the stage and welcomed everyone, Juliana at his side. He made a joke about her not being up for auction with his dry humor that drew an amused response from the crowd. Frankie found his speech about his commitment to the arts and the artists who continued to make the world a more beautiful place heartfelt and eloquent. She could see the goodness in him Juliana had talked about. It made the charismatic Russian even more attractive and compelling.
Leonid highlighted a few of the marquee items up for auction, then exited the stage to be replaced by Juliana’s auctioneer. The Brit with his booming voice began the auction with some paintings by a new modern Russian artist. The value of the works continued to go up with every item, with the last painting selling for two million pounds.
A Chagall in brilliant blue tones came next. “I love that one,” she murmured to Harrison. It was, according to the brochure, “a piece from one of the artist’s most famous series set in Nice, featuring his famous sirens.”
Harrison nodded. “I like it, too.”
The bidding for the painting started at one and a half million pounds. A Brit in the front row signaled two. A determined look on his face, an American with a Southern accent took it up to two and a half million. The two men went back and forth until the price tag sat at three and a half million.
Harrison raised his hand. “Four million.”
Frankie gaped at him. “Four million,” the auctioneer crowed, “by the gentleman in the back.”
The auctioneer tried to persuade the other bidders to up the price, but the American and Brit weren’t biting. Apparently they were sane.
“Sold,” sang the auctioneer, “for four million pounds to Mr. Grant in the back.”
The
