Page 8 of The Collector
“Were they really?”
“Mostly.” Anna lowered her eyes apprehensively toward the plate that a white-jacketed waiter had placed before her. “What in God’s name is it?”
“Cuttlefish,” explained Gabriel. “A local delicacy.”
“The last time I ate an uncooked creature from the lagoon, I was paralyzed for a week.”
“It’s divine.”
“When in Rome,” said Anna, and tentatively sampled the dish. “How much money did we raise tonight?”
“Nearly ten million. But if you play footsie with that wealthy American on the other side of the table, twenty million isn’t out of the question.”
Presently, the wealthy American was staring wide-eyed at his phone.
“Does he know who you are?” asked Anna.
“I have a feeling he does now.”
“What do you suppose he’s thinking?”
“Why is the retired chief of Israeli intelligence sitting next to Anna Rolfe, of all people?”
“Shall we tell him?”
“I’m not sure he would believe the story.”
It began when Gabriel accepted what he thought was a routine commission to restore a painting at the Zurich residence of the immensely wealthy Swiss banker Augustus Rolfe. The tragic ending took place some months later, when Gabriel walked out of the villa in Portugal where Herr Rolfe’s famous daughter had taken refuge from her family’s deplorable past. He had always regretted his conduct that day—and the twenty years during which he and Anna had exchanged not a single phone call or email. Familial complications notwithstanding, he was pleased she was once again a part of his life.
“You might have warned me,” she said suddenly.
“About what?”
She directed her gaze toward the head table, where all eyes were on Chiara. “Your wife’s astonishing beauty. It was quite a shock last night when I met her for the first time.”
“I believe I mentioned a vague resemblance to Nicola Benedetti.”
“My dear friend Nicola wishes she looked like Chiara.” Anna sighed. “I suppose she’s perfect in every way.”
“She’s a much better cook than you. And better yet, she doesn’t practice the violin at all hours.”
“Has she ever hurt you?”
Gabriel pointed out the faint red mark on the back of his hand.
“I never stood a chance of getting you back, did I?”
“You made it abundantly clear when I left Portugal that you never wanted to speak to me again.”
“I suppose you’re referring to the lamp I accidently knocked from the end table.”
“It was a ceramic vase. And you hurled it directly at my head with your remarkably strong right arm.”
“Consider yourself lucky. The gentlewoman seated next to you would have come after you with something far more lethal.”
“She swears it was only a paring knife.”
“There were photographs.” Anna nudged her plate toward the center of the table.
