The blonde waves at me again with a coquettish smile on her lips. I turn away and feign interest in the huge painting in front of me. But I can’t help wondering if I’ve met her before—she does look vaguely familiar. Someone must have introduced us at a function or a Bolshoi premiere. If I concentrate, I might even remember her name… Daria. No, Dina. No, definitely, Daria.

Gary prods me with his elbow. “Did you notice the young nymph standing by that enormous landscape?”

“I’m trying not to look at it. The color combination hurts my eyes.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d make an effort. Her legs are endless, and I bet you she’s naked under that skimpy dress.”

“Seriously, Gary?” I shake my head. “What am I, sixteen?”

“No, but you’re Moscow’s best catch, and she seems desperate for your attention.” He winks and singsongs, “A juicy, yummy, low-hanging peach…”

I continue to stare at the canvas. I believe what I’m looking at is a face. It’s green and contorted, and the sign under it says Number 2: Sadness. Flanked by two other spasmodic mugs, it forms a triptych titled Ephemeral Emotions.

It should have been called A Group of Constipated Trolls.

Coming to this vernissage was a mistake. I let the title of the exhibit—Rhapsody in Blue—and the reviews lure me here, forgetting that Moscow’s art critics would praise anyone who pays them. They’d even call these god-awful daubs “masterpieces of modern art,” and their author “Russia’s next Kandinsky.”

Kandinsky, my foot.

Gary furrows his brow in an effort to concentrate. “I’m sure I’ve met her before… What was her name, dammit?”

“Daria, wannabe art dealer,” I say.

“Of course!” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “She’s coming over.”

I brace myself for a bout of small talk and a sales pitch. As soon as she’s done, I’m out of here.

“Gentlemen,” Daria says from behind my back. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again!”

“The pleasure is all ours,” Gary says.

I turn around, stretch my lips into a semblance of a smile, and nod.

Daria points at the triptych. “What do you think? The artist is a personal friend.” She pauses for effect before whispering in my ear, “I could get you a deal on any of these pieces. It’s a great investment.”

“I’ll pass,” I say and step back.

“Ah, Anton Malakhov’s legendary tough talk!” Daria hooks her arm through mine. “I’m sure I can make you change your mind if you give me ten minutes of your time.”

I shake my head and unhook our arms.

She bats her eyelashes. “Forget about these paintings. Why don’t we sneak out, find someplace private, and discuss our love of art… and other passions?”

“I have a previous engagement.”

She trails her fingers up and down my arm. “Forget about the passions. They’re so last century. We could compare our perversions instead. What say you?”

Stupid, misguided child, that’s what I say. Go home, sober up, and reflect on your behavior.

I sigh and shake her hand off me. “I’m not interested.”

“I am.” Gary’s eyes light up.

I open my mouth to say No, you’re not. You’re married with children, but I shut it again before I utter a sound. Gary is one of the handful of people I call friends. All others have eventually used their connection to me for personal gain. Some have done it out of greed, others from jealousy. But not Gary. He may not be faithful to his wife—which, given my history with Stacia I strongly disapprove of—but he’s loyal to me. He has been so for almost three decades now, since our nerdy high school days.

And that trumps everything else.

Daria looks him over. “I don’t do sidekicks.”

I press my lips together to stifle a smile. The “peach” isn’t so low-hanging after all.

She turns to me and jabs my chest with her index finger. “As for you, let me tell you something, Mr. Snooty Tycoon. You may be in great shape, but not for much longer. I know your age.”

I widen my eyes in fake shock. “You do?”

“You’re forty-five.”

She gives me a triumphant look, as if she’s just revealed a horrible truth I’ve been hiding from everyone.

Somehow, I manage to maintain a serious face. “Seeing as you’re so well informed, you should know I have a twenty-two-year-old daughter.” I pretend to appraise her looks. “About your age, I’d say.”

Daria rolls her eyes, turns on her heel, and storms away.

I glance at Gary’s sour countenance. “I’m done here. What about you?”

“I’ll stay a little longer.”

I begin to make my way toward the exit. As I pass the centerpiece titled Night on the River Volga, I can’t help wincing.

That’s when a clear, exceedingly pleasant female voice says, “The artist should’ve called this painting Black Stripe I Drew with My Ruler. Then, at least, I could give him a point for honesty.”

I stop in my tracks, turn in the direction of the voice, and stare. I can’t stop staring. My kindred spirit is in her early to mid-thirties, slim, dressed in elegant black pants and a cream cashmere turtleneck. Her brown hair is gathered at her nape into a soft, loose bun. Her makeup is subdued except for the crimson-red lipstick that brings out her flawless skin. The way she’s dressed, the way she holds herself and smiles at her giggling friend—everything about her speaks easy elegance and confident wit.

I backtrack to her. “My idea was Dark and Darker, but your version is much better.”

She nods, and the tiniest smile wrinkles the corners of her gray eyes.

My breath catches. I need to find something to say quickly, before she turns to her friend. “I wonder how you would dub the entire exhibit.”

“Bullshit in Blue,” she says without batting an eye.

I burst out laughing.

She laughs too, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in a long, long time.

“It’s the title that brought me here in the first place,” I say. “I love—”

“Gershwin. Me too. Especially Rhapsody in Blue.”

I grin like an idiot. Not only is she funny and classy, but she also has great taste in music. Anyone who loves jazz does.

“I expected something jazzy from this artist, but what I see here is just…” I pause as I search for a good qualifier.

“Pride, pomp, and circumstance.” She winks, and I nearly jump for joy at her apt quote.

My eyes dart to her graceful hands. No wedding band or engagement ring in sight. Excellent. I’ll get her one soon.

Whoa. Where did that come from? I’ll be doing no such thing. I don’t even know the woman’s name, for heaven’s sake. Yet, the image of me slipping a huge rock on her delicate finger refuses to leave my mind.

I don’t think I’ve felt this way about anyone before. Not even Stacia. When I fell in love with her over twenty years ago, I knew she wasn’t like me. Our interests were worlds apart, and we could never agree on anything, big or small. I wish I’d known at the time we didn’t share the same values, either. But I was naive and overly optimistic, and I convinced myself we’d work it out.

God knows I tried—for a whole decade.

And now as I look at this woman, I don’t doubt for a second we’ll get along famously. She looks right, sounds right, even smells right. And from what I’ve heard so far, I’m sure I’ll enjoy her mind as much as I’ll enjoy her body.

I hold out my hand. “Anton Malakhov. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Anna.” She grants me a brief, but intense, joy of her touch. “The pleasure is mine.”

I go on to shake hands with her friend without taking my eyes off Anna for a second. There’s no point in hiding how much she’s impressed me.

Anna. It’s a beautiful name… even if a touch too formal.

“Does anyone call you Annushka?” I find myself asking.

“Only my mom.”

She smiles, and I debate whether I should invite her for a drink right now or ask for her number. One thing is certain. I must see her again. In fact, I need to see her as soon as possible, and as often as possible. Preferably, every day.

And every night.

She resolves my quagmire by ripping a page out of her notebook and scribbling something on it. Why am I not surprised she carries a notebook and a pen in her purse? I bet she also has a book or an e-reader somewhere in there. Although I just met her, I feel like I know her. I can see her inner core, her fundamental essence. It shines through.

She hands me the sheet, and I glance at what she’s written. There’s a phone number, her name, and a meaningless figure under it. I look up at her, about to ask if it’s an extension.

“This,” she says, pointing her slender index finger at the top line, “is my agent’s number. And below is my hourly rate.”

My jaw slacks.

The woman of my dreams is a hooker.