The lobby of the Gstaad Palace is buzzing with the frenetic energy of cocktail hour, but Robert is still, his hands folded before him. When he left Ali she was fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but black nylons, blow-drying her hair in the mirror. The way that she bent so lithely at the waist, he wanted her, but when he put his hands on her hips and kissed her neck she tossed her hair and said, “You’re the one who decided to have dinner with the billionaire.” As a poor consolation, she kissed him lightly on the lips, then giggled as she used her thumb to wipe off the lipstick she had left.
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the bar. Don’t go anywhere else,” said Robert.
“C’mon. I go where the night takes me. You can come find me.”
Her cavalier attitude made his blood boil, but it also made him want her like he hadn’t wanted her in years.
“Dr. Monroe?”
Robert is pulled from his daydream. “Yes?”
The larger of the two Al-Fayed bodyguards stands before him. “Come with me.”
Outside, Robert gets in the backseat of a Bentley SUV. Twenty minutes later, the car pulls into a parking garage beneath a large chalet.
“Is this the Sommerset Restaurant?” Robert asks.
“Change of plans,” says one of the bodyguards.
The door opens and Robert steps out into a room filled with pristine vintage Ferraris, each perfectly illuminated, each ready. He’s uncontrollably drawn to a long-nosed red 250 GTO. He reaches out his hand to touch the yellow crest on the side.
“Ah…I see your excellent taste in art extends to vintage cars as well.”
Robert turns to find a dashing older man with a long black beard, wearing an exquisitely tailored British suit and an Arab headdress.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Abdul Al-Fayed.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Al-Fayed. Is this a ’sixty-two?”
“Call me Abdul. You are close. It’s a ’sixty-three. Only—”
“Thirty-nine were ever made.”
“Yes, and a few of them crashed.” Mr. Al-Fayed laughs.
“And rebuilt to factory specs. It’s…magnificent.”
“Would you like to drive it?”
“No, no. But…could you start it?” Robert asks, suddenly full of boyish glee. “I can’t imagine many people even know the sound or the smell.”
“Yes, of course.” Abdul slides behind the driver’s seat. “Well? Get in!”
Robert gets in and surveys the round gauges, the gleaming shifter. Abdul primes the engine, turns the key, and the twelve cylinders come to life in an orchestral growl. Al-Fayed revs the engine a couple of times and takes it down to a nice idle.
“Sublime,” Robert says.
“Truly,” Al-Fayed responds.
They are well into the third course of dinner, all served by a private chef in Abdul’s dining room that looks out over the valley, when Al-Fayed says, “I love art too much.”
“Oh. I don’t think that’s possible. Beauty has its own power. We can feel reinvigorated by that.” Robert rises to look for a second out the window at the gleaming snow and a barn in the near distance emanating soft, sunset orange from the creases around the large door.
“Yes. But it’s my desire to possess that beauty—that is what gets me in trouble.”
“How so?” Robert asks as he sits back down and gives Al-Fayed his full attention.
“You see, I have bought pieces of art of…questionable provenance. One in particular that plagues me. It’s not my fault. People know I collect. They come to me when they have a need for a discreet sale. Really I should have someone of your expertise on staff—full-time.”
“The important thing is that you love the piece.”
“No. A false work of art is like a false lover or a false friend. It should be destroyed.”
“Well, uh…” Robert says, unsure how to respond. “How can I help you?”
“I have a Modigliani, or so it seems—I need to know if it’s authentic. I hold it in the Geneva Freeport. You will go there tomorrow, fully inspect it, and tell me if I have wasted fifty-seven million dollars or made ninety. And I will pay you for your time.”
“Mr. Al-Fayed, your generosity is unequaled, but I have plans with my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes—the reason I accepted the invitation from Christie’s. This little vacation is important to us…to rekindle a flame after drifting apart, if you know what I mean.”
“You would like to win her back? As if her heart was some kind of trophy?” Al-Fayed takes a sip of his drink and surveys the room thoughtfully.
“That’s one way of saying it. You find that…”
“Gallant.” Al-Fayed raises his glass toward Robert.
Robert smiles. “Thank you, sir.”
“Forgive me for being caught off guard. It’s just the relations you Westerners have with your wives are entirely foreign to someone like myself.”
“Thank you for understanding. It is very important to her that we spend this time together.”
“I shall pay you one hundred thousand euros.”
Robert swallows hard, lifts a shaky hand with cocktail to his mouth, and finishes off his drink. “Okay. First thing in the morning.”