Page 149 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

He laid down his cutlery and eyed her without expression.

“Delvecchio,” she said with a sigh. “Mario Delvecchio.”

“What’s his story?”

“The usual one. A failed painter who takes his revenge on the art world with a palette and a brush. He lives in an isolated villa in southern Umbria. He’s extraordinarily well educated and trained. And quite beautiful, I must say. We became lovers during my stay. Unlike you, he’s familiar with female pleasure centers.”

“Is there something else I can do for you?”

“I’d love some more of this Sancerre.”

Phillip signaled Señora Ramírez. “Does your lover have any other finished works lying around?”

“None that I’m inclined to introduce to the market at this time.I’ve asked him to cool it on the masterpieces for a while and concentrate on mid-level works that I can move under the radar.”

“What are we going to do about his partner? This Alessandro Calvi fellow?”

“Now that Mario and I are sleeping together, I think I can convince him to part company with Signore Calvi.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“You know there’s no one but you, Phillip.” She patted the back of his hand reassuringly. “The truth is, I’m more worried about he who shall not be named than I am about Signore Calvi.”

“Let me worry about him.”

“How will he feel about having an Old Master stablemate?”

“I never promised him exclusivity.”

Magdalena raised her wineglass to her lips. “Where have I heard that one before?”

Phillip adopted a new expression—caring friend and sexual partner. It was even less authentic than Phillip the intellectual and art world sophisticate. “What’s got into you?” he asked.

“Besides you, you mean?” Magdalena laughed quietly at her own witticism. “I suppose I’ve just been thinking about my future, that’s all.”

“Your future is assured.”

“Is it really?”

“Have you checked your balance lately? You could retire tomorrow and spend the rest of your life lying on a beach in Ibiza.”

“And if I did?”

Phillip made no reply; he was staring at his phone again.

“Who is it now?”

“Nicky Lovegrove.” He sent the call to voice mail. “Several of his clients are trying to cash out of my fund.”

“My money is in that fund.Allof it.”

“Your money is safe.”

“You also once assured me that you were going to turn me into aSpanish Damien Hirst. But it was nothing more than a clever ploy on your part to put a little cash in my pocket.”

“It wasn’t a little cash, as I recall.”

“Where are they?” asked Magdalena suddenly.