Danielle Steel - Remembrance

“Hello. I am Vasili.” He had a distinct but subtle accent, an interesting mixture of both British and Greek. He held out a hand to her and she shook it, and for an instant she was spellbound, and then suddenly she laughed in embarrassment, feeling foolish to have been so taken with the way he looked.

“I'm Serena.”

“Ah.” He held up a hand as though to command silence.” “The Princess.’ ” He bowed low, and then stood up with a broad grin, but even as he teased her his eyes seemed to caress her, and one felt an almost irresistible pull toward the broad chest and powerful arms. “I'm glad you could come here today to meet us.” Either he spoke in the royal we, or he was referring to his assistant, and Serena smiled.

“I thought we were going to be shooting.”

“No.” He held up the imperious hand again. “Never. Not on an important job like this one. My clients always understand that I must get acquainted with my subjects.” She couldn't help thinking that it was costing them a fortune, but apparently that didn't matter to him.

“What are we shooting?”

“You.” Obviously, but the way he said it made her feel unusually important, as though she were mere as herself, not just a model to make a dress or a car, or a set of towels, or a new brand of ice cream look good.

She tried a different tack, as his eyes gripped her. He never seemed to let go of her once with his eyes. It was almost as though she could feel him touch her, and she felt an odd stirring deep within. It was a stirring that she resisted, a feeling she pretended not to have, and yet for an instant she sensed that Vasili Arbus was going to become an important part of her life. It was almost as though she had a premonition, and she didn't have any idea why that should be. She forced her thoughts of him from her mind and returned to the questions about the sitting. “Who's the client?”

He told her and she nodded. They were going to be photographing her with children, two male models, and alone, in an important ad for a new car. “Can you drive?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I don't have an American license. You can drive me out to the beach and we'll shoot there.” For two hundred dollars an hour she wasn't usually asked to play chauffeur, but with him everything seemed so easy and natural and friendly that one wanted to go along with whatever he said. He looked at her with interest, and she knew that he was probably studying the planes of her face for the shooting, but she felt oddly naked as he watched her. She was used to arriving for a job, getting ready, and going to work in an almost anonymous fashion. It was odd and a little uncomfortable to be moving along at such an easy pace. It made her feel conspicuous as he looked at her, as though he was seeing her and all that she was and was not. Not just “The Princess,” the creation of the Kerr agency, but someone real. “Have you had lunch?” She looked instantly startled. In her year of modeling in New York no one had ever asked her if she was tired or hungry or sick or exhausted. No one had ever cared if she'd had lunch or not.

“I … no … I was in a hurry.…”

“No.” He wagged a finger at her. “Never, never rush.” And then, with a deliberate air, he set down his cup of coffee, said something in Greek to his assistant, and picked up a bright green Shetland sweater off a chair. “Come.” He held out a hand to her, and without thinking, she took it. They were halfway out the door before she remembered her things.

“Wait … my bag … I forgot it.…” And then, nervously, “Where are we going?”

“To get something to eat.” His smile dazzled her with its snowy perfection. “Don't worry, Princess. We'll come back.”

She felt foolish being so nervous around him, but his informal manner threw her off, and she didn't know what to expect from him. Downstairs was a silver Bentley with a chauffeur. He hopped in nonchalantly and spoke to his driver, this time in English, directing him to a place that Serena did not know. It was only when they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge that Serena began to worry.

“Where are we going?”

“I told you. To lunch.” And then he narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “Where are you from?”

She hesitated for a moment, not sure what he was asking. “New York …” and then, “the Kerr Agency.” But he laughed at her.

“No, no. I meant where you were born.”

“Oh.” She giggled nervously at him. “Rome.”

“Rome?” He looked at her, startled. “You're Italian?”

“Yes.”

“Then the title—it's real?” He looked astounded, and she nodded. “Well, I'll be damned.” He turned in his seat to smile at her. “A real princess.” And then, in Italian, “Una vera princi-pessa.” He held out his hand to her in formal Italian greeting. “Piacere.” He kissed her hand then and looked amused. “My English great-grandfather was a count. But his daughter, my grandmother, married beneath her, she married a man with an enormous fortune and no aristocratic connections at all. He made a great deal of money buying and selling factories, and in trade in the Far East, and their son, my father, must have been a bit of a madman. He patented a series of extraordinary gadgets that related to ships, and then got involved in shipping in South America and the Far East. Eventually he married my mother, Alexandra Nastassos, and managed to kill both himself and my mother in a yachting accident when I was two. Which”—he leaned toward her and spoke in a whisper—”is probably why I'm a little crazy too. No mother and father. I was brought up by my mother's family, because my father's parents were both dead by the time my parents died. So I grew up in Athens, went to Eton, in England, because they thought my father would have liked that. I got kicked out of Cambridge,” he said proudly, “moved to Paris, and got married. And after that it all became very boring.” The dazzling smile shone at her like a noonday explosion. “Now tell me about you.”

“Good Lord. In twenty-five words or less?” She smiled at him, more than a little awed by what he had just told her. The Nastassos name alone was enough to startle anyone. They were one of the biggest shipping families in Greece. And now that she thought of it, she vaguely remembered hearing about him. He was the black sheep of the family, and she thought she'd heard that he'd been married several times. The third time he had married it had been on the front page of the paper in San Francisco, he had married a distant cousin of the queen.

“What were you thinking?” He looked at her in a childlike, open fashion, in the enormous silver car, with the chauffeur staring stolidly straight ahead.

“I was thinking,” she said, looking at him honestly, “that I think I've read about you.”

“Have you?” He looked amused. “Let's see, you wouldn't have read about my marriage to Brigitte, she was my first wife and we were both nineteen. She was the sister of a boy I knew at Eton. But my second wife perhaps, Anastasia Xanios.” She loved the way his tongue slipped over his words, his accent was delicious. “You might have read about her, or perhaps Margaret”—he looked at her with his big black eyes—”the queen's cousin.” He was so outrageous that she laughed.

“How many times have you been married?”

“Four.” He answered her honestly.

She counted backward in her head and looked at him with a grin that matched his own. “Then you left one out.”

He nodded, but the smile dimmed. “The last one.”

“Which one was she?” Serena had not yet understood that this was not like the others.

“It was … she was French. She was a model.” And then he looked at Serena with dark, tragic eyes. “She died from an overdose last January. Her name was Hélène.”