One Dangerous Lady Read Online Free PDF Page A

from a private collection in France. Believed to have been lost in the war, it was considered to be one of the artist’s greatest pictures. Ethan, Miranda, and I all accompanied the Coles and the Watermans on the speedy private tour. We went inside and walked through the hallways, suites, and cabins of the yacht, marveling at the compact gracefulness of the boat, and at the great pictures. First-rate examples of artists like Monet, Renoir, Matisse, Picasso, plus a scattering of slightly lesser luminaries like de Vlaminck, Van Dongen, and Sisley, hung in immovable frames, all of which, we were quickly told, had alarms attached. Lit by unseen lights, the paintings shone like jewels against the dark mahogany paneling, gracing the interiors with a profound and unexpected beauty. Russell, a shy man who clearly didn’t like showing off his wealth or even the collection of which he was so proud, hurried us along without any commentary, forcing Gil to surreptitiously point out various works, whispering, “I sold them that,” or, “They got that from me.”
    Carla and Russell each had their own unconnected living quarters, large, lavishly appointed suites with walk-in closets, huge marble bathrooms with gold fixtures, and separate dressing and sitting rooms. In order to get from one cabin complex to the other, you had to walk out into a private corridor.
    Russell’s suite was sleekly furnished in shades of beige and gray. Curiously enough, there was almost no art in his cabin—just one picture, a stark gray-and-black Rothko above the bed, which I found depressing, and a miniscule Giacometti bronze sculpture, the skeletal figure of a man with a tormented face. Despite its luxury, the cabin had the impersonal feeling of a hotel room.
    Carla’s quarters were just the opposite. Her suite was decorated like a boudoir in an eighteenth-century hôtel particulier. No dark mahogany for her. The walls of her cabin were paneled with pale blue-and-white wood, distressed to make them look antique. In contrast to her husband, Carla preferred to live with watercolors depicting pretty country scenes and detailed interiors of royal rooms. In her dressing room hung a lovely little study of a woman seated on a chair wearing a flowing white dress and a large straw hat covered with a gauzy veil that partially obscured her face. The picture’s initial charm turned macabre on closer inspection, as the viewer realized that the faint outline beneath the veil was not, in fact, a face, but a skull. Carla stopped in front of the little oddity, explaining that it was an anonymous Dutch vanitas picture of the eighteenth century she had picked up for a pittance in a flea market in Paris.
    â€œI think it is most amusing, no?” Carla said as we passed it.
    â€œ No ,” Betty blurted out. “I mean yes ,” she quickly corrected herself, rolling her eyes at me. If Carla heard the slip, she ignored it.
    The tour concluded, we all trooped up to the main deck. There was still no sign of Max. Betty, who was fearless and at this point rather tipsy, said to Carla, “So where the hell is Lord Vermilion?”
    Carla smiled sweetly. “I am afraid that Max could not come tonight.”
    â€œWhat?” Betty screeched. “Why the hell not? We talked about the seating this morning! You were supposed to put him next to Jo, remember?”
    â€œI do not know,” Carla said with a shrug. “He canceled at the last moment.”
    Betty and I looked at each other. I have to admit, I felt somewhat of a letdown. Betty pressed Carla, asking her if Max had given any reason for the cancellation, but Carla was oddly evasive. She walked off saying she had to attend to her other guests. Later on, Miranda Somers, who knew the scoop on everybody, and who had in fact been the one who broke the story that Russell had left his wife of twenty-some years and had run off with Carla, told us the real reason that Max