The Picasso she'd had authenticated, and, despite the lack of provenance, the art world had gone mad over it. Mona had lent it to an art museum which could provide the best security, cleaning, and crowds to see it. She was entertaining offers from buyers for the Picasso and all the sketches and etchings Malcolm had given her, but she didn't want to sell them quite yet. The Picasso had been Malcolm's parting gift to her. Since he'd left her without giving her the child she'd wanted from him, she was reluctant to give up anything associated with him. Every single day she thought of him. She woke up remembering him. She fell asleep and dreamt of him. She pleasured herself fantasizing of him. And every day she came to The Red, unlocked the door, pushed back the curtains, and stared into his dark smiling eyes that stared back at her from inside the gilt frame. She'd hung the portrait of Malcolm where she'd once hung The Fox Hunt by Morland. In her mind, Malcolm was standing there staring at that painting, one hand on his hip, the other on his chin. In her heart, he would always be there. It was in her body where she wanted him, but that wasn't possible. If Malcolm had been forty or so in 1938, then he would be over one hundred now, making it unlikely he was still alive. Had it been his ghost that had come to her? Had he somehow traveled through time, or otherwise found a way into her in dreams? She didn't know; she would, most likely, never know. But he'd kept one part of his promise. He'd saved The Red. After the Picasso had been appraised in the millions of dollars, the collections agencies had stopped calling. The bank restructured her loan and she'd been able to take out a line of credit again, hire Gabrielle, have the gallery painted and repaired, and once more the art world was calling. She should have been so happy …
And yet.
Malcolm.
He'd said she could keep him and so she had. She kept him in a frame on the wall. It wasn't what she wanted, but it would have to do, wouldn't it?
Mona sighed. A tear fell from her eye and landed onto the auction catalog. Silly girl, crying over a man who'd paid her to have sex with him. Nonsense. She should act like the grown woman she was and not a lovesick schoolgirl. She yanked open her desk drawer to fetch a tissue and found a book of art she didn't recall putting in there. She took it out and found a page marked with a red velvet ribbon.
Malcolm?
She couldn't breathe. She had to force herself to inhale and exhale as she extracted the book from inside the drawer and laid it atop her desk. She opened the page to the ribbon and gasped.
A Rubens painting. The Rape of the Sabine Women, 1637.
Shivering in fear and shock, Mona stared at the famous painting. She knew it well. They'd studied it in one of her many art history courses. The painting, a riot of movement and color and light, depicted the famous abduction of the daughters of the Sabine men who had refused to allow the Roman men to marry into their families. Mona's mother had hated that the word raptio-meaning "abduction"-was translated into English as "rape." She said it made the women sound like victims, when in fact they bravely intervened during the subsequent war between the Sabines and the Romans to put a stop to the killing of their husbands by their fathers and the killing of their fathers by their husbands. But that was the sort of thing her mother would take issue with. Mona had reminded her that even if they hadn't been raped, they had been kidnapped and forced into marriage. Her mother waved the objection off and told Mona they'd been veritable prisoners of their fathers anyway, so it wasn't as if life was sunshine and roses before they were abducted. Mona accused her mother of applying her "beauty over truth" standard to history. Her mother had only scoffed and said, "You've never heard of the Holy Sabine Empire, have you? The Romans won for a reason." Mona had let the subject drop and had given the painting little thought since then.
Until now.
Mona rose from her chair and ran to the back room. She threw open the door and found … nothing. Nothing but paintings, sculptures, boxes, and supplies. Mona had moved the brass bed to her apartment. The back room was nothing but storage now. Malcolm certainly wasn't there. She'd half-expected to find him in a Roman centurion's uniform ready to throw her over his horse's saddle and ride off with her to his home where he would make her his wife. A nice fantasy, but only a fantasy.
Someone was playing a cruel trick on her. Mona closed the door to the back room behind her.
"I'll lock up now if you like," Gabrielle said in the office doorway.
"Yes, thank you," Mona said.
"Are you working late again?"
"Always."
"You work too much," Gabrielle said. "You should take time off. You know I can watch The Red for you and Tou-Tou. You haven't taken a day off since I started."