The interior of the gallery was dim and cool, a respite from the out-of-doors. In her private office Olivia threw a switch that opened the blinds and security grills. Then, as was her habit, she went upstairs to the exhibition rooms to make certain nothing was missing. The Lichtenstein, Basquiat, and Dubuffet displayed in her window were but the tip of the gallery’s inventory. Olivia’s substantial professional collection included works by Warhol, Twombly, de Kooning, Gerhard Richter, and Pollock, along with numerous French and Spanish contemporary artists. She had acquired wisely and developed a reliable clientele among the megarich of the C?te d’Azur—men like Dmitri Antonov, she thought. It was an extraordinary achievement for a woman with no university degree and no formal artistic training. And to think that a few short years earlier she had been managing a little gallery that dispensed the scribblings of local artists to the sweaty tourists who staggered off the cruise ships and motor coaches. Sometimes she allowed herself to think she had arrived at this place as a result of her determination and business acumen, but in truth she knew better than that. It was all Jean-Luc’s doing. Olivia was the public face of the gallery and it bore her name, but it was bought and paid for by Jean-Luc Martel. So, for that matter, was she.

After determining that her collection had survived the night intact, she went downstairs and found Monique, her receptionist, preparing a café crème at the automatic maker. She was a skinny, small-breasted girl of twenty-four, a Degas dancer come to life. Evenings, she worked as a hostess in one of Jean-Luc’s restaurants. She looked as though she’d had a late night. Where Monique was concerned, that was more often than not the case.

“You?” she asked as the last of the steaming milk gurgled and spat into her cup.

“Please.”

Monique handed Olivia the coffee and prepared another for herself. “Any appointments this morning?”

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?”

Monique made a face.

“Who was it this time?”

“An American. So adorable. He’s from somewhere called Virginia.” Spoken by Monique, it sounded like the most exotic and sensual place in the world. “He raises horses.”

“I thought you hated Americans.”

“Of course. But this one is very rich.”

“Will you ever see him again?”

“Maybe tonight.”

Or maybe not, thought Olivia. She had once been a girl like Monique. Perhaps she still was.

“If you consult your calendar,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll discover that Herr Müller is coming at eleven.”

Monique frowned. “Herr Müller likes to look at my tits.”

“Mine, too.”

In fact, Herr Müller liked looking at Olivia more than at her paintings. He was not alone. Her looks were a professional asset, but on occasion they were a distraction and a waste of time. Rich men—and some not so rich—made appointments at the gallery just to spend a few minutes in her presence. Some screwed up the nerve to proposition her. Others fled without ever making their true intentions known. She had learned long ago how to project an air of unavailability. While technically single, she was JLM’s girl. Everyone in France knew it. It might as well have been stamped on her forehead.

Monique sat down at the glass receptionist’s desk. It had only a phone and the appointment calendar. Olivia didn’t trust her with much else. All of the gallery’s business and administrative affairs she saw to herself, with help from Jean-Luc. Monique was but another work of art, one that if so moved was capable of answering the phone. It was Jean-Luc, not Olivia, who had given her the job at the gallery. Olivia was all but certain they were lovers. She did not resent Monique. In fact, she pitied her a little. It would not end well. It never did.

Herr Müller was ten minutes late in arriving, which was not like him. He was fat and florid and smelled of last night’s wine. A recent confrontation with a plastic surgeon in Zurich had left him with an expression of perpetual astonishment. He was interested in a painting by the American artist Philip Guston. A similar work had recently fetched twenty-five million in America. Herr Müller was hoping to acquire Olivia’s for fifteen. Olivia turned him down.

“But I must have it!” he exclaimed while staring unabashedly at the front of Olivia’s blouse.

“Then you’ll have to find another five million.”

“Let me sleep on it. In the meantime, don’t let anyone else see it.”

“Actually, I’m planning to show it this afternoon.”

“Demon! Who?”

“Come now, Herr Müller, that would be indiscreet.”

“Is it that Antonov character?”

She was silent.

“I went to a party at his villa recently. I barely survived. Others were not so fortunate.” He chewed at the inside of his lip. “Sixteen. But that’s my final offer.”

“I’ll take my chances with Monsieur Antonov.”

“I knew it!”

At half past twelve Olivia dispatched him into the midday heat. When she returned to her desk she saw that she had received a text message from Jean-Luc. He was boarding his helicopter for a flight to Nice, where he had meetings all afternoon. She tried to text him back but received no reply. She supposed he was already airborne.