Free The Keeper of Secrets by Julie Thomas Page B

Carlo Casino? And if he’s going to tell anyone the subject of his ice sculpture, it would be you.” He took a champagne flute from the gold tray on offer and smiled at the waitress.
    “Thank you. I’ll admit to a trip or two but only with Sergei, in a moment of . . . weakness. But I must protest, Countess, you know he hasn’t told me anything about it. Not even a hint. He wasn’t, to tell you the truth, overly impressed with Beethoven last year. The hair wasn’t right; it looked more like Jeremy Browne. So I think it might be a more ancient theme.”
    “Older than the eighteenth century?”
    “Much. My guess is . . . Bast.” He sipped his champagne, his brown eyes twinkling at her. She blinked at him and he could see her surprise.
    “What on earth did he write?”
    “ She, Countess. Bast was the Egyptian goddess of music. She’s usually portrayed as a lion, or a beautiful girl with the head of a cat, I believe. She would look just magnificent in ice. And it is time we had a woman, no?”
    She was about to comment when they were joined by Yuri Medvadev, a young artist who lived in New York and painted Mother Russia for a steady market of homesick compatriots. The countess turned to him.
    “Tell me, have you heard of—what was it, Maestro?”
    “Bast,” Rafael said with a small knowing smile in the Russian’s direction.
    “An Egyptian goddess, a lion, or cat with a female head. I believe she was in charge of physical pleasure, er, sex and so on, so she was probably quite busy. But why do you ask, Countess?” Yuri sounded perplexed.
    “Rafael! What have you been telling me?” The countess rounded on him in mock horror.
    “I never said she was just the goddess of music. It is a very appropriate combination, music and sex, yes? Actually, I think it’s more likely to be Chin-hua Niang-niang.”
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Valentino gesturing to him from over by the doors onto the terrace.
    “But if you’ll excuse me, I think I am being summoned,” he added.
    The countess laid her hand on his arm.
    “You can’t leave like that, my darling man. Who is this person? Another composer I’ve never heard of? I’m feeling positively ignorant tonight.”
    Rafael smiled a little guiltily.
    “I could leave it for you to find out before next year’s ball, but of course I wouldn’t be so annoying. He’s the Chinese god of the violin.” With that he took his leave and walked across the room to the doors.
    Valentino stood on the terrace, his enormous back to the room, gazing out at the sparkling city below them. As always, Rafael felt a fleeting sense of trepidation as he approached. Sergei Koylaovich Valentino was a vast man, six foot five and over four hundred pounds, his bulk hidden under impeccably cut Ralph Lauren shirts and Brioni suits. More impressively still, his attitudes matched his size. He lived life to the fullest and fulfilled his gargantuan appetites with boundless energy and enthusiasm.
    Rafael had known him for eight years and during that time had watched him donate tens of millions of pounds, dollars, and euros to numerous artistic and educational causes. Of course, Valentino could afford to—the man was worth billions, courtesy of the mineral and gas reserves of his homeland—but his generosity tended toward the spectacular. Rafael had never managed to shake off his nagging uncertainty over Valentino’s mental stability. On the surface the Russian was a charming, affable host with a huge laugh and Rafael knew many people considered him fortunate to be the confidant of such a remarkable man. Very few had seen the chilling, pale green eyes skewer an unfortunate employee with such swiftness it took Rafael’s breath away, or heard the lashing from his tongue. Behind that charm lay a brilliant mind and a violent temper, someone who, Rafael suspected, would make a formidable enemy.
    “I love this view. I never tire of it.” The English was heavily accented and the bass voice