Forbidden by Roberta Latow Page A

nude, prudish and flurried. It had always been assumed the reason had been a discreet and unpublicised romantic life. This new discovery would change history. The sale of the painting, and the book she had decided she would write on the history of it, were all running wildly through her mind. She would try and tie its publication in with the exhibiting of the painting if it was sold to the Louvre or the Metropolitan Museum in New York, two of the three buyers she had in mind. This was just the sort of thing that Amy enjoyed: to deliver a coup to the art world, make a client happy, earn enough money from her work to live well for the next two years,
and
be able to stay in the background of it all. She was thrilled to be going to Geneva, and that said a great deal. She didn’t much like Geneva.
    Tillie answered the door. The clear cellophane box of flowers was enormous and tied with a white satin bow. The end of the box had been removed and from it protruded the stems of three dozen white roses. They had come by courier from Constance Spry’s shop in London. She took them to the library at once.
    Amy was just closing her briefcase. Delight at the sight of the flowers shone in her eyes; she could always find time for flowers. She assumed that they had been sent by Charles but then remembered that his florist was Moyses Stevens. Anthony Kramer never sent flowers. A bauble from Tiffany’s from New York, something from Hermès in London or Loewe in Madrid was more his style.
    A new admirer? How flattering. What fun. ‘The Lalique vase, Tillie, they should look magnificent in it.’
    ‘These are the longest stemmed roses I have ever seen. Someone is smitten, Miss Ross,’ teased Tillie, and hurried off to fetch the antique piece that seemed to have been made for white roses – or so Miss Ross thought because she never put any other flowers in it.
    Amy pulled on the ribbon and the bow disintegrated in her hands. She removed the box’s lid and the small white envelope lying across the stems. The signature made her sit down and look once more at the roses lying in the box. She leaned over them and gathered them into her hands, pushing her face down among them. The scent was sweet. Amy was surprised and delighted at the extravagant gesture. She plucked a single rose fromthe box and sat back in her chair to contemplate its beauty. Then she read the card:
    All the flowers in the world are for you, Amy.
    Pete
    Geneva was a great success. This was the second sale that Amy would be handling for Annette and Pierre de Boulet. It had not been an easy decision for them to sell the Soutine but needs must. The proceeds would ensure that the rest of their art collection would remain intact and could be housed in the small private museum they intended to create on the ground floor of their Geneva house. It would still boast eleven Chaim Soutines. The doctor’s love of art and his access to the painters in Paris at a time just before the Great War had laid the foundations for a now large private collection. After the decision to sell the Soutine came another. The de Boulets asked Amy to compile the catalogue and to write a book on their collection in the distant future.
    These were the things occupying Amy’s mind now as she sat in a first-class seat on the plane from Geneva to London. Her meeting with the de Boulets could not have gone better. They appreciated her discretion in handling the sale. They were not ostentatious art collectors; even their museum would be by appointment only, and requests for admittance judiciously considered. Amy would not let them down.
    Her mind was racing. She tried to think of other things to slow it down. The staggering beauty of those threedozen white roses in the Lalique vase on her library table came to mind. And slowly she calmed down. This was the first time in days that she’d allowed herself the luxury of setting aside the Soutine business and the art world; she could afford to now, having