few months with my husband, but it all seems so long ago now.”
“How long is it?”
“Eight years.”
“Serena.” He looked at her squarely then, his black eyes brilliant with a kind of fire. “Would you work with me in Paris or London? I'd like to work with you again, and I don't spend that much time here.”
She thought about it for a moment. He was wonderful to work with, and together they created something very rare. There was an extraordinary undercurrent between them, she wasn't quite sure what it was, but it appeared in the photographs every time. “Yes, if I could make arrangements for my daughter.”
“How old is she?”
“Almost eight.”
He smiled at Serena. “You could bring her along.”
“Maybe. If it was only for a few days. She has to go to school.”
He nodded. “Let's think about it.”
“Are you leaving soon?” Serena looked disappointed, and she glanced at him as they passed through Washington Square and left the Village.
“I don't know.” He looked at her strangely. “I haven't decided yet. But I've almost finished all the jobs I came here to do.” And then he shrugged again, like a remarkably beautiful schoolboy. “Perhaps I should try to drum up more work.” Serena laughed. They had only been working together for a week, but their hours together had been so long and intense and filled with hard work and feeling that it was difficult to believe that they hadn't worked together at least a hundred times before. “What are you thinking?”
She looked at him with a smile. “That I like working with you, and that I'll miss you.” And then, almost shyly, “I've never become involved with any of the photographers before.”
“That was what Dorothea told me.” He looked at her teasingly. “She said that you are a pro, and that I wasn't to try any of my tricks on you.”
“Aha! Do you usually use tricks?”
She was teasing, but he was not when he answered. “Sometimes. Serena …”He seemed to hesitate and then decided to tell her. “I am not always the most circumspect person.” But that much was apparent about him. “Does that matter to you?”
“I don't think so.” She answered quickly, but she wasn't entirely sure what he meant. All photographers were a little wild sometimes. He wasn't the only one. The only thing different about him was that he had been married four times.
“You know.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “You are such an unusual woman that sometimes I don't know how to tell you what I'm thinking.”
“Why not?” She frowned, afraid that she had seemed stiff or perhaps stuffy. If they were to be friends, he should have been able to be himself. “Why can't you tell me what you think?” Her eyes clouded and he moved toward her and gently kissed her.
“Because I love you.” Time seemed to stand still as they stood there. “That's why. And you're the loveliest woman I ever met.”
“Vasili …” She lowered her eyes and then raised them again to look at him, but he didn't let her continue.
“It's all right. I don't expect you to love me. I've been a crazy man all my life. And one pays a price for that.” He sighed as he said it and smiled a sad little smile. “It makes one quite unsuitable for anyone decent.”
“Don't be silly.”
But he held up a hand again. “Would you want a man who had had four wives?” His eyes bore into her as he asked her.
“Maybe.” Her voice was soft as satin. “If I loved him.”
And his voice was as soft as hers. “And do you think you could love such a man … perhaps … if he loved you very, very much … ?”
As though the gesture were made by someone else, she felt herself nodding, and the next thing she knew she was crushed in his arms. But she found as she stood there that that was all she wanted. She wanted to be with him, to be his, to stand beside him forever, and when he kissed her this time, she felt her whole heart go out to him with her kiss.
He took her home to her apartment that night and left her outside her doorway. He kissed her as passionately as he had before, but he forced himself to leave her at the door. He was back again though the next morning, with fresh coffee and croissants, a basket of fruit, and an armful of flowers, and she opened the door