Six hours to find a way to bargain. And nothing to bargain with.

63

Madrid

Her face swollen and bloodied, Gina pushed her way into Bartolomé’s office, his secretary trying to stop her but failing as Gina stood defiantly in front of Bartolomé’s desk, holding a blood-soaked cloth to her cheek.

‘Gabino did this.’

Waving away his secretary, Bartolomé offered Gina a seat. She was a different woman from the one he had seen at Leon Golding’s funeral, her eyes brilliant with malice, her sexuality suspended.

‘Look at what he did.’ Slowly she took away the cloth to reveal a deep knife cut three inches long running across her jaw line. She could see Bartolomé’s eyes widen as he stared at the injury and felt a moment of triumph. It would be worth it, after all.

Determined to have her revenge on Gabino, Gina had done something that would have seemed unbelievable only days before. Rocked from the beating he had given her, she had formed a plan so ruthless it took all her courage to set it in motion. Throughout her life beauty had been her calling card, her entrée to money and influential beds, but her allure was waning. She could no longer rely on looks and sex alone – that currency was devalued. The inflation of age had hobbled her.

Staring at herself in the mirror, Gina had felt the knife in her hand. It was light, but the blade was razor-sharp. For several moments she scrutinised herself, her heart thumping as she prepared to make the leap from using beauty to using cunning. Then finally she had lifted her hand and – in one movement – attacked her face.

At first the blade had sliced through the flesh easily, but then it had snagged on the bone, blood coming fast and warm as she clasped a cloth to the wound. Momentarily faint, it had taken her a moment to work up enough courage to look in the mirror. When she did, another Gina had confronted her.

Her face was ashen, but her eyes triumphant.

Of course Bartolomé didn’t know that Gina had injured herself, cutting her own face for a future she was determined to secure at any means.

‘You need a doctor.’

‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘But I had to come here and talk to you. Your brother did this.’ She showed him the bruises on her arms and forehead. ‘And these. He beat me. He kicked me. In the stomach, as if I was an animal. As if I was inhuman.’

Mute, Bartolomé leaned against the desk, staring at his brother’s ex-lover. To attack a man was one thing, to assault a woman quite another. But he was clever enough to realise that Gina hadn’t come to see him just to show him Gabino’s handiwork. There was a frigid determination about her, a calm infinitely more threatening than hysterics.

‘Why did he do it?’

‘We argued.’

‘About what?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’ Bartolomé repeated, surprised. ‘What about me?’

‘You know I was living with Leon Golding. He was working on Goya’s Black Paintings – he had a theory about them.’

‘Many people have theories,’ Bartolomé said warily, knowing that of the two of them, Leon Golding had always been more likely to solve the enigma first.

Gina nodded, then took a large crumpled envelope out of her bag and slammed it down on the desk. She could see Bartolomé’s eager glance and nodded.

‘Yes, that’s it. I took a copy. Leon never knew, no one knows. I don’t know why I did it, I just did.’

His hands ached to touch it, but he resisted, wanting to hear everything she had to say.

‘He had the Goya skull too.’ Gina could see she had his full attention and carried on. ‘Of course you know about that now – it’s in the USA – but when Leon first had it he was willing to sell it.’

The lie was perfectly formed, and did its damage.

‘Sell it?’

She nodded. ‘I told Gabino, because I knew how much you would want it. I begged him to tell you – but he wouldn’t. He refused, said why should he? He enjoyed denying you the thing you most wanted.’ Her voice was neutral, without malice, the words ripping into Bartolomé. ‘He laughed at you – always has done. Thinks he can do anything and you’ll never let him be punished. Thinks that the charge of assault will be crushed. That you’ll see to it that it never comes to court.’ Pausing, she touched the wound on her face. It was worth it – worth disfiguring herself to get revenge. ‘But he won’t get away with this. I’m going to the police. I’m going to make sure Gabino pays for this.’

Stunned, Bartolomé stared at her. But he wasn’t listening any more, just thinking about the Goya skull, and how his brother had made certain he wouldn’t get it.

‘You offered the skull to Gabino?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why not come to me direct?’

‘I know Gabino, and he lives in Madrid. You’re usually in Switzerland,’ she replied evenly. ‘Naturally I thought he’d pass on the news to you.’

‘He never did.’

‘No, I know that now. Bobbie Feldenchrist has the skull, doesn’t she?’

The words slashed into him. ‘What d’you want?’

‘For Leon’s theory?’ she asked, glancing at the envelope. ‘Nothing. I knew how distraught you’d be about the skull. I thought that maybe the theory would help make up for it.’

He shook his head.

‘No … that’s not all of it. Why are you really here?’

‘Your brother beat me up,’ Gina replied. ‘I want him put away. Jailed. I want to see him behind bars – and he will be, if I give evidence. If I go on the stand and tell the world about his excesses. People might forget him attacking men but they won’t forget him beating up a woman.’ She touched her face. It barely hurt with all the adrenalin rushing through her. ‘Of course a lot of other things will come out too. Gabino will retaliate. He plays dirty – he’ll want to drag you down with him.’

Bartolomé was breathing heavily. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘I want you to tell your brother to marry me.’

His astonishment was obvious. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me. I want to be Gabino Ortega’s wife.’

‘You still love him?’

‘No, I loathe him. I don’t want to love him, I want to punish him. For everything he said to me. For every bruise, for every sneer, I want to make his life a living hell. And in return I want to have the Ortega name and some of the Ortega money. I want security, a home, status.’ She paused, breathing in to steady herself. ‘Think about what he did to you – denying you your dream when it was offered to him on a plate. Gabino could have got you Goya’s skull. You could have had it in the Ortega collection, in Spain. You could have triumphed over everyone else in the art world. But he stopped it. He stopped you.’ Her eyes flickered with spite. ‘Give me my revenge and you’ll have your own. Being married to a woman he hates will burn into Gabino. Being shackled to someone he said was only worth fucking, will turn his brain.’ She laughed drily. ‘I don’t care which option you chose. I’ll go to court and ruin him, or you’ll see to it that I keep quiet, marry him and destroy his life. Either way, he’ll get what coming to him.’

‘And you?’

‘I had my chance of happiness, but I chose not to see it or take it,’ she replied, shrugging. ‘That’s my hell.’

‘It’s blackmail.’

‘I’m blackmailing Gabino, not you.’

‘What if he won’t agree to it?’

‘He will, if the alternative is having his allowance cut off and being thrown into jail.’

‘What if I don’t agree to it?’

‘Then I’ll go to the police and press charges.’

Gina raised the cloth to her face again, her eyes dead. Was he going to agree or not? She couldn’t tell, but she was determined to have the Ortega name and promote herself from penury to prosperity overnight. Lying had been no problem, but perhaps her manipulation had only got her so far. Perhaps Bartolomé needed one last little push.

‘You have a son. I don’t think you’ll want to endanger Juan’s future.’