Page 84 of Marked By Moonlight
“Who?” Anastasia crooned, clearly displeased.
“Nils Øren Jensen,” he repeated, icy blue eyes still fixed on the painting.
He was in his early forties, I estimated, with thinning, unkempt hair and very pale skin. Clearly, he didn’t get out much. According to Roux’s files, the guy had a brain the size of London but, yeesh. Zero social skills.
Anastasia frowned at me, and I flipped through my clipboard of notes. “Um, Mr. Jensen isn’t on my schedule.”
He didn’t seem to hear or care, creating a truly awkward moment. One I felt compelled to smooth over, though it wasn’t of my making.
“I believe Mr. Jensen works in software,” I said, stepping to the door.
He nodded absently. “Neuro-mapping software, but I’m moving into neuroaesthetic optimization.”
Neuro-what?I wondered.
“Well, he’s not on the schedule,” Anastasia declared.
I opened the door, confronting Roux, who didn’t even have the grace to look apologetic.
“Gordon added him to the schedule,” he said curtly. “He believes Madame Petrova will find it worthwhile to hear out Mr. Jensen.”
Anastasia crossed her arms and glared.
“I don’t like him,” she announced as if Jensen weren’t even there.
He moved to consider the painting from a new angle, unperturbed. Either he hadn’t heard, or he was accustomed to inciting that kind of reaction. People skills were definitely notpart of his portfolio — a very hefty portfolio, if I remembered correctly.
Anastasia huffed. “I said—”
“Eighty-six million,” Jensen cut in.
Anastasia looked stunned, then offended. “Are you suggesting money is all I’m after, young man?”
“I’m suggesting a price. Everything else is irrelevant,” he said in one of those enviably unaccented Scandinavian “accents.”
I shivered. What a scary world he lived in. Doubly scary, because Roux’s brief had noted that Jensen’s billions afforded him insider access to politicians and other influential figures.
“Eighty-six million dollars in an offshore account that no one has to know about,” Jensen went on.
We all stared.
“Not even that woman suing you for her share of your late husband’s estate,” Jensen added, pointing his laser gaze at Anastasia. “His illegitimate daughter, correct?”
My jaw dropped. This was straight out ofOprah.
Anastasia stiffened. “His daughter from before our marriage.”
Jensen shrugged. “Neither she nor anyone else needs to know about the painting or our transaction.”
I stared. Was that a threat?
Every potential buyer had signed a nondisclosure agreement, but I had the feeling Jensen was accustomed to finding ways around such things. If there really was an illegitimate daughter suing for part of the Petrov estate, and if she discovered that it included a painting as valuable asThe Tower of Blue Horses… Well, not optimal for Anastasia.
Her eyes blazed as she came to the same conclusion.
“Do you know anything about art?” she huffed. “Do you care?”
The man had the air of someone who would sell out his own mother, so no. I really doubted it.
