Precious Gifts by Danielle Steel Page A

moved her out of the way, her children could have been burying her, too. It was a sobering thought. They both sat for a long moment, admiring the view. It was peaceful under the Roman sky at dusk. He walked to the railing then, and she joined him as they looked down at the spot where he had almost run her over. The traffic looked insane from there, and the fountain more beautiful than ever.
    “I made three wishes today,” she said wistfully, thinking of the three coins she had thrown in.
    “Then they will come true,” he said, smiling at her. “Wishes are magic. You’re a good person—that’s why you were saved today.”
    “I’m not so sure of that,” she said with a cautious smile, beginning to feel the effect of the champagne. He had filled her glass again. “I think I was just lucky.”
    “We get the luck we deserve,” he said, sounding profound, as he set down his glass and looked at her. “Will you have dinner with me?” She was startled by the invitation and wondered what had happened to the girl in the bedroom. He didn’t seem concerned.
    “I’m not in any state to go out,” she said, indicating the wrinkled dress she had pulled out of her suitcase in haste to see the doctor, and her battered knees and hands.
    “We can have dinner here. The food is very good,” he said simply. In spite of the fancy car and obviously expensive trappings of his life, he was without artifice, and he liked talking to her. He never met women like her, and spent all his time with young girls who were there for the money. Véronique was from a different world. He handed her the room service menu then and ordered for her.
    They sat chatting on the roof, about Rome, and art. They talked about Venice, and the painting Paul had left her. Their dinner arrived half an hour later with three waiters to serve it. She had ordered truffle pasta and lobster salad at his insistence, and he had ordered caviar as their first course. It was a sumptuous meal, and the sommelier had chosen an excellent wine to go with it, a Chassagne-Montrachet.
    By the end of dinner, Véronique was relaxed, had had a wonderful time talking to him, and felt a little tipsy. Not drunk, but pleasantly relaxed and giddy. It had turned into a most unusual day, she had almost been killed on the streets of Rome, and now she was having dinner on the most extraordinary terrace in the world, with one of the most powerful men on the planet. She couldn’t even imagine explaining it to her daughters. And she knew that what he had said was true. She had to seize life with both hands and enjoy every moment. He looked as though he did, with his yachts and planes and houses, exotic cars, and racy women. And he was clearly having a good time with her.
    After the waiters left and took the tray away, Véronique thanked him for dinner and said she thought she should go to bed. It had been an exciting day, and he had told her he was leaving early in the morning on his plane to go to London—he had business there.
    He walked her back to her suite and handed her his business card. All his numbers were on it, and he had asked for hers before they left his suite. He promised to call her, and reminded her of his dinner invitation in the South of France.
    “And be careful crossing the street!” he admonished her, looking fatherly for an instant, and she smiled.
    “I had a lovely time tonight, Nikolai. Thank you, and I’m sorry I was so much trouble.” She still felt guilty for her part in their near disaster. He had more than made it up to her for what had happened. He had been kind and attentive and generous with his time, and the meal. It had been entirely unexpected, and she appreciated it.
    “You’re a very troublesome woman”—he wagged a finger at her—“and a dangerous one with those big blue eyes.” No one had ever called her dangerous before, and it startled her. Their lives had almost been changed irreparably that day, and they were both grateful that nothing