Читать книгу Playing With Fire - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 8

SOHO ON A FRIDAY NIGHT was familiar, but as far from home as Lara Gladstone could imagine. There had been rain earlier in the evening, enough to freshen the air and make the elaborate facades of the cast-iron warehouses gleam. An abundance of lights, pedestrians and traffic blurred together into a melange of city life, an animated stream that flowed continually along the narrow street. Its cobbled Belgian bricks glistened like fish scales, reflecting and refracting the carnival of color.

Lara looked up, forgetting that the stars weren’t visible the way they were at home; the glow of city lights hung like gauze across a patch of charcoal sky. Remembering the deep night skies and woody wet cedar smells of her home in the Adirondack Mountains made her shiver.

“You’re cold.” Daniel took his hot palm off the small of her back—he’d placed it where the open vee narrowed—and shrugged out of his suit jacket. Standing close behind her, he dropped the jacket over her shoulders. She shuddered into its warmth. His fingers brushed across her nape to gather up the loose strands of her hair. A small tug at her scalp, and he’d pulled her straggling hair free of the collar. Her head rolled to one side, like the blossom of a tulip grown too heavy for its stem. She was touched by his chivalry.

“Better?” he asked huskily, shooting sparks along her spine.

She straightened, nodding. “I had a wrap. I left it inside.”

“Should I go back?”

“No!” She gripped the jacket’s lapels, thrilled to have avoided a second round of meet-and-greet with her dealer Kensington Webb and his well-curried art collector clients. Kensington would be disappointed in her, no doubt, but she couldn’t take another minute of explaining her “vision” to the uptown elite.

There had been a time when she’d sworn to conquer that scene. No longer. If she’d had her choice, she’d have skipped tonight’s event altogether and stayed at Bianca’s to laugh and gab and eat with her real friends. But Kensington, in his subtle slinky octopus way, had worked hard to convince her to attend. And he was trying to push her work beyond craft, into the realm of museum-quality collectible art. Too many people believed stained glass belonged only in craft fairs and church windows.

In no hurry to move along, Daniel put his hands on her waist. She leaned even closer, remembering the expression in his eyes when he’d stepped back and really looked at her stained-glass panel. He’d gotten it, without her having to explain in complicated, pretentious jargon. His reaction was the kind of simple reward she cherished, more precious than the prestige of having her work selected for display at SoHo’s newest chichi eatery.

She slid her palms along his shoulders, down his arms. Her fingertips fluttered toward his. His eyes were locked on her face as he took her hands. A heated awareness of every magnificent inch of him flushed across her cheeks. He threaded their fingers, giving her a small half smile. Enchanted by the moment—the man—she looked her fill, staring like a greedy child until it felt as if her skin had grown plump and glossy with satisfaction. He was uniquely her match. She knew it instinctively.

Pedestrians continued to flow around them. Finally someone muttered, “Get a room,” and they widened their eyes and laughed, breaking apart, then coming together again. They walked to the corner with their hands linked. “We’ll go for a drink first,” he said, and she thought, Daniel, so chock-full of pleasure at the sound of his name in her head that she only belatedly wondered what came “second.” They crossed the intersection among a flurry of traffic and turned toward Mercer Street, their footsteps ringing on the metal vault covers of the loading bays.

Lara’s head was catching up to her impulses. She was astonished at her daring, but intrigued by the direction it had taken her. How far would she let it go?

Earlier, Daniel had drawn her attention as soon as she’d shed Kensington’s fawning attentions and taken a good look around the restaurant. There were other business types mixed in with the artsy uptown crowd, but only Daniel had exuded such a distinctive aura. Already feeling unlike herself in the costumey dress and out-of-use social mask, she’d decided right then to play a little game with him. At first the relationship she’d sensed between him and the pale woman with a casque of ebony hair had been disconcerting, but that had turned out all right.

She and Daniel were free, young and single—there was no reason not to follow her impulses. True, the strength of the attraction was alarming. She wasn’t sure how to curb it.

Or even if she wanted to.

He held her hand tightly as they plunged through a milling crowd of revelers who’d just emerged from one of the upscale loft buildings. She shot him an oblique glance. Chemistry like this was rare. Why not play it out?

They entered a trendy bar—was there any other kind in SoHo?—through vast glass doors, a place known for its funky pseudo-Adirondack style. It was packed with club crawlers, the black-and-white cowhide couch lined with preening fashionistas. Lara lifted her face toward the heavy log beams that spanned the ceiling, seeking a gulp of untainted oxygen. The air was thick with smoke and a constant buzz of gossip.

It was strange to think that she’d once belonged to a similar crowd, though hers had put less emphasis on designer labels and more on individuality. After a few years of struggle by day—she’d tried everything from waitressing to window dressing before her art had become self-supporting—and partying by night, she’d burned out on both and had taken herself to the country. It was there she’d found her best inspiration.

Daniel tugged on her hand. “Follow me.”

They’d been granted a tiny table for two, where they shared a brocade padded bench tucked away in a dark corner beneath a set of antlers. Two icy cold green-apple martinis arrived at the table and she downed a third of hers in one big gulp, hoping the liquor would cut through her otherworldliness. The animated stream of Manhattan nightlife was now wavering like a dream sequence; she blinked and watched the colors weave in and out.

I am light-headed. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her chest and she swallowed it down again.

It was because she’d been alone so much, she decided. But she hadn’t felt out of place at Bianca’s with all her old friends, even though she’d lost touch with many of their current references. What was truly odd was returning, older and wiser, to play dress-up among the glitterati of SoHo. The liquor wasn’t helping in that regard.

No, that’s not all, Lara amended in the next instant. The blame was mostly Daniel’s.

Each time he turned his sharp gray eyes upon her face, she lost touch with the principles that guided her hard-won sense of self. Her intentions—to say nothing of her caution—tumbled into the chasm his eyes blasted into her concentration and when, after several minutes, she came back to herself, she was…unrestrained. Loose all over, like butter in the sun. Oiled like a hinge. The harsh lights and vivid colors burned her eyes. She found herself saying the most provocative things.

Helpless to resist, she leaned toward Daniel, drawn by his compelling masculinity. He was as magnetic as the great Broadway actor she’d met years ago at her father’s stone farmhouse in Umbria. In a swoony Welsh accent, the notorious old goat had told Lara that he wanted to take her to his homeland, that she must see Aberystwyth and the Vale of Glamorgan. His spell was so potent she’d been all but ready to hop a boat…until he’d stuck his hand up her skirt.

Daniel was less inclined.

Thus far.

Lara laughed freely at nothing in particular, except perhaps the heady whirlwind of an attraction that was so deeply sexual it had to be more than sexual. She sensed a possibility of long-term desire…if she played her cards right, remembered her limitations and kept her cool. The latter didn’t seem likely. She crossed her legs, widening the gap in her skirt.

Daniel put his hand on her kneecap. Her nerve endings hummed with pleasure.

She buried her nose in the mahogany-brown hair that curled behind his ear. He had the ears of a satyr; she wanted to nibble on the tip, suckle at the lobe.

“Mmm, Camille,” he murmured when she licked at his ear.

The name was part of her game. It provided the mask that was her safety net. Having grown up as the daughter of a legendary Man of Arts, watching the sycophants, dealers and scholars that revolved around him, hungrily snatching at his soul, she understood the value of simple anonymity.

“Tell me about yourself.” Daniel caught her chin in his big hot hand. She wanted to feel those hands all over her, blasting their heat into every hidden crevice like a relentless Mediterranean sun. “Let me guess. You’re…an artist?”

To avoid his intense gaze, she ducked under the tumbledown mess of her hair. “Some might say so.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well. You know.” She shrugged. “It’s a man’s world. Women’s work isn’t taken as seriously.”

“It’s the twenty-first century,” he said.

She laughingly overrode him, insisting, “No, no, in the art world it’s still 1900.”

“What do you do?”

She swallowed a private smile. “I sculpt.”

“Were you one of the artists with a piece on display at the restaurant?”

“Yes.”

When he frowned, two lines intersected in a vee an inch above the bridge of his nose. His brows were luxuriously thick, but as well-groomed as the rest of him. His nose was a strong beak, matched by a granite jaw. “I’m sorry. There was a lot of art there, but I don’t remember seeing any sculpture. Did I overlook it?”

“Probably. But that’s to be expected. Auguste gets all the credit.” She puffed wisps of hair out of her eyes, amused at Daniel’s confusion.

“I’m lost,” he said, absently stroking her collarbone, sending the tempo of her pulse sky-high.

“As am I.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

She ducked under his arm and snuggled against him. “That’s the fun of it.”

“All right. I’ll play along.” He said this with such a weightiness she laughed again.

“It’s the weekend, Daniel. Forget about Nasdaq and Alan Greenspan and all the bulls and bears and other nasty beasties. Take a few hours off. Have some fun.” She crinkled her nose at him. “Do you know how to do that?”

“Oh, yes.” His baritone went right through her. “I know how.”

“I’ll just bet you do.” She gave her response equal weight, teasing him.

They skipped briefly over his career at a stuffy old brokerage house and how the world would spin off its axis if ever the market were to crash. She said that he could prop it up on his shoulders. He chuckled and nudged his untouched glass toward her empty one. She liked it that he could laugh at himself, though it was clear that he took his position as a Bairstow & Boone financial analyst—and newly minted partner—very, very seriously. There was an ambition in him that matched her own. Not a naked, greedy, soulless ambition, but the driven, meaningful, solid-as-bedrock sort.

“Harvard Business School,” she guessed, even though he didn’t seem Ivy League.

He nodded and narrowed his eyes, looking her over. “Cooper Union?”

She’d gone to Rhode Island School of Design. “I apprenticed to a sculptor in Paris,” she said, spinning her tale. “He was older, famous, domineering. He’d seduced me by the time I was twenty-one. Abandoned me some years thereafter.”

Daniel scowled, carving out another vee. “This Auguste guy?”

“That would be the one.”

“Never heard of him.”

She waved a hand. “He’s dead. But you can see his stuff in museums across all continents.”

“This is a joke?”

“It’s a universal truth.”

He looked lost again, but he was catching on. “Poor little artist,” he said. “You need a patron.”

“Oh, no. I prefer my Bohemian existence. Living day by day, scrounging in flea markets, peddling drawings for pennies, having fabulous affairs with rich, important men who grovel after every twitch of my skirt…” His opening.

The man was not slow on the uptake. “In this particular skirt,” he said, running his fingertips along her bare right leg, making her glad she’d skipped the hose, “a twitch is a mind-bending experience.”

Little did he know. Her recent garb was anything loose and sloppy—oversize shirts and elastic-waist shorts, long knit tunics paired with pajama bottoms. A by-product of having no one around to impress. Being fashionable was rather nice, for a change.

“What,” said Daniel, leaning closer so his lips were a millimeter away from touching her cheek, “are you wearing under this dress?”

“Besides a piercing?”

“Mmm.”

Her lashes dropped. “Don’t you want to find out on your own?”

“Now?”

She lifted a shoulder, challenging him with her silent acquiescence.

He reached, pressing against her. His hand curved around her bare thigh. Her breath caught short. With a placement that was devastating in its precision, he inserted his fingertips into the seam of her crossed legs from behind. Suddenly she was hot as a coal furnace, the muscles in her belly and inner thighs quivering as she squeezed her legs together. The noise of the bar receded to a distant hum; all she heard was the heavy sound of their combined breathing. Her pulse beating hard and fast. Pom, pom, pom.

“Up another inch,” she said. A dare.

His fingertips slid a tickling half inch. Pom-pom-pom.

She was molten. “Nearly there.”

His thumb brushed across the critical juncture. Pompompompompom.

“I can’t,” he said with a gust of an exhale, briefly squeezing her buttock in his hand. “Not here.” His breath was hot and lusty. “Let’s go. I’d rather grope you—” he grinned “—in private.”

She was giddy, feverish. “No one here cares.”

His voice seethed in her ear. “You little exhibitionist.”

Apparently so. Another surprise. It was this man and this man alone, she thought again, downing his drink in several long gulps, not even caring if he was trying to get her drunk. She was becoming determined to see how far they were willing to go. Probably not the wisest move she’d ever made, but she’d been cooped up alone too long, working in blissful solitude. This weekend was her chance to break free.

What she needed was an adventure.

A…game.

With no rules.

But one.

THEY SAT AND CHATTED like normal people for another fifteen minutes. Daniel’s fingertips tingled. The tragedy of the near miss. Although he had trouble concentrating, nothing Camille said seemed to make a lot of sense anyway. Airy remarks about Montmarte, the art academy and Auguste’s betrayal. Daniel believed she was toying with him. In most circumstances, he wouldn’t tolerate it. Tonight, however, her frank desire had trumped his need for control.

She’d knocked him off balance. And here he sat, nodding and happy, all because he had to know what, if anything, she wore under her dress.

Blast. She’d reduced him to pliancy, and he was never pliant. Not since his youth in the backwater of West Virginia, when he’d looked at his unenterprising parents and his good-for-nothing older brother and set his mind upon the goals that would save him: education, career, success.

No distraction had been attractive enough to stay him from his course…until Camille.

What a woman.

What a tease.

He focused on her face. The small round face with laughing green eyes. He memorized the shapes her lips made as she prattled on about Paris. He stroked her hand. Suddenly her words were tumbling over each other like upended building blocks. She stopped and caught her lower lip between her teeth, then excused herself to find the ladies’ room.

He stood to watch her legs as she walked away, only to be punched in the solar plexus by a desire so strong it took his breath away.

Where were they going with this? Unmoving amongst the push and pull of the enthusiastic weekend crowd, Daniel took a silent inventory. He was on top of his game—thirty-six, single, gainfully employed in the toughest market in the world. All his goals had been achieved. From here on out, maintenance was the key. He didn’t intend to slack off—ever—but he could finally afford a bit of…recreation.

He wanted Camille for more than a one-night stand. It was only supposition at this point, but he imagined that she might be the kind of woman who’d change his life.

“Good,” he said to himself rather fiercely, and there was such emotion in his voice that the exotic eyes of a young woman with hair like a black satin waterfall lit up with interest. She smiled an invitation, but he had already turned away and seated himself at the small round table, thinking only of Camille. He excelled at narrowing his focus to what mattered most. Tonight the lioness was in his sights.

Feeling less pliant, he removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves, then sat back to wait for her return. She didn’t take long. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as she slid in beside him. Beneath his draped jacket, her body was long and lean in the matte gold dress. A sylph. “I have a humble flat on East Tenth,” he said. “Between First and Second Avenue. It’s not far.”

“Really.” She looked stunned. “The East Village.”

“We can go there,” he explained patiently. “Ah, hmm.”

He took her hand. “Come with me.”

She resisted. Out of sheer feminine contrariness, he supposed, as up to now her signals had been blatant. “Not so fast,” she said, tugging free. “You wanted terms.”

“I don’t remember asking for terms.”

She traced a blunt unpolished fingernail through the hair on his arm above the wide band of his steel wristwatch. “Let’s strike a deal.”

He froze. Was she a professional? Surely not.

Then again, how many men got so lucky without there being qualifications?

He assumed his fiercest analyst’s expression, good for facing down squirrely traders and instilling confidence in wishy-washy clients. “Money,” he suggested, heavy on the dubious connotation. Money was a commodity he valued. Money was both straightforward and negotiable. He valued it less for the lifestyle it bought—although he could appreciate that—than for its clear-cut measure of his success.

He didn’t want this to be a matter of money.

“Money?” Camille’s eyes rolled. “You have got to be kidding. This isn’t a business deal.”

“Then what is it?”

She slid her palm over his forearm, her strong fingers massaging into muscle. He felt the touch deep inside, as if she’d been granted unlimited access to the very heart of him. “It’s pleasure.”

His head inclined. “A pleasure deal?”

“A pleasure game.”

“With terms?”

She nodded. “Let’s keep this straightforward right from the start. Makes for fewer complications later.”

The feeling inside him spread fiery tentacles. As long as there would be a “later,” he’d go along with whatever rules she set. “I’m game,” he said, reaching under the jacket, still thinking about what did or did not lie beneath her dress.

She shifted, momentarily bringing her breast into contact with his hand. It was a perfect handful, firm and round, unbound by a brassiere. Every thought in his head stuttered to a halt until he realized with a jolt that she was only leaning forward to shrug out of his jacket. He removed his hand. As slowly as possible.

She stood and tossed the jacket over his shoulder, pressing down when he started to rise. “Stay here.”

Part of the game? He was ready to toss her on the nearest flat surface, audience be damned.

“But—” he said.

“Not tonight.” She leaned over him. “Tomorrow. Let’s both think this over, decide on terms, and then make a clear-headed decision about continuing.” Her peacock lids blinked. “Tomorrow is soon enough.” He opened his mouth and she plucked at his lips, giving him a soft, supple kiss that set off a few alarm bells in his head. The loose tendrils of her hair brushed his face like cobwebs. “Tomorrow,” she promised.

“But,” he said again, feeling thick and stupid with desire, “I don’t know your name. I don’t know where you—”

“Camille.” Her eyes danced. “Camille Claudel.”

She might have caught him in her web, but that didn’t make him gullible. He grunted. “Camille. Right.”

She flicked the tip of her tongue against his lip, said in a throaty whisper, “Your move, Daniel,” then turned and walked swiftly out of the bar. He stared, the subtle jiggle of her derriere smiting him between the eyes. As the crowd closed around her, he decided with a dead-on certainty that she’d worn not so much as a stitch beneath her dress the whole time. And as badly as he wanted to go after her, he found he could not move. He was stone. Dank, dense stone. His face was hot; sweat beaded on his upper lip.

Eventually his brain began to clear. The jacket slid off his shoulder. He caught it, reaching absently for the fancy silk square that Tamar had folded into the pocket right before they left the office.

The swatch of fabric was pressed beneath his nose before he realized that it wasn’t a pocket square at all. The scent…

Pure enticement.

He lowered his hand, watching in stupefaction as Camille’s tiny silk panties blossomed like a golden lotus across his leaden fingers.

“CAMILLE CLAUDEL,” Tamar said with her usual crisp efficiency the next morning. Daniel always worked on Saturdays, but Tamar did not. She’d met him at the office by personal request. “Lived 1864 to 1943. She was an artist—a sculptor. The apprentice, collaborator and mistress of Rodin.”

“Auguste Rodin,” he said, wishing he’d taken that college course in art history.

“Best known for The Thinker and The Kiss.” Tamar handed him printouts of the famed statues, still warm from the printer. “Rodin, that is. Claudel’s work sank into obscurity until revived by a fairly recent interest. There was a movie, Camille Claudel, starring Isabelle Adjani. Shall I get you the DVD? And the screenplay?”

He was usually thorough to the smallest detail in his research. This once, as the project pertained only to his personal life, such lengths weren’t necessary. He wasn’t evaluating a multinational conglomerate—just outfoxing one naughty little seductress.

“Yes,” he blurted anyway. The stakes were high. He’d barely slept.

And the lioness had dared him to make the next move.

“Tamar?” he asked, stopping her in the doorway. “I hope you enjoyed the party at the restaurant. Did you get home okay?”

Tamar blinked. Since she was so circumspect about her personal life, he’d learned not to ask. “It was fine,” she said, her dark red lips moving in a deliberate manner. “Enjoyable.”

“No hardship to come in this morning?” He studied the photos of Rodin’s sculpture, keeping one eye on his assistant, who was taking too long to answer. “I didn’t disrupt any of your plans for the weekend?”

Her head tilted. “Certainly not.” She waited a beat. “Daniel?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

Tamar didn’t answer, but her right eyebrow rose to Alpine heights. Two times in two days, he’d provoked her into impatience.

“See if you can track down a man called Kensington Webb,” he said, reverting to form. “I believe he’s an art shark. Last night there was a piece of stained glass on display at the restaurant. Get the artist’s name from Webb. And, uh, situation. Any information he’ll provide, in fact. I want—”

“To buy it?”

“No. Maybe.” Not like him to be equivocal. He turned away from Tamar’s frank stare. “Say whatever it takes to get the goods. I want the artist’s address. A phone number, at the least.” He thumbed through the sheets of Camille Claudel’s biography. Her father had been an esteemed figure in French literature. “A bio might be helpful.”

“Yessir.” Tamar’s voice was arch.

He waved the papers at her. “Go on. And shut the door.”

“But of course.” She exited silently, followed by a soft thunk.

Daniel went to the window and its view of the bleak gray canyon of Wall Street. The memory of the lively color and sound of SoHo on a Friday night made him admit that a degree of sameness, even stodginess, had begun to infect his personal life. By concentrating on his climb up the financial ladder, he had neglected other concerns.

Not to say that he was ready for the monastery. He had a social life outside the office. Still, his career dedication seemed to annoy the women Tamar wrote into and then crossed out of his date book. They started out praising his success. After a month or two, they were peeved by his neglect. They wanted weekends in the Hamptons; he wanted to work. They eventually wanted to discuss commitment; he wanted to work.

Success was a fine thing. A regimen of all work and no play was something else. Had he been so determined to avoid ending up like his parents that he’d become a drone instead?

Maybe that was why his reaction to “Camille” had been so volcanic. Or maybe it was only that she’d aroused his primal instincts, then disappeared, setting him off in hot pursuit.

Who was she? He closed his eyes and inhaled, remembering every detail with perfect clarity. The fake name had been only a part of her game, not an escape plan. Surely she knew he’d run her to ground.

Daniel smiled. The lioness had left a small but crucial piece of her lingerie in his possession. If he needed an excuse—and he doubted it—he could always say that he wanted to return the panties.

She would laugh, he knew. Already he relished the thought of it. Her boisterous laugh would be his congratulations for a deed well-done.

Yes, he decided as he swung around to his teakwood desk, I need this.

I need her.

It was nearly a minute before the statement rebounded inside his head.

He needed her? That was new.

He’d learned not to need his parents by the time he was eight. They were well-meaning but essentially useless. Lovable layabouts, going from one menial job to another, doing only enough to pay the rent and put tuna casserole and hot dogs on the table. They had no ambition beyond that which provided a steady stream of cigarettes, Mountain Dew, cable wrestling matches and bingo cards. Purchasing lottery tickets was their lame attempt at bettering themselves. Their sons were treated with benign neglect.

Jesse, the older brother, had gone one route—fast living and easy money, scams and petty crime, occasional jail time. Daniel had gone the other—hard work, long study, strict discipline. All on his own. While his parents had proclaimed their pride in him, they’d also arrived late to his high school valedictory speech because of a flat tire, and had missed his college commencement altogether. Now he visited them once a year, at Christmas. They were always happy to see him, but no more and no less than the check he sent monthly.

Daniel dismissed family connections.

Then…did he need his job? Yes and no. It was completely intertwined with his self-image. Yet he was certain that he could always get another. Probably a better one. He had offers all the time.

So, no, he did not need this job.

He caressed the fine leather that banded his desk blotter, readily admitting to himself that he needed Tamar. They’d been a team since he’d landed at Bairstow & Boone fresh out of Harvard, M.B.A. in hand. She was one or two years his senior—perhaps—of mysterious origins, rarely emotionally forthcoming. But she was an executive assistant extraordinaire—smart, efficient, dependable. Although Daniel’s career could survive without her, he wasn’t eager to test the theory.

Counting Tamar as a friend was trickier. Despite his best attempts, their relationship was mainly a one-way street—certainly not his idea of a proper give-and-take friendship.

None of the guys from the office could be counted as close friends, either. They were co-workers, occasional off-hour buddies. Likewise the tenants in his building: a middle-aged woman who holed up in the third-floor attic apartment, claiming to be a writer; the gay couple on the second floor who used his garden in return for their decorating expertise. Educating Daniel’s eye was their ongoing project.

Daniel liked them all; he did not, even remotely, need them.

But, suddenly, he needed the lioness?

That was definitely new. And a mighty strange sensation.

Particularly as he still didn’t know her name.

With a certain triumph, he thought of the silk panties he’d tucked away in his own underwear drawer for safekeeping. The commingling of their intimate apparel gave him a kick.

And a kick start.

Names were not always necessary.