Читать книгу For Better Or Worse - Jill Amy Rosenblatt - Страница 10

Ian turned away from the Rainbow Room’s windows and the majestic view of the kingdom that was New York City. Champagne corks popped, glasses clinked, the orchestra played. Like the Titanic, the band playing as the ship was sinking, he thought, as this marriage will sink. Wandering back into the crowd, he caught sight of a woman looking him over. She gave him a smile of invitation. He imagined her a nice girl with a pretty face and a busy life. They would fall into something easy and convenient. She would come and go until realizing he would give nothing more. After a time she would drift away on her own. If it even lasted that long. He lingered a moment, then turned away from her.

He scanned the room, settling on a woman in an expensive sequined gown. He could tell by the way she held herself she was maintained, but not a pedigree. She was on the arm of a debonair man, with unruly long hair tucked behind his ears, a long angular face; a European. The money was his, not hers. This was the kind of man Michele had left him for, someone able to give her everything she wanted: money, travel, ease. All of the things that weren’t coming fast enough being married to me, Ian thought. The art shows weren’t big enough, he wasn’t the rising star she expected, the enfant terrible she hoped for.

Ian’s attention returned to studying the woman. She couldn’t compare to Michele. Michele was exquisite, skin like porcelain and azure eyes that cut through you. One look at her and there was no going back. She could have any man she wanted. And there had been several, he found out. Michele had tried them out first, in secret, to see if they had enough to please her before finally making her choice.

Ian could feel his anger rising when a hand settled on his shoulder.

“Let’s get a drink,” Robert said.

Ian nodded. It was the least they could do to salvage the evening. When they passed Parker, the groom had a glass in one hand, its contents splashing over the side as he waved his arm, describing his real estate empire.

“Thirty thousand square feet,” he was saying. “The front entrance will be all marble. Italian. And that’s just the main house. I’m putting in a one-thousand-square-foot pool house.”

The men clicked glasses and drank to the pool house.

“You know, one of my guys quit last month. I had him on debt acquisition. I buy fifty million in debt from some shithole country—whose name I can’t pronounce—for pennies on the dollar. When they default, I send Nick to court, he sues, we win, and that shithole country has to pay me the whole fifty, maybe more.”

One of the men spoke up. “In what century will you collect?”

“Any dollar comes into that country, I get first. This guy’s whining to me about our moral obligation, aren’t we victimizing impoverished nations. I told him, if I wanted to, I could make a few currency bets and change that country’s economy in a heartbeat.”

He took another swallow of his drink, then laughed, talking almost to himself. “He says we should be safeguarding the economy. I am the economy, asshole. I’m moving the value of currency. He couldn’t take the pressure, dickless wonder. You know where he is now? Putting in eighty hours a week at some plain-vanilla mutual fund for a shit bonus check. Good luck with your fiscal responsibility, shithead. I’ll be at my compound in Greenwich, stepping out the door to the helipad to bring me to Manhattan.”

“To Parker Davis,” they said, raising their glasses.

Shaking his head, Ian hunkered down next to Robert at the bar, watching the bartender set up glasses and pour. Taking a long drink, Ian let out a sigh of relief until a heavy slap on his back made him jump and slosh his drink onto the bar.

“Hey, I hope you’re enjoying my wedding,” Parker said. “You’re looking at one and a half million.”

Elizabeth was only half-listening to Karen as they lounged at a table by themselves. Her eyes were fixed on Ian MacKay.

“I still don’t understand the change in attitude. Not six months ago you said having Emily as a matchmaker is like asking an arsonist to house-sit. She’s broken more engagements than her nails. Are you listening to me?”

“At least she had the right idea. She left them.” She should have left one more. Why did a woman who made her society debut at Le Bal Crillon marry a low-life like Parker Davis?

“Liz, how is it really going with Nick?”

“Fine.” Elizabeth continued to stare out into the crowd. “He’s kind and attentive. He takes me to dinner and sends me flowers. We discuss matters of business because we share common interests. Is there something wrong with a serious, focused man? He’s a grown-up.”

Karen was silent for a moment. When she spoke her voice sounded hurt. “Robert’s a grown-up. You don’t have to be in business to be a grown-up.”

Elizabeth turned to Karen. “Of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. Robert is a brilliant writer and so are you. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy with the job and these dinners with Emily and Parker. That doesn’t change us or our friendship. But this relationship with Nick is what I want now.”

“Sometimes I think I made a mistake convincing you to come to New York. You had a life in California.”

Elizabeth turned to give her friend a sharp look. “What life?”

“A life as a painter.”

“I was a painter. I’m not anymore. Are we going to go through this again?”

“Liz, you can’t keep punishing yourself for what your mother did. She hurt herself. You didn’t hurt her.”

“Really? Didn’t I?”

Karen leaned forward, her voice low. “I was there, remember? She knew exactly what William was doing.”

Elizabeth made a face. “What William was doing—what I was doing. There were two of us.”

“She did everything she could to destroy you, Liz. I just feel like you keep moving further away from who you are.”

“Ancient history,” Elizabeth snapped. “Nick isn’t the past. He’s the present and the future. My future. I’m with him because he’s the right one for me.”

Elizabeth returned to watching the bar, her signal that the subject was closed. Guests moved in and out of her line of vision and then a pocket would open, revealing a glimpse of Ian MacKay.

Ian sucked in a deep breath, trying for patience, his empty stomach complaining bitterly while Parker’s rambling gnawed on his last nerve.

“Let me tell you, gents, I walk into a room with this woman and every man wants what I have. Beautiful, built.” He elbowed Ian. “And the family fortune doesn’t hurt either. Now I’ve got the money and the girl, and it’s all legal. I can’t believe how happy I am,” he said with a hearty laugh, giving Ian another robust slap on the back.

Ian raised his hand, attempting to signal the bartender. He reminded himself that artists of small reputation could not afford to tell their client’s husband to piss off and lose any referrals that might come their way. He kept his mouth shut and smiled.

Parker gripped his shoulder. “You need to get married, my friend.”

Wanker. What I need is a scotch and a smoke.

“Now I realize how empty my life has been,” Parker continued.

“That’s not what I heard.”

At the sound of the soft, even voice, the men turned to see Elizabeth sliding onto the empty stool next to Ian.

“I heard your business lunches at the Plaza Hotel were quite full and satisfying,” she said.

Chuckling, Parker wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her to him. “Listen, cookie, I’m a changed man! You’re just jealous because you passed on your opportunity.”

“I yielded to the better woman,” she said.

Parker cackled. “You don’t know what you missed, babe, on so many levels.”

The lights threw colorful shadows across the planes of Elizabeth’s face. Ian felt a rush of blood surge within him and had a fleeting thought of Hemingway’s Lady Brett Ashley draped on a bar stool in a café in Spain, waiting for her bullfighter to return. She could be Lady Ashley, she looks unhappy enough.

A passing guest caught Parker’s attention. Stepping away from the group, he pointed at Ian. “You should see this guy’s stuff, Liz, it’s not half-bad. The resale value sucks but maybe he has something for your office.”

“My office is decorated.”

“Something for your flat?” Ian said.

“My apartment has everything in it I need.”

“Pity,” Ian said. He glanced over to Robert; he had retreated to a stool, a silent observer.

“Are you enjoying the wedding?”

“Brilliant party,” he said. “You don’t seem pleased. Don’t you fancy weddings, Lizzie?”

“Elizabeth,” she corrected. “Weddings are fine but they have nothing to do with marriage.”

He edged closer. There it is, he thought, catching her scent, a warm, drowsy duet of delicate flowers with a hint of vanilla. “Don’t they? I believe you need one to have the other.”

“You do, but all of this”—she waved her hand—“is not included.”

“But you’re not married, Lizzie. How do you know this?”

“Elizabeth. Because the principle of any successful endeavor is work.” She leaned back, revealing a little self-satisfied smile. “Marriage is not a four-tiered vanilla cake and a garter.”

“It’s not?” Robert interjected. “Karen has some explaining to do.”

Ian smirked in spite of Elizabeth’s sour look. “Perhaps you’re right. Why marry at all? Two people can simply enjoy each other’s company without complications.”

Elizabeth laughed. “In the colonies, we call that a one-night stand.”

Ian smiled. “You Americans, always in a hurry.”

“You Europeans and your lovers, always chasing after romance.”

“Very well then, I concede. Marriage is not romance. What is it then, Lizzie?” Ian asked. “Portfolios and property, profit and loss?”

Elizabeth slid off the stool. “Not just that. Respect, understanding, and yes, hard work, to build a solid financial future.”

Ian laughed but the sound came out hollow. “Everything but your heart. Isn’t that right, love?”

Elizabeth paled and Ian looked away, tossing back the rest of his drink. Brilliant, you stupid git. He scrambled for something soothing to say as a tall, clean-cut man approached. His dark hair was salted with gray; his stride, easy and confident. Ian judged him to be in his late forties.

“Am I interrupting?” he said.

“Not at all,” Elizabeth said, her eyes still locked on Ian. “We’re finished.”

Nick slid his arm around her. “Gentlemen, excuse us,” he said to no one in particular as he led her away.

Elizabeth’s soft laugh floated back to Ian and he felt a knot forming in his stomach as he watched Nick and Elizabeth disappear from sight, lost in the crowd.

Ian cursed under his breath.

Robert gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “So much for tales of chivalry.”

“Shut it,” he said, raising his hand and signaling the barman.

At dinner, the bride and groom worked the room, pausing at each table.

“I’ve finally found my path,” Emily was saying as she stood by Elizabeth’s table. “I’ve designed clothes, bags, perfume, but nothing can make a connection with people like the culinary arts. I intend to create the ultimate experience for my clients, allowing them to see new cultures through foods of the world. I’ll be like Anthony Bourdain—only without the travel. I wanted to study with Iron Chef Batali—but he’s always booked. So I’m studying on my own. A lot of the great chefs were self-taught. I’ll be the next Julia Child—without the hump, of course.”

Elizabeth caught Nick’s smirk. She knew that smirk all too well.

“I always thought Parker would be smart enough to pick brains over eye candy,” Nick whispered.

“Emily is not stupid,” Elizabeth said. Except for marrying Parker, she finished silently. Parker’s brains were on a perpetual elevator between his head and his pants. She thought about all of his come-ons and propositions to her when they first met. She marveled that it took him so long to figure out there was no way it would happen.

She came back to the present, smiling as she felt Nick nuzzling her neck. “Would you like a wedding like this?”

Liz pulled back to gaze into his handsome, sturdy features and ran a light touch across his cheek. “Maybe.”

“You’re going to keep me guessing. Okay. I like a woman of mystery.”

And I intend to remain that way, she thought, dropping her gaze. You must never know about California, about my mother. Suddenly Karen’s words about her past came to mind. She did everything she could to destroy you, Liz.

I should never have gone to my mother’s after Josh left me, she thought. If I hadn’t gone home, everything would’ve been different. She chided herself again for being so stupid about William. Listening to him when he said he just wanted to comfort her, be a support for her. Why did I keep letting him get closer? I should have told her…apologized…done something.

“Hey, are you still with me?”

Elizabeth found Nick viewing her quizzically.

“Yes, I’m here.”

Even as she forced a smile, Elizabeth stole a glance at the next table. Ian looked her way, giving her a bemused smile. She ignored him, turning back to Nick.

The reception was over. A steady stream of limousines pulled up, picked up, and pulled away. The stifling heat had given way to still, humid air, clinging to everyone like a damp blanket. Ian said good night to Robert and Karen, raising a hand in farewell as they disappeared into a limo and it pulled away.

Later that night, lying in bed, Ian smoked a final cigarette, letting his thoughts wander. After Michele left, everything had gone wrong. He couldn’t paint anymore. It was as if he had never picked up a brush in his life. Now, he felt his ability returning. He could concentrate here and start over. He took a last drag and thought of Elizabeth, her silky dress clinging to her soft curves, her serious, stern eyes locking with his. Robert was right, of course. Uptight, cool, calculating money managers weren’t his type. But he sensed there was more to her than that. He was intrigued enough to pursue her. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on his nightstand, switched off the light and began to formulate a plan. A tea and a chat with Karen would be his first step. She seemed a decent sort and he detected a guileless openness, even a subtle sense of helplessness. If that didn’t work, he would have to resort to doing Emily’s portrait. He frowned at the thought. Robert would keep his word and not say anything about his past. He was glad he hadn’t told Robert about the last two years. What was there to say about tramping about Europe, producing nothing but quick tourist portraits for a few euros to barely live on, and a parade of girls with pretty faces and busy lives in and out of his bed?

But the past was the past. He was making a fresh start, leaving it all behind, and he hoped to make the ever-intriguing Elizabeth a part of it.