Читать книгу For Better Or Worse - Jill Amy Rosenblatt - Страница 11

Two weeks later, on a Monday morning, the blaring of the alarm pulled Elizabeth from a fitful sleep. She yawned, scrunching further beneath the sheet, drifting in and out of impure drowsings. Feeling a spike of heat within her, she jolted awake, realizing thoughts of sturdy, solid Nick had morphed into lean, cool, blue-eyed Ian.

Feeling disloyal, she shook her head to clear her thoughts and refocus on Nick. His dark, predatory features should have conveyed warmth, and yet the thought of Ian caused her temperature to rise. It’s nothing, she told herself, nothing at all, a stupid daydream. A sexual fantasy, she corrected, and a steamy one at that. “And that’s all it’s ever going to be,” she muttered, throwing off the sheet. Nick was strong and in control, orchestrating their evenings of waiting limousines, intimate dinners uptown, parties with his friends. Exactly the life she wanted. She forced herself out of bed and decided a morning run was in order.

When Karen had provided refuge at her mother’s Park Avenue penthouse, Elizabeth looked down from the window every morning to watch the runners, mere specks, intent on beating their bodies into submission, and laughed at them, rats on a wheel.

Call me Ben, she thought.

When she returned an hour later, she checked e-mails and messages, showered and dressed, padding barefoot in and out of the rooms of her L-shaped apartment. By seven-thirty, she stepped outside again in a sleek Escada sleeveless dress and jacket. Walking to the corner, she raised her arm for a taxi.

She gazed out of the window of the cab at the black, white, and gray of the city. It was a far cry from the Laguna art colony and a landscape made for gentle watercolor washes, cerulean blue, raw sienna, even a splash of alizarin crimson, flowing together, wet into wet, blending seamlessly. That was fifteen years ago, she thought, still hearing the voice of the celebrated watercolorist Lillian Montgomery ringing through the studio, her arm waving, her ever-present drink in hand. You’ve taken my talent, why don’t you just take everything else? Do I even need to be here? Why don’t I just end it all so you can take everything?

She couldn’t tolerate her daughter in her midst, surpassing her, creating paintings she could no longer produce. Elizabeth blinked at the remembrance of her own work, years of work, torn into pieces, destroyed: Lillian Montgomery’s final statement on her love for her daughter. The taxi pulled up to the curb, but she didn’t move. I was a painter, I’m not anymore.

“Ten seventy-five,” the driver said.

She looked up and nodded.

She handed over some bills and, grasping her attaché case, she exited the cab. She stood at the curb for a long moment, the sun warm on her back. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to relax and then headed into the building.

Elizabeth stepped off the elevator on the twentieth floor. Sometimes she still marveled at how far and fast the last decade had taken her. Chartered financial analyst, private wealth adviser, Director of Private Banking. She had built a reputation for handling some of the wealthiest and most difficult of men, billionaire Stanton Perry being the feather in her cap.

At first, her male clients greeted her with skepticism, throwing their questions at her like rapid gunfire. She answered them all, never giving an inch. Eventually, they regarded her with surprise and then amused acceptance.

As she came into the office, her team of advisers greeted her as she passed their desks. Some were bright-eyed, others were still trying to erase the hangover of yet another Hamptons weekend.

Elizabeth stopped at the desk of her assistant, Debbie, an inheritance from the last director. A small, thin dynamo in her thirties, Debbie had a flawless memory, a quicksilver mind, and a unique talent for surviving every company shake-up that left her with a new boss.

“Good morning,” Elizabeth said.

“Good morning,” Debbie said. “Your personal decorator is here.”

Decorator?

Glancing beyond Debbie, she saw Ian MacKay leaning against her desk; at his feet, a small package wrapped in brown paper. He was smartly dressed, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, black slacks, black shoes.

She sucked in a breath, her annoyance rising.

“I only have a few minutes,” she said as she entered her office, retreating behind her desk. “I’m not purchasing any art.”

“I’m not selling any.”

Elizabeth felt her eyebrows quirk.

Lifting the package, he placed it on the desk. “This is for you. If you fancy it, of course.”

He undid the tape with care, revealing a small watercolor beach scene. She pored over the waves rolling toward the sand, a sky resembling a morning in Laguna, the sun glistening on the water. She held it up, catching herself in her admiration.

He had chosen a simple palette, a cerulean blue, a yellow ochre for the rocks and the sand. Exactly as she would’ve painted it. Exactly as she had painted it, innumerable times.

“Nice,” she said, suppressing her enthusiasm.

“I thought it might be your style,” he said.

“It isn’t.”

“What is your style?”

“Something else.” He was standing too close, giving off a heat both warm and sweet, a mix of cinnamon and coffee. Her thoughts flashed back to her morning dreams of long kisses and gentle caresses. She glanced down at the quarterly analysis report on staffing trends to break her thought pattern. Enough nonsense. She wanted him, his canvas, and his scent out of her office. She had made her choice. Ian was nothing more than the past, and the countless mistakes she had made. Keep that door closed.

“I hope you have better luck reaching out to other potential clients.”

“Reaching out,” he repeated.

“It’s just a business expression.” She enunciated slowly to contain her annoyance. “I’ll try to refer you.”

“Why? You don’t like my work.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” she snapped. “I’ll have to revisit it.”

“Revisit? Do you plan to like the picture later, Lizzie?”

“Elizabeth,” she snapped. “I’m afraid I have no more time to chat.”

She pulled in a long breath. In the heavy weight of silence, she felt a twinge of guilt; she knew the fragile psyche of the artist and she had hurt him. He had done a masterful job; he was good, better than good. But she snapped herself out of it. It doesn’t matter how good he is. Remember, he’s Josh, he’s William. I was a painter. I’m not anymore.

He strolled behind the desk, moving closer. “Pity. You know, I was thinking about you and your dislike of weddings.” His voice came out soft, intimate, a whisper in her ear.

Elizabeth stiffened. “I don’t have one. The problem is that men dislike them. You dislike them.”

“I have no desire to be married.”

“As I said, you dislike them.”

“Not at all. I simply prefer to watch others partake.”

“Not all men feel as you do, thank goodness.”

“Ah, your significant other, from the wedding. Of course. Lovely. He seems very—”

“Responsible?”

“Stiff.”

“Pragmatic.”

“Cold.”

“The boardroom may not be as glamorous as emulating Monet and Renoir and spending your life in the café—”

“University.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You teach?”

“Yes. In London, now here. When were you in the café, Lizzie?”

“Everyone spends time in the café; most of us grow up.”

“Indeed. Well, how soon to the happy day then?”

“Very soon,” she said. She glanced past him, a smile on her face as she waved. “It’s all a matter of timing.”

Ian turned as Nick entered the office and came to Elizabeth’s side.

Slipping his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the painting and smirked, pulling her closer. “Making a sale?”

“Not today,” Ian said.

Nick chuckled. “Well, in our world, the measure of an artist is the resale value. How’s your appreciation?”

“Coming along. Enjoy the painting, Lizzie,” Ian said, looking at Elizabeth. “Have a good day,” he said to Nick.

“We will. Today and every day,” Nick answered.

Nick closed the office door, cutting off Elizabeth’s view of Ian strolling toward the elevator.

He turned to her and she accepted his kiss. They were comfortable with each other, partners enough to be compatible but without the emotion to make it volatile. It was one of the things that had originally appealed to her, made her feel safe. When they parted, Elizabeth studied his face, feeling that sense of coolness again. She found it odd she should notice it now. Suddenly it irked her; she shrugged off the feeling. She couldn’t have it both ways.

He gazed down at her. “Artists obviously have no idea that Monday morning is actually for working.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. You have no idea how hard artists work. She caught the thought, forcing it out of her mind. Nick’s attitude grated on her but she had no intention of getting into the habit of defending Ian MacKay.

“What are you up to today?” he asked.

“I have meetings all morning.”

Nick straightened up. “Just remember to keep the pressure on. You’ve got to keep them off guard or on the run. Keep weeding out the dead wood. Be aggressive with the boss. Saunders expects you to give it to him straight. That’s why he hired you.”

“Thank you. You do know that I’ve been managing to take care of myself.”

“I’ve been around directors a long time, kid, a lot longer than you’ve been on the job. This is still your first post and you haven’t hit the two-year mark yet. You want there to be other posts, bigger and better. Do this right and you’ll be able to have your pick of what you want.”

“I know, Nick. Are you going to bill me for the advice?”

Nick ran his hands down her arms. “I give you advice, kid—” Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but Nick held up a slender finger. “And I say ‘kid’ with respect and affection, but I am still the older, wiser person in this dynamic.”

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

“You’re a rising star, Liz, you have what it takes and I know it. But you did just have one of your best advisers jump ship.”

“It happens,” she protested.

“It shouldn’t happen. It leaves you vulnerable. Less than two years. You’re still blood in the water.”

Don’t remind me, she thought, feeling her nerves spike.

“I thought you were headed downtown this morning,” she said, changing the subject.

“I can’t properly start my day if I don’t have my evening planned. How about dinner at Demarchalier?”

“Dinner meeting,” she answered.

“Stop letting your secretary book your appointments.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Put it on your calendar. There’s a conversation we still need to finish.”

Elizabeth pulled back. “Yes?”

Nick pulled her in. “Yes. The conversation we started at Parker’s wedding, about weddings. Are you ready to continue the conversation?”

Elizabeth smiled but didn’t answer.

“Or are you still gun-shy?”

Elizabeth stiffened. “Why would you think that?”

Nick ran his hand over her back. “I’m a lawyer. I’ve done my research. I have to if I’m going to make my case. And you haven’t told me everything.”

Elizabeth felt her breath catch.

“I know you’ve been down the aisle before, kid,” he soothed. “That was a long time ago. He let you get away. I’m not going to make that mistake.” He gave her a quick kiss. “So we’ll talk over dinner.”

She nodded.

She waited for him to step into the elevator, gave him a smile, and then shut her office door. She sat at her desk, compulsively tapping her pen. Letting out a muttered string of obscenities, she tossed the pen, watching it sail across the room. Emily had been spilling secrets.