Читать книгу For Better Or Worse - Jill Amy Rosenblatt - Страница 17

Elizabeth lounged comfortably across from Ian at a sidewalk table. He had taken her to a quiet spot on Bleecker, barely noticeable and refreshingly empty in comparison to its tourist-packed neighbors. Ian leaned back in his chair, smoking, shifting the cigarette under the table when the waiter brought out plates of appetizers and set down two drinks.

She took a long sip, enjoying the liquid going down smooth and cold.

“You may want to slow down a bit. It’s rather strong.”

“I can handle my liquor. And I don’t get drunk.”

“Of course you don’t,” he agreed with a smile.

“So why aren’t you in Florida? Art Basel is in six months. That’s where all the rich and beautiful go to see the brilliant enfants terribles of art.”

“I’m closing the deal on representation.”

She raised an eyebrow. “A dealer? I’m impressed.” Elizabeth raised her glass. “I hope you will be his Monet and he will be your Durand-Ruel.”

They clinked glasses, regarding each other as they sipped.

“Is your father proud and your brothers jealous?”

“My mother is proud and my sisters are not jealous.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Surrounded by females. A life of adoration and pampering.”

“A life of learning sensitivity and understanding. So you see, Lizzie, you’re quite safe with me.”

He signaled to the waiter for two more drinks.

“I’ll keep my guard up, just in case.”

An hour later, the waiter cleared away another set of empty glasses with the picked-over appetizer plates. He reappeared briefly to bring yet another round of drinks.

Elizabeth smiled. She felt warm and relaxed. She noticed Ian’s chair had inched around the table, edging closer to her. When they leaned back in their chairs, their knees brushed lightly against each other.

“So,” Elizabeth began, “you don’t ever want to be married?”

Ian raised his eyebrows and laughed. “That’s a very direct statement, Lizzie. No. I don’t.”

“But you don’t want, as we Americans say, a one-night stand, either.”

“No indeed.”

She shifted and her knee brushed his again. “That begs the question, what do you want?”

Ian smiled. “An arrangement.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Uh-hunh. Meaning sex on a regular basis without any emotional involvement.”

His eyes cooled. “Two people enjoying each other’s company without misunderstandings.”

She took in the frosty stare and sat back a little, watching as he caught himself and his features became benign once again.

“You do realize your proposal is just semantics. You can’t possibly think two people will just agree to go on for as long as one or the other likes, without complications.”

Leaning forward, he touched her hand. “For as long as you like, Lizzie.”

Elizabeth stopped in mid-swallow. Her pulse jumped as her heart thumped in her chest; but she allowed his hand to remain resting on hers.

“I realize you’re not interested, of course. But if you were, and if we did, and if you then decided that you’d had enough of me, then you would simply tell me—how do you Americans say it—when you want to get back in the game. It would be entirely up to you.”

Elizabeth swallowed, straining to process the information. The perfect arrangement. To have control of everything and give away nothing. The upper hand. But what about Nick? Nick is not a fleeting arrangement. He’s the future, my future. There should be nothing to think about. So why am I thinking? She glanced over at Ian. There was something about him, something in him, pulling her.

Her glance drifted to Ian’s now soft blue eyes, the hair curling over his collar; she had a sudden desire to slip her hands under the cool fabric of his white shirt and feel his skin warm beneath her fingers. An involuntary sigh escaped her lips just as she realized her face was beginning to feel hot and strange. Leaning forward to take another sip of her drink, Elizabeth noticed the street seemed to be slanting, and something like a damp, heavy blanket was beginning to settle over her brain. Her head started to pound with a heartbeat of its own. She brought her hands to her cheeks. “My face is numb. I’ve lost all feeling in my face.”

“Oh dear,” he said. “I think you’ve had a wee too much.”

“You think?” she slurred.

She followed his movements; they were slow and exaggerated. He laid some bills on the table, then he was at her side, his arms circling her waist. Her nose was assaulted by a barrage of scents, her mouth full of tastes: cigarette smoke, chicken, mozzarella, whiskey, and lemon juice. She leaned into him as he helped her to her feet, her head against his chest, breathing in his warm scent along with the humid air as they began to take slow, steady steps.

Stumbling into the loft, Elizabeth felt as if she were floating in the darkness and she tightened her grip on his shirt. Ian groped for a light switch; a soft glow spilled around them. His eyes were soft and sympathetic. She glanced over at the canvases in progress, dabs of paint in muted, soft colors.

“Your paintings are beautiful,” she breathed.

“Thank you.”

She gazed over at him. “I would paint you.”

“Would you now?” she heard him say, but his voice was drowned out by the words in her head tumbling out onto her lips. “I would paint you at rest, sitting in a chair, dressed in black. After it dried, I would scrape away pieces and add blue, a cobalt blue, so it would catch the color of your eyes,” she said, weaving unsteadily toward the canvases. His hands gripped her waist, holding her steady. She ran her fingers lightly over his face, his beard, his lips. “Everyone would see you as I do…beautiful.”

She let her fingers rest on his lips and he kissed them. Sliding forward, she caught his lips with hers. “Dear Lizzie,” he whispered, shifting her from him and kissing her forehead. “I think we’ve done all we need to do tonight.”

Elizabeth drifted in and out of awareness. She was lying down, in her clothes, her shoes off. Her head was on Ian’s chest. She mumbled something. She heard his voice; it sounded far away: “Not to worry, love, not to worry.”

At seven a.m. Elizabeth was slouched over a cup of coffee at the breakfast bar when Ian came out of the bathroom. He looked handsome and rumpled, last night’s shirt and pants deeply creased.

“Well, now you know how I look in the morning,” she said, the thumping in her head having receded to a steady ache at her temples.

He sat down next to her. “Have you found your face?”

“I have and it’s still attached,” she said, glancing around at the airy, open loft. She caught him regarding her with an amused smile. “Do you want to tell me what happened, or should I guess?”

“Nothing happened. I told you, Lizzie, you’re quite safe with me.”

“Uh-hunh. Did I say anything I’m going to regret?”

Ian smiled pleasantly. “Not that I can recall. What shall we do for our next outing?”

Elizabeth nearly dribbled her coffee in surprise. “There won’t be one. Every time I’m around you, I end up broken.”

“Only a little, and you’re very pretty when you are.”

She could feel the heat in her cheeks. She sipped her coffee in silence. At least she hadn’t done anything foolish, although watching Ian move about the loft kitchen, she wasn’t as relieved as she thought she would be.