The elevator doors glided silently open; Sarah stepped in; they glided silently closed. After a hushed ascent, the elevator stopped with an almost non-existent whoosh at the thirtieth floor, disgorging her onto a plush beige carpet that muffled any hint of a footfall.
She felt a laugh bubbling up in reaction to the almost unnatural silence … until the sight of David leaning against the doorframe of his apartment along the corridor immobilized everything about her, even her vocal cords. All she could do was stare. He was wearing well-worn jeans and a T-shirt that fitted him like a second skin, and he looked even more delectable than he’d looked in a suit. She couldn’t quite believe that she’d had the nerve to make a deal with this handsome, poised, intimidatingly perfect man.
And then he smiled, and Sarah found herself walking, Pied Piper style, towards him.
‘What’s in the suit bag?’ he asked, when she reached him.
‘What I’m wearing,’ she said, sounding a little too breathless for her liking. She cleared her throat. ‘For the painting. It wasn’t an easy decision to make.’
He stepped into the apartment, holding the door open for her. ‘No? Why so hard?’
‘Well, it’s a portrait.’
‘Yeees.’
‘And I want to look … historic. I first thought maybe a business suit, but that seemed kind of boring. Next, I went for a day dress—one with poppies, very cheerful—but who wants to be quite that casual on canvas?’ She stepped over the threshold. ‘I also tried on a basic black ensemble, but it smacked a little too much of a crime writer’s publicity shot, so, I … I … Oh!’ As she took in the big, airy room.
Bright, exotic rugs scattered across dark wooden floorboards. A couch in a deep, velvety orange. There was a low wooden coffee table, two cabinets holding intriguing treasures and several tables topped with quirky artefacts. The walls were covered with modern paintings of different styles and sizes. There were two groupings of Aboriginal spirit poles in earthy colours each side of French doors that opened onto a deck, through which Sarah could see a beautifully lit sculpture soaring skywards, the twinkling lights of the city almost close enough to touch, and the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the distance. There were doors at either end of the room. Sarah guessed one led to the kitchen and dining room; the other to the bedrooms and bathrooms.
‘Uh-oh, you’ve stopped talking!’ David said, laying the suit bag across the couch. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Your apartment,’ she answered, and then laughed as the rest of what he’d said hit her. ‘Oh, you! I don’t talk all the time, you know.’
‘Well, I haven’t slept with you, so I can’t say what happens then.’
‘Ha-ha-ha.’
‘So what’s wrong with my apartment?’
‘It’s just not what I expected.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘Something a little more Don Juan, only modern.’
‘The mind boggles at what a modern Don-Juan-style apartment would look like.’
‘To start with, it would have nude etchings!’ she said smartly.
‘I’m never going to live down those etchings, am I? Thank God I’m not painting you naked or you’d have me pegged as a dirty old man.’
‘Actually, how old are you?’
‘Thirty-four—old enough to be deemed decrepit by your peer group. But I’m not dirty, I promise.’ He grinned. ‘Although I can be, on request.’
‘And how often is that requested?’
‘More often than you’d believe. Why? Are you sorry you didn’t take me up on my original offer?’
‘Oh, if I’d known it was dirty sex on offer, who knows what I might have agreed to?’ She gave a gusty sigh. ‘Ah well, lost opportunities—a bit like that premature ejaculator I told you about last week.’
‘Hey, don’t rope me in with any premature ejaculators!’
‘Well, I haven’t slept with you, so I can’t rule you out there.’
‘You’re such a brat,’ he said, laughing.
She poked her tongue out at him, and then looked around again. ‘Seriously, I love this. It makes me think that perhaps you’re going to—’ She stopped herself. It didn’t matter if David Bennett liked her backyard granny flat. He’d never see it. ‘Never mind. Are any of the paintings yours?’
‘That landscape.’ Pointing. ‘The dancers.’ Point. ‘And the still life over there.’ Another point.
She walked closer to each in turn, examining them carefully. They were completely different subjects, but had a common style. Jagged lines, harsh brushstrokes, violent splashes of colour.
‘They’re sort of … brutal,’ she said.
David had come up behind her. ‘I was in a brutal frame of mind at the time. But don’t worry, bluebell, I’m not feeling brutal at the moment; you’ll turn out differently.’
She turned to him. ‘How am I going to turn out? You’re not really going cubist on me, are you? Because I was envisaging something more glamorous, along the lines of Gustave Leonard de Jonghe. Timeless elegance. The kind of portrait you can hang at the top of a sweeping staircase today and it will still look good in fifty years. It’s a matter of … of posterity. I mean, spare a thought for all those people who had their portraits done in the Eighties and now have to look at themselves with mullet hairdos and shoulder pads! Now they could have done with a bit of cubism. But the dress I brought with me has a touch of the 1930s about it, and the Thirties have stood the test of time. Plus, I’m really hoping my feet are going to make it into the painting because the matching shoes are gorgeous.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ David said, and his lips were doing that twitch she’d figured out meant he was trying not to laugh. ‘You get changed and show me, and then we’ll see.’ He gestured to the door leading off the room to the right. ‘The guest bathroom is through there, first on the left.’
‘Okay, but while I’m gone, try to visualize Gustave Leonard de Jonghe’s Dressing For The Ball.’
‘Just be gone, brat, or the only thing I’ll be visualizing is your backside under my hand.’
‘Oooh, promises, promises,’ Sarah said, and as he made a grab for her, she yelped and jumped backwards. ‘All right! Going!’ she said, laughing.
‘Good!’ he said sternly, but he was laughing too.
***
David wasn’t sure what to expect of Sarah’s take on a nineteenth-century painting in a 1930s-style dress, but when Sarah re-entered the room with a ‘Ta-da!’ and a twirl he was momentarily speechless.
She looked good, but in a bad way. An uncomfortable way.
The dress was a rich, deep ruby, with ruching from bodice to hip that made her shape seem sexier than it had last week. And the red shoes? Six inches of wet dream.
‘Did you wear that for your date with Craig?’ David asked, before he knew the words had formed. Not that the question wasn’t reasonable—everything about her dates was within range as far as he was concerned. But the challenging tone that went with them, not so much. Because there wasn’t anything to challenge. He’d practically set the damn date up for her, hadn’t he? She was free to wear whatever the hell she wanted.
‘Of course not,’ she scoffed, apparently either not noticing or not being offended by his tone. ‘A jazz bar screams basic black. But how did you