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.
Chapter 10
Robert woke to the familiar sounds of deep melodious chanting coming from the CD player.
When he emerged from the bedroom, he was met with a haze of incense smoke. He went down the hall and found Karen sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her coffee. He kissed her forehead, breathing in the apple scent of her hair. She was dressed in her signature jeans and T-shirt; a Saks Fifth Avenue bag sat on the table.
“You’re bringing gifts to a divorce hearing? For the attorneys?”
“No, for their secretaries. I see them so often, it would be rude not to.” She stood up and gave him a kiss, slinging the overstuffed bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be done by eleven.”
Entering the conference room, Karen found a familiar sight, a trio of men huddled around the oak table, poring over reams of legal documents. She knew them all: Albert—short, balding, perpetually perspiring; Eugene—tall, wire-rimmed glasses hiding his watery blue eyes; Kevin—the middleweight, thick and combative. They gave her a glance and a collective “Hi, Karen” when she entered, then returned to the huddle.
Edward Townsend stood at the window, sipping his tea, and looking like he had nothing more on his mind than admiring the New York City skyline. Karen studied him for a moment. The years hadn’t altered his frame, he seemed as sturdy as in his pictures as a young man. His skin still had that ruddy, healthy tone, his thick dark mane only slightly disturbed by strands of silver. Whenever she thought of him, she pictured him in a tuxedo, a white scarf around his neck; the columnist, the novelist, the proverbial man about town. Karen thought he had even more of a presence now than at any other time in his life.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said.
Turning, he held out his hand to her. She went to him and he folded her into an embrace. Looking down at her, his onyx eyes were soft. “Hello, princess. You’re very sweet to come. You didn’t need to.”
“You shouldn’t go through this alone.”
They stood, holding hands in silence, her head resting on her father’s chest. She looked up briefly. Karen always found her father kind and encouraging, whether on trips to Positano, Paris, or during surprise visits at college. In the past, he never allowed her to witness his anger at her mother. Karen could read about it in the gossip columns, watch it on television, or overhear talk about it on the subway,