style="font-size:15px;"> “Only if you promise to continue our conversation when you return.”
“It might be bad for my reputation if I follow your orders.” She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay and bask in this new feeling.
“Look at it as coincidence. What I want just happens to be what you feel like doing.” He reached out for her hand and brought it to his lips.
It was the contrast that did it. Cool air, warm lips. Rough wood, soft skin. The touch of another where there hadn’t been one in so long. For an instant, it was as though every nerve in her body were centered in the small patch of skin over her knuckles and she could only absorb it. She thought more, and I want and don’t stop.
He lowered her hand and closed her fingers around the ceramic sake cup.
Her alter ego no doubt would have had something sexy and provocative to say. Trish considered it a triumph that she remained upright and mobile.
The Marquis gave her a mischievous look. “Sake?” he asked.
She walked back inside, closing the sliding door behind her.
It was two different worlds, the quiet, private dimness of the deck outside and the warmth and hubbub of indoors. Trish turned to the sake bar, looking out into the night to see the Marquis watching her. She was trembling a bit, and yet talking with him, being with him didn’t tie her in knots the way it did with other men. It was exciting but in a way that made her feel larger than life, as though she were the best possible version of herself.
Shaking her head at her fancy, she reached out for the sake carafe.
“I been a bad boy, mistress,” slurred a voice behind her. It was the cowboy from earlier, looking a bit the worse for wear and more than a little drunk. “You should dis’pline me.”
“Sorry, I’m off the clock,” Trish said briefly, turning to glance back out at the Marquis.
“You’re not dressed to be off’a clock. You’re dressed to find a man, aren’cha,” the cowboy said swaying, making her look at him again. “Well, I’m your man.”
“I don’t need one, thanks,” she said with a forced laugh.
“’Course you need one.” He moved close enough that she could smell the liquor on his breath.
The sushi chef had gone off to resupply, she realized. Though she heard music and the hum of conversation downstairs, the loft was empty. She searched for a way to shut him down but all the quick flippancy of her alter ego had suddenly deserted her. And the cowboy showed zero sign of going away. “I’m not looking for company,” Trish said stiffly, trying to ignore the way he was staring at her breasts.
“Lissen to you. Oh, man, you’re the kinda woman gets a guy right here,” he said, grabbing his crotch. “You know, y’look so hot but then you just cut it off.”
The effervescence she’d been feeling evaporated abruptly. Suddenly, she felt exposed in her scandalous party clothes. With confidence, they were high adventure; without, they merely made her vulnerable. She wished for a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, the loosest, biggest, bulkiest clothing she could find. She wished she were hidden, or a hundred miles away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself. “Look, I’ve got to go.”
But he stood close, trapping her against the sake table. “Y’not gonna talk to me? Y’ put on that li’l bit a nothin’ and come on and then act like I shouldn’ notice?” His voice rose a little.
She was in Sabrina’s house, Trish reminded herself, and there was a room full of people downstairs. She was perfectly safe, she just needed to find a good way to end the conversation, and then leave. She kept her voice calm—strained, perhaps, but calm. “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy,” she began.
“I look atcha and I’m a walkin’ hardon. I—”
“Are you ready to go look at that Warhol?” the Marquis asked from behind her. His fingers slipped around her elbow and Trish could have wept from relief.
“I’d love to.”
“Excuse us,” he said to the cowboy. Trish couldn’t help noticing that he had several inches in height and a couple of inches in shoulders on the cowboy, who stared back at him in confusion. “I said excuse us,” the Marquis repeated in a hard voice and Trish let him steer her to the stairs.
“Were we talking about a Warhol?” she asked in a low tone as they descended.
“No. You just looked as though you weren’t particularly enjoying your conversation with Cowboy Bob, there. I figured I’d give you an excuse to leave if you wanted one. No, don’t look up, he’s still watching you.”
“God,” she said unsteadily, “I know how to pick ’em.”
“I don’t believe that was your choice.” He turned at the living-room level and steered her down another half flight of stairs to the dining room. “In through here,” the Marquis said, guiding her with a gentle touch in the small of her back.
They stood in the warm glow of Sabrina’s kitchen, away from the music and the crowd. The caterers had set up in the garage, so for the moment all was quiet. The Marquis watched her as she leaned against the counter, rubbing her arms. “Something to drink?” he asked.
Trish looked at him blankly. Quickly, he began opening cabinet doors until he found tumblers.
“You shouldn’t be going through her cabinets,” Trish said faintly, but she accepted the iced water that he pressed on her.
“I think she’ll forgive me.”
The feel of the cold glass in her fingers made her shiver.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “What the hell did he say to you?”
Trish shook her head and took a deep breath. “Nothing much. It’s okay.” A woman like Delaney or Kelly would have told the cowboy to go to hell and gone about their business with no more than a passing thought. Why was it she’d never learned how? Don’t think about it, she ordered herself, and with conscious thought dropped her hands back to rest on the edges of the counter at her sides. “Thanks for not making a scene.”
“Fights tend to lead to broken furniture and unhappy hostesses,” he said mildly. “I try to avoid them.”
“You’ve been very nice.”
“You make it easy.” His eyes had glints of gold in them, she saw, as they looked back at her from behind the mask. The seconds stretched out. He cleared his throat. “There really is a Warhol over in the dining room. Do you want to see it?”
Trish gave a shaky laugh. “Sure.”
“SO I NEVER KNEW Warhol did abstracts,” Trish said, sitting on the kitchen counter and dangling her legs. “I just knew the pop art stuff.” She took a drink of her water.
The Marquis had taken his frock coat off and tossed it over a chair in the breakfast nook. Now he leaned against the counter next to her. “Yep, Michelangelo gets remembered for the Sistine Chapel and old Andy gets soup cans and Marilyn Monroe. There’s
