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“Not even a cat.”
“Why does a single man have a four-bedroom apartment?”
“Because he’s an optimist and hopes someday to have a family.”
“You like rattling around in all that space?”
“Right now? I like it best because it’s near the tunnel, so it’s that much easier to get to JFK. And here’s a confession for you: yes, I do travel a lot, but I also eat lots of ‘Hello, Fresh’ and have bad Indian food delivered to my building when I’m there.”
“I notice you haven’t categorically denied being a spy. You keep implying you’re not, but you haven’t come right out and said, ‘Crissy, you’re mad. I’m not a spy.’ ”
“If I were a spy and told you, I’d have to kill you. Isn’t that the rule?” Then he placed his hand atop mine on my lap, and for a moment I was surprised I did nothing. Was I just being sluggish? But then I realized I liked it—his hand on mine. I enjoyed its carnal proximity to my thigh, and I felt its extra weight through the thin silk of my dress like a hot, steaming towel. He looked into my eyes and said, “I told you: the questions we should ask—the important ones—are about contentment. That, Crissy Dowling, is the meaning of life.”
* * *
I awoke with sunlight sluicing through the crack in the curtains, sat up in bed, and watched this Yevgeny Orlov sleep. He was on his side, one arm above the sheet, his face buried in his pillow. I had noticed last night when he was atop me that he had serious biceps, and even now—not tensed—I could see the taut musculature. I looked at his shoulder and clavicle, remarkably hairless, and wondered if it was genetic or he waxed his back. Did spies do that? I didn’t care which, but I did like it. I’ve never felt guilt when I sleep with a fellow I’ve just met, and I’ve never, since moving to Vegas, had to sally forth into a walk of shame after a one-night stand the next morning. (Not even with the senator.) After all, we’re usually in my suite. I find wantonness rather sporty, and I know well that life is short. We’re told that on our deathbeds, no one ever says, “I wish I’d worked more.” Well, likewise, I rather doubt anyone says, “I wish I hadn’t had so damn much sex.”
I glanced at the bedside clock, did the time zone math in my mind, and imagined my sister and her daughter packing up their apartment in Burlington to move here. The thought left me dumbstruck.
It was midmorning and I supposed Yevgeny usually had been up for a while by now. After all, he had a real job with real hours. I decided to wake him by reaching my arm around his chest and nuzzling his ear. I might have reached my arm lower, but I had no idea what text messages or emails were waiting for me on my phone, and what today was going to bring. I knew that I had a two fifteen with Artie Morley, and the fact I had not a clue why he wanted to see me left me anxious. I needed to get moving, and send Yevgeny…wherever. Even after a bottle of champagne, I’d refrained from telling him the rather tawdry details of my sister’s and my relationship.
I sighed. I wondered what he would do at his conference this morning or afternoon. Speeches? Workshops? Sessions? Did he have meetings of some sort?
As much as I wanted him gone from my bed, I hoped this wasn’t going to be just another of my one-nighters. I fancied him. He’d said he was going to come watch my show tonight. I hoped that wasn’t mere prattle to get me to the bar and then into the sack, and he really would.
He smiled when he felt my lips on his ear, my mouth inches from his, and he turned his head toward me. He opened his eyes.
“Good morning,” he murmured.
“Good morning,” I said.
“This is early for you. I can tell.”
“You know what time it is?”
“I peeked at the clock.” He rolled over and tried to kiss me, but I shook my head. “I don’t care about morning breath,” he said.
“I don’t, either. But I have things to do.”
He pecked at my lips anyway. “I’m sure your meeting this afternoon is nothing. No reason to be worried.”
“Thank you.”
“But this is still your polite way of kicking me out.”
“It is.”
He climbed from under the sheets and stood there for a moment surveying the room.
“You really do have the ass of an angel,” I told him, both because he did and because anyone who either had a rear like that naturally or worked out with such evident diligence deserved the positive reinforcement. Also, I felt bad that I was evicting him.
“So do you,” he told me, as he climbed into a pair of black boxers that were draped on one of the two chairs in my little reading nook. (In truth, never once had I read there. Never once had I even sat in either chair. I read in bed and I read in the bath and I read in my cabana, but I would have to have been a genetic royal to sit and read in an armchair. One time, my senator—John—had sat in one when he took a phone call from the Capitol, but that was the only time I could recall someone seated in them. The chairs’ sole function was as stands for discarded clothing and my room service trays when I was finished.) “I have a question,” he said. “Will I see you before tonight’s show?”
There was my answer. I was pleased.
“No.”
“Will I see you after it?”
