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His eyes gleamed, but he ignored the opening. 'A little company, that's all. Tamara's plugged into some unspeakable horror video—' Clare frowned at this, the freckles between her straight brows forming little ridges, and David sighed '—I checked the rating, little mother, it's OK for teenagers… it may be unspeakable to me, but then I'm a coward about these things. Tamara doesn't seem to find it particularly scary, and I don't think it will be detrimental to her mental health in the long run. I'm not a totally inept father, you know.'
'I never thought you were,' Clare said faintly, because it seemed to matter to him what she thought.
'Don't think I haven't felt your disapproving maternal eyes watching us,' he astounded her further by saying, his dark eyes suddenly very much like his daughter's when she was brooding on some slight, real or imagined. 'I can't be a father and mother to her; she remembers Nina far too well to accept my poor efforts as substitute. They were very close. Sometimes I think that her behaviour stems from the fact that she blames me for killing her mother. Nina was flying out to Rome to join me when the plane crashed.'
'Surely not—' Clare blurted reassuringly. Was that really what he thought? Or was he just voicing his own deep-felt guilt?
'Look, can I come in? I really don't feel comfortable talking about this in a corridor,' he asked ruefully.
She hesitated, fighting the automatic reflex to agree. Was this just a ploy to get in the door?
'I was just about to relax on the couch with a Russian spy,' she murmured, taking the book out from under her arm. Then she realised what she had said and blushed.
His eyebrows rose again. 'Won't a musician do?' he murmured with sensuous amusement.
'David…' They both heard the weakness in her voice, and he followed up his advantage.
'Please? A lonely musician? I'm far safer than a spy.'
'That's a matter of opinion,' said Clare, to his delight. 'I suppose you can come in,' she sighed, thinking that she must be mad to invite… whatever it was she was inviting. 'But just for a little while,' she warned, more for herself than for him.
'Just long enough to finish the bottle,' he promised, moving past her.
'What bottle?' Her eyes fell to the hands which had remained tucked behind him for the short duration of their conversation.
'This one.' He had two glasses, also, crystal flutes from the bar. The bottle was champagne, vintage Krug at over one hundred dollars a bottle, a filmy chill misting the green glass.
'We can't drink that.' Clare was used to the extravagance of guests, but her own economical soul balked at sharing it.
'I'll get drunk if I drink it alone,' he said, putting the glasses down on a coffee-table as she absently shut the door, and ripping the foil off the top of the champagne. 'You wouldn't like me when I'm drunk, Clare; I become very maudlin and depressed, very black-Russian.'
'You forget, I've seen you knock back the vodka. You couldn't get drunk in a month of Sundays,' said Clare wryly. David had brought the bottles with him, bearing incomprehensible labels in Cyrillic script, and instructed Kerry to keep them in the freezer.
'Vodka is an exuberant drink, company in itself. Champagne shouldn't be drunk alone, it has tristesse in its bubbles. Here, taste.' He handed her a brimming glass.
'I hope you put this on the spike,' Clare said to counteract the shivery thrill of the first sip.
'I do not need to steal for my pleasures, Clare,' he said quietly.
'I didn't mean…I was joking,' she said awkwardly. She had expected a flippant reply, not this stern dignity. She would never understand the man!
'So…enjoy. It's not a crime, Clare, to indulge in a little luxury…nor is it one to want to share it with friends.'
'No, of course not.' She felt terrible now, and she took a large, hasty gulp t
o make up for it. The bubbles exploded in the back of her throat with a heady burst of dryness that made her nose tingle, and she began to cough. David clicked his tongue and took the forgotten book and the glass from her, and put them down with his own glass on the table before he slapped her sharply between the shoulder-blades.
'Better?' he asked, as her coughs spluttered to a halt.
'Yes, thank you.' Her eyes were watering and she was sure her nose must be red. She must really look a sight.
'Here.' As if to confirm it, he held out a handkerchief and she took it to cover her embarrassment.
'Thanks.'
'Let's sit down, shall we?' He indicated the couch. 'For a novice like you, it might be best if you didn't have to worry about drinking and standing up at the same time.'
'I have had champagne before,' Clare told him tartly, as she returned his handkerchief.
