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And that surprised her as well. Klimt had a soft, almost magical quality to his work, and that didn’t fit her image of Tristan at all.
‘It’s an investment,’ he said, as if he could read her mind. ‘So who is he to you?’ Tristan repeated, pulling her eyes back to his.
‘Gustav Klimt?’
Tristan made an impatient sound. ‘The loser whose name you were chanting in your sleep.’
Lily shook her head, realising one of the reasons she felt so hot was because she still wore Tristan’s jacket. Removing it quickly, she placed it on the seat beside her and met his scornful gaze. ‘I don’t know who you’re—Oh, Jonah!’
‘He’d no doubt be upset to find himself so easily dismissed from your memory. But then with so many lovers on the go how can a modern girl be expected to keep up?’
Lily’s brow pleated as she gazed at him. No improvement in his mood, then. Wonderful.
And as for his disparaging comments about her so-called lovers—the press reported she was in a relationship every time she so much as shared a taxi with a member of the opposite sex, so really he could be talking about any number of men.
She was just about to tell him she didn’t appreciate his sarcasm when he held up a manila folder, a look of contempt crossing his face.
‘I’ve had a report done on you.’
Of course he had.
‘Ever considered going directly to the source?’ she suggested sweetly. ‘Probably save you a lot in investigators’ fees.’
Tristan tapped his pen against his desk. ‘I find investigators far more enlightening than “the source”.’
‘How nice for you.’
‘For example, you’re currently living with Cliff Harris…’
A dear friend who had moved into her spare room due to financial problems.
‘A lovely man.’ She smiled thinly.
‘…while you’ve been photographed cosying up to that effeminate sculptor Piers Bond.’
Lily had been to a few gallery openings with Piers, and Tristan was right—he was effeminate.
‘A very talented artist,’ she commented.
‘And presumably sleeping with that dolly boy in Thailand behind both their backs?’
Lily suppressed her usually slow to rise temper and threw him her best Mona Lisa smile. A smile she had perfected long ago that said everything and nothing all at the same time.
‘Grip,’ she corrected with forced pleasantness. ‘He’s called a dolly grip.’
‘He’s also called a junkie.’
‘Jonah once had a drug problem; he doesn’t any more.’
‘Well, you should know. You’ve been photographed going in and out of that New York rehab clinic with him enough times.’
Also true. She volunteered there when she could, which was how she’d met Jonah. She just hoped Tristan didn’t know about the director’s marriage she was supposed to have broken up while working on a film the year before. But since it had been all through the papers…
‘And Guy Jeffrey’s marriage? Or is that so far back you can’t remember your part in that particular melodrama?’
Great. He probably knew her shoe size as well.
‘My, your man is thorough,’ she complimented dryly. ‘But do you think I might visit the bathroom before you remind me about the rest of my debauched lifestyle? I don’t think I can hang on till tomorrow.’
