AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The door to the penthouse was open. Immediately, the hair on the nape of his neck picked up. Another intruder? He called out for Regan, but there was no answer.
When he stepped inside, he saw that she was sitting on the terrace. He breathed a deep sigh and locked the door behind him.
Hanging above the fireplace mantel was a new painting—a woman in a fine blue afternoon gown, sitting at a table on a garden terrace, looking at the viewer, an invitation to have tea with her.
The same scene Regan had set up on her own terrace.
Regan was sitting at a small round table outside, a white tea set before her. Her dark-blue dress was ankle-length, but it had a slit that revealed her lovely thighs. He opened the door and let himself onto the terrace.
The sun was out, though clouds threatened in the east. And it was warm, warm enough he was more than comfortable in his light jacket. The garden terrace was far more welcoming by day and without a bloodthirsty raven perched on the railing. The small trees and ferns out here were so thickly clustered, he and Regan could have sex out here without anyone seeing. Like a little sky-high Garden of Eden.
Regan took her sunglasses off and pushed them up onto her head. She glanced at her watch. “One minute late,” she said. “You’ll be punished for that. You may pour.”
“Whatever happened to ‘Hello, how do you do?’” he asked playfully.
“Hello,” she said. “You’re late. Sit.”
With a graceful—yet somehow still sarcastic—wave of her hand, she indicated that she would allow him the honor of sitting in the chair opposite her.
He was about to apologize, but something in her grey glinting eyes told him it would only mean digging himself a deeper hole. Arthur sat and picked up the teapot, poured two cups. He had to admit he liked seeing her like this, full of mischief and malice. Even if it was directed at him. Who was he kidding? Especially if it was directed at him.
“I saw the painting you hung over the fireplace,” he said. “That’s our artwork we’re role-playing today?”
“Eva Gonzalèz,” she said. “French Impressionist painter. She studied under Manet, his only formal student, he saw such promise in her.” Regan lifted her teacup and took a sip. “Died at age thirty-four—in childbirth.”
“That’s tragic,” Arthur said. “I imagine that was the fate of a lot of female artists.”
“We could spend all afternoon listing the names of talented women who died in childbirth before they could make their mark on the world, but that wouldn’t make for very pleasant conversation.”
“I didn’t know you were capable of pleasant conversation,” Arthur said. “Not complaining. Just stating a fact.”
“Only because you like when I torment you.”
“Tea and sandwiches and cake aren’t my idea of torment,” he said. “Maybe you should take some lessons from Vlad the Impaler or the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Your girlfriend Wendy fucked your brother, didn’t she?”
Arthur sat back in his chair, but didn’t answer.
“There’s a girl here, Lily,” Regan went on. “She was Charlie’s favorite. She and I had a talk this morning about some things he’d said to her. My God…that must have hurt, didn’t it? Your first girlfriend takes your virginity and then fucks your baby brother.”
“Maybe the Spanish Inquisition could take lessons from you,” he said.
She rested her elbow on the chair arm, her chin on her hand, the picture of beauty and innocence. A picture that was worth a thousand lies.
He’d been stupidly happy to hear from her today. God, he was an idiot. Did he really think he could make her like him by sheer charm and willpower?
She smiled at him. “Do you think I wanted you here just for afternoon tea?” she said. “I’m tired of knowing everything about you but still knowing nothing.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
“I don’t care howyoufeel, only howIfeel.”
“Just when I’m starting to think you’re human.”
“I can’t afford to be human,” she said. “Tell me. What happened with Wendy? Is it worse than I think?”
Arthur’s stomach knotted up and lodged in his throat. “She was the daughter of the old curator at one of Mum and Dad’s galleries,” he said. “I met her at a party. My parents threw us together, thought we’d get on. We did. I found out later she’d asked my mother to introduce us. Wendy’s short for—”
