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She didn’t, and just the mention of that particular hobby had sent her pulse racing dangerously fast.
“There’s no more enjoyable way to spend an afternoon.”
I’ll take your word for it. She bit back the rejoinder, unwilling to admit to this man just how inexperienced she was.
“I’m a fan of art galleries, myself.”
His smirk was teasing, but she ignored it, and sipped her coffee, looking towards the window. The coastline was far away, but even more beautiful from this distance, where the thin strip of white formed by the sand bled into cliffs of green and silver, and little townships dotted along the length. There must have been hundreds of thousands of people within the stretch of land she could see from one side of the window to the other, and none of them knew she was bobbing on this boat having a small emotional breakdown.
“There weren’t any galleries in the town I grew up in. Too small,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. “But there were books. I would check out the tomes on artwork from the library and hide them under my bed, waiting until everyone else was asleep,” or drunk, she mentally added, “then I’d pull them out and pore over the images. I wanted, desperately, to see the real things.” She sipped her coffee. “In Melbourne, whenever there was free access to a gallery, I’d go, but I couldn’t—,” she stopped short. How could she tell him that not only had she been homeless, she’d looked it, and galleries didn’t routinely encourage vagrants to walk through their corridors. She blinked quickly. “It wasn’t until I moved to London though that I really saw the artwork I’d been craving. I couldn’t believe—I still can’t believe—that you can walk into a hall, for free, turn right and come face to face with some of the most magnificent impressionist paintings ever created.” She sighed softly. “That’s how I spend my free time.”
Heat flooded her face at how much she’d just spoken, and at the way he was looking at her, with a frown, as though trying to slot this new information into the image he had of her as an unfeeling home-wrecker.
“It sounds a little duller than mine.”
She laughed. “Not to me.”
“Really?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I take it you’re not an art fan?”
“Oh, I appreciate art,” he corrected gravely. “But I really, really appreciate good sex.”
Her pulse kicked up a gear. Did he have any idea how he was making her feel? She suspected so. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
The question evidently floored him. “A girlfriend?” He repeated the term as though testing it out, like he’d never heard of such a concept.
“You know. A female you spend time with, blow off steam with, have sex with,” she expanded, finishing her coffee and replacing the cup with a bit of a clatter on the saucer.
“No.”
She considered that. “Commitment not your style?”
“I prefer variety.”
Her expression—disapproval—hid a strange ache tightening inside her chest. “Of course you do. Why am I not surprised?”
“Coming from a woman who has been sleeping with a married octogenarian, you should probably ease up on the judgement.”
His summation took her breath away. She stood, leaving the sandwich uneaten except for a few nibbles. “Do you have any books on board?”
The question, out of left field, obviously surprised him. His brows drew together. “Books?”
“You know, hard covers with paper between, words printed, stories, that kind of thing.”
“I’m familiar with the concept. Yes, there’s a library. Why?”
“There are many things I’d rather do than sit here and be insulted by you, but a book is by far my first choice.”
“You find the truth so upsetting?”
“That’s a little like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it? I gave an honest assessment of your situation and you immediately went on the defensive. Why attack me?” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I’m trying to make conversation with you, because you were right—
it would make the next few days easier if we’re not constantly at war, but you’re not capable of being even remotely civil. So please, just tell me where I can find the library, and leave me alone.”
He startled. She could tell he wasn’t used to being spoken to so directly. She gathered most people found him intimidating, but not Phoebe. She had known real fear, and it wasn’t warranted by a man like Anastasios. He was strong and in control, unlike her father, who’d careened wildly out of control, his moods growing worse into the evening, as he drank more and more, and grew angrier and angrier with the world and in his place in it.
“You’re right.” The words breathed towards her, slowly, and made more genuine by the frown on his face. “That was a cheap shot. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
