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“Well,” said Tom. “I think you have that one sealed. I hear that Pete O’Connor was talking to his brother who has an indie club in New York and he wants you to play there.”
Ethan gave him a surprised look. “Really? Pete hasn’t said anything to me.”
Tom gave him a knowing nod. “He will.”
Ethan’s expression became unreadable. “Thanks for the head’s up, man. I appreciate it.” He lifted his Patek Phillippe watch. “I better go. Time to start.”
He nodded to the others and made his way to the stage. Kate watched him go, somehow both glad and disappointed at his departure, the discomfort she’d felt over his interaction with Giancarlo so strong that it took all her effort to set it aside and enjoy the night. An effort that she knew was fruitless and her enjoyment only a pretense.
Twenty-One
Clouds scudded along the sky, moving more quickly than the traffic Kate could see from the window of the hotel room. The Manhattan streets were thick with cars, buses, and even a few bicycles whose business it was to thread their way through the traffic on some urgent delivery. A late Friday afternoon meant that everyone was either desperate to get out for the weekend away from the city, or desperate to get into it for an evening’s entertainment.
Kate felt Giancarlo come up behind her and slide his arms around her waist, pressing his lips against her neck in a sensuous kiss. They’d just arrived at the Four Seasons, Giancarlo making a weekend reservation the day before as a surprise to her after privately checking with her father and arranging for a nurse to come and spend the night. She found it impossible to protest, especially after he’d said that he’d spoken to Cassidy at the gallery and Cassidy had jumped at the chance to have lunch with the two of them on Saturday. And afterwards, he’d told her, they’d have dinner and a night at the Metropolitan Opera House.Toscawas playing, one of Giancarlo’s favorites.
He turned her around to face him and cupped the back of her head, giving her a deep kiss, the fingers of his other hand tracing her bare neck, her hair now straightened and carefully arranged into the chignon style he favored. She responded to his touch, knowing that he’d been waiting for this moment all day. He’d made love to her the night before, but it had been quick and more proprietorial than loving, dominating her with his body. But this morning when he’d asked her to wear the deep blue Dior shift dress, matching coat along with the impossible Louboutin heels, she knew he had something more prolonged in mind. The conclusion proved true on the train ride up. The seats in the more spacious business class gave him more room to slide his hand along the inside of her leg to her bare skin just above the edge of the stocking he’d also asked her to wear, and lean over and kiss her neck as he angled his back just enough to the aisle so that no one would see. It had been impossibly seductive, his finger brushing her thighs just enough so that although they were feather light, his intent was most definitely clear. Her reaction, though, was more self-conscious awareness of the public nature of their surroundings.
Now, he was picking up where he’d left off on the train, his hand reaching lower, hiking her dress and sliding his fingers along the edge of the stocking. He moaned into her mouth and pressed close. She could feel his erection through his suit pants. He’d removed his tie and jacket the moment they’d come in the door, and now he started on her, taking off her jacket coat and pulling down the zipper on the back of her dress to give him access. He inserted his hand inside the dress, his hand stroking her back, until he broke the embrace a moment later to allow her dress to fall to the floor, leaving her standing in her heels, stockings, and Italian lingerie.
She stepped out of the dress, feeling strange in the lingerie, shoes, and stockings. Though she knew it had been a little more than three weeks since she’d worn anything like this, it seemed alien on her body now.
Giancarlo didn’t seem to notice any difference as he pulled her once again toward him, murmuring Italian endearments to her while he kissed her all over and skimmed his fingers along her body. She gave way to the moment, aware of her body lighting up to his sensuous touch. He led her over to the bed, and, quickly removing his own clothes, drew her down. She stopped and tried to remove the shoes, but he put his hand on her arm, murmuring to her to leave them on. And there, on the bed, he wooed her carefully and with all the sensuality that any woman could ask for. His touch was sure, experienced, and she followed his lead and tried to lose herself in the moment and in him.
* * *
Kate felt Giancarlo’s eyes on her, studying her carefully. The coin-sized piece of turbot so beautifully arranged and delicately garnished on the white plate seemed too much a piece of art to disturb with something as mundane as a fork, and later, mastication. This exclusive little Italian restaurant tucked away in Tribeca was run by an up-and-coming chef vying for a Michelin star. Giancarlo’s dish was no less a work of art with its three pieces of ravioli stuffed with something she couldn’t pronounce, but Giancarlo assured her was a kind of truffle. The sauce was light, more like a foam reduction, or was it a jus? She was too tired really to take that much interest.
The day had been full and after a virtually sleepless night, she was exhausted. The first half of the night had been taken up with Giancarlo’s lovemaking, an effort he’d begun again after pausing for dinner in the hotel, but later, after he’d fallen asleep, she’d found herself still awake, her mind too busy with thoughts of her father and Somerton Lake.
She’d risen finally, about an hour after dawn, the light peeking in through the crack in the long drapes that blocked out the city vista and only muted the sounds of traffic and everything else that made up the urban soundscape. She had no swimsuit, so she wasn’t able to go for a swim, which might have gone a long way to clear her head, and she didn’t have any interest in the workout room or any of the other amenities. As a consequence, when Giancarlo stirred a while later, she still felt restless, disquieted. It made her glad when he’d opted for breakfast out eventually, and they’d settled on a nearby diner that served espresso. Later, after returning to prepare for the meeting with Cassidy, she found herself once again in a pair of Louboutin shoes, only this time paired with a silver coat dress with an embroidered vine pattern on the hem. The stockings were also back, along with a different set of Italian lingerie, one of the gifts Giancarlo had brought with him. A gift that was more for him, she’d thought. Now, though they were in a formal setting, at least she could sit and ease her aching feet.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were changing the theme of the exhibition?” asked Giancarlo.
She sighed inwardly, her heart sinking. She’d known it was coming, even though Giancarlo had been pleasant and attentive throughout the lunch with Cassidy, who’d enthused about Kate’s new direction for the exhibition and how successful it would be. Kate knew those reassurances wouldn’t be enough for Giancarlo. He believed strongly in the original plan, felt that he was building a solid name and platform for her art career. For a little while after the lunch, when they’d taken a taxi to the MMA and viewed some of the art exhibitions there, she thought he might make nothing of it. But as they walked around the galleries, while she struggled not to groan with pain at the increasingly hobbling shoes, Giancarlo had fallen silent. At first she thought it might be that he was contemplating the various paintings and artworks, but when she found him frowning at her, his eyes distant, she couldn’t fool herself any longer. He was angry at worst, annoyed at best. At her.
He continued to stew on his thoughts after they left the gallery, took a taxi back to the hotel for yet another change of clothes. She’d started to be glad that they would be attending the opera, where conversation was unnecessary. But it seemed he wanted answers now, before the opera.
“It just seemed to happen,” she told him. “Cassidy and I were talking, going over my images from the exhibition at your gallery, and then I showed her a few potential images for the Dante while I explained to her what the finished pieces would look like. She seemed to like them, but she also asked me what other ideas I had.”
“And you had these ideas, when?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t remember talking about them with you.”
She shook her head. “It was recently, I promise. I had just been taking pictures of the trees with all their fall colors, and I started thinking that they reminded me of a particular poem.”
“‘Song of Wandering Aengus,’ I think you said.”
“Yes. It’s a Yeats poem. I mean, the trees aren’t hazel, like they are in the poem, but there’s the ‘Two Trees’ poem, too. But it got me to thinking and then…” She trailed off, trying to decide how to explain what happened with Ethan and the house of clouds image that he’d pointed out for her. She knew she would keep his name out of it, but she had to formulate exactly what to say to Giancarlo so he could understand the beauty and synchronicity of the idea.
“And then?” Giancarlo arched a brow.
She smiled. “And then I was out at the lake one evening. The trees there are so full of color, it’s like a painting in itself. There was a light cloud like mist reflected in the lake right by a house. ‘House of Clouds,’ I thought. That’s a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning about a place to build your dreams. Or a particular dream. I studied the poem in college and it came back to me, then.”
She was rambling now and brought herself to a halt. She put down her fork and took a sip of the wine whose memorial year she’d forgotten, surprised again by the sight of her carefully manicured and painted nails. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d done that before Italy. Giancarlo had insisted she have a manicure this morning, when she’d had her hair done, before the lunch, through one of the concierge services. Finely manicured nails were so impractical for an artist. But he’d told her it was a treat and had wanted her to have a pedicure as well, but she’d refused, citing that her shoes weren’t open toed. Even now, her black silk evening shoes sported a dusting of crystals in a star pattern instead of an opening for her toes. They matched the three-quarter-length black bias-cut silk gown that also had tiny crystal star bursts artfully distributed across the torso. This gown, she knew, was a Schiaparelli. Giancarlo’s mother had made certain Kate understood that when Giancarlo had taken his mother along to help choose an evening gown for her last month for one of the events approaching Christmas. But Giancarlo had brought it with him for her to wear in New York, because, as he told her, he wanted her to dazzle everyone there.
At the moment she felt far from dazzling under his intense stare.
“‘House of Clouds?’” he said, his brows drawn together. “I do not know this poem.” He muttered something in Italian that she didn’t catch. A moment later he sighed. “Katerina. We made a plan. It was carefully thought out, and it was built on your work in Italy. It is a unique and important identity that you established in your show. Your name, the theme, the approach, it was what we agreed. It is good business. And it is you. Who you are as an artist.” He waved his hand. “You cannot change it on a whim because you saw some pretty trees.”
“It was more than trees,” she said, her tone hard. “It was a feeling. An instinct.”
