Twenty-eight
“Oh my God,” Anastasia said. “My sister decorates like a fifty-eight-year-old school nurse.”
Jacket, who had always liked Cam’s decorating, said, “Hey, me mum’s a fifty-eight-year-old school nurse.”
“Then she’d love it here. Jesus, sprigged flannel.” Anastasia kicked the leg of the bed that had been shoved into the corner of the makeshift studio.
Jacket had no feelings for flannel one way or another and viewed the sheets with little interest.
Anastasia wandered to the window, her long legs disappearing under a tight black leather miniskirt.
“I can’t believe she came back here, to Mt. Lebanon.”
He shrugged. “She always told me she liked being reminded of her childhood. Plus, she can take the bus to the museum. She likes that.”
“The bus? Jesus Christ, what next? Twinsets?”
Jacket saw no connection between these items and steered the conversation back on course. “Do you want to see it?”
“The latest Jacket Sprague? I do.”
He turned the easel. She pulled out a pair of glasses and perched them on the end of her nose. Leaving one foot at a right angle to the other, like a ballet dancer, she stepped back. A scent he could only describe as flowers in a harem hung on her shoulders.
“Ballsy,” she said at last. “Ironic. Postapocalyptic Duchamp crossed with John Singer Sargent. Congratulations, you’ve reinvented yourself.”
Jacket beamed. That was exactly what he’d wanted to hear. “I told you it was good.”
“You were right.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to Ball?”
“I did,” she said. “I don’t think this is what he’s looking for.”
“He hasn’t seen this.”
“True. Still, the aesthetic is not—”
“It is true what I heard, then—that he’s buying big?”
“What you heard, my dear,” she said, touching his nose, “is that he’s building a new postmodern house in Florida with an entry hall the size of a small European country. He wants a dozen pieces, same artist. He wants to make a statement. He’s willing to go as high as twenty-five million.”
“Jesus, that’s a hell of a statement.” He took her arm. “Listen, I want it.” Their eyes met, and he felt a tingle of excitement mixed with fear. It was like looking into the eyes of a hungry panther.
“I hope you get what you want, then.” She gave him a sly smile and walked past the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows, her stilettos clicking out the ball-tightening code of a streetwalker.
“Let me ask you something,” she said when she finished a long sweep of the skyline.
“Why is it you’re asking me for help with Ball and not Cam? ”
He took a breath. He didn’t really understand all the rules about women, but he had a sense talking about Cam in this way was crossing the line. “She doesn’t like to get involved in that sort of thing.”
“For her fiancé?”
“We haven’t quite gotten to that stage yet.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “We’re still in negotiations.”
“Jesus. Are you fucking her, or are you actually stuck in the guest room like it looks?”
He rubbed his hands on his jeans. “C’mon, Anastasia.”
She dug a cigarette out of her purse and held out a pack of matches. He struck one for her and lit the cigarette. The sound made his heart do a weird sort of jump step, even though he’d never been a smoker.
“What’s this?” She looked at the sketchbook on his work desk.
“Oh, that. A detail. For a portrait.”
“You’re going back to portraits?”
“Well, just one. The last, probably.”
“The last portrait of Jacket Sprague,” she said with an interested glint. “Now there’s something that sounds interesting. Who’s your model?”
“Well, I don’t usually work with models, but in this case—”
“How about me?”
“What?”
“Me. How about me?” She lifted herself onto the table and crossed her legs. Her hair was as straight and shiny as a slice of onyx.
“I, uh…”
His cell phone buzzed. It was Cam. He held up a finger and stepped into the hall. “Where are you, doll?”
“At a restaurant in Regent Square. With Mr. Ball. We just sat down.”
“Oh God. Not another fuzzy navel night.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not driving. What are you doing?”
“You know. Meeting with a potential buyer.”
“Cool. See you soon—well, maybe not soon, exactly.”
He laughed. “Take your time.”
He walked back into the studio. Anastasia was naked, perched effortlessly on heels that seemed to be an extension of her body.
The glossy black triangle below her waist looked like a small, hibernating animal.
She walked to the bed and lay on her stomach, her lovely tight ass flexing as she crossed her ankles above it.
Her breasts, boyish and firm, were visible by her bent elbow.
She looked at him through long, thick lashes. “Perhaps we should start like this.”