For a second she didn’t answer, then she nodded. “It’s your life. Go get him.”
I laughed, then signaled to a passing waiter. He paused in front of me, and I grabbed a glass of chardonnay.
I held up my finger as I downed it, silently signaling the waiter to stay. Then I exchanged my empty glass for a full one. “Liquid courage,” I said, more to Sloane than the waiter, though his lips twitched as well.
He tilted his head in both acknowledgment and farewell, then slid off into the crowd. I watched him go, knowing that my turn was next. Because Cole was somewhere in that throng, too.
I caught Sloane’s eye, and took strength from her encouraging grin. “Here goes nothing,” I said, then moved away from her and back toward the throng, determined to see this through.
It took a moment, but I finally found Cole surrounded by a group of well-heeled guests, all of whom were gazing with rapturous expressions at a canvas that seemed to be in motion, it was so full of color and life. I couldn’t hear Cole, but I saw the animation in his face, the way he got when he spoke of art.
He used his hands, his body, and with every word and motion he captured the crowd. Hell, he captured me, too, and I moved closer and closer, until finally I could hear his words and I just stood there, letting his smooth voice roll over me and give me courage.
After a moment, he wrapped up his spiel and left the guests to contemplate the painting on their own. When he did, he turned and saw me, and I felt the impact of that connection all the way to my toes.
There’d been heat between us earlier tonight—of that I no longer had any doubt. But Cole had been in control then. This time, I’d caught him unaware, and I could plainly see the pulsing hunger that raged through him as he took in the sight of me.
Go. Now.
I drew in a breath for courage. Yeah, it was time to do this thing.
And so I took one step, and then another and another. Each taking me toward Cole August. Each fueling that fire inside me that raged for him—a fire that had the power to either raise me up or reduce me to ashes.
I could only hope that tonight I would capture the man, and not destroy myself in the trying.
three
It’s not sex that messes you up. It’s desire.
Once sex enters the equation, everyone has something to bargain with. It’s like a contract, and there’s consideration on each side. Maybe the sex isn’t great, or maybe it’s mind-blowing, or maybe the participants are so wrapped up in their own neuroses that it overshadows all the rest. But even then, the basic parameters are there and everyone knows what’s expected of them.
That’s not the case with desire.
With desire it’s all one-sided. You have nothing to go on except perception. A smile. A nod. A handshake that lingers too long. The stroke of a finger over hair.
But all those things can be hidden, and all those things can be faked.
When you grow up in the grift, you know how to fake a lot of things, and you know how to read people.
You think you do, anyway.
I thought I knew how to read Cole. I thought I’d seen the subtle signals that validated my own desire. The little hints and movements, the casual glances and offhand touches.
I thought I’d seen them—but I couldn’t be certain. And if I wanted an answer I had to put myself on the line.
That is why desire is a bitch.
That bitch currently had her iron hand on my shoulder and was steering me through the crowd toward the object of my desire. He’d been pulled aside by an elegant seventy-something woman who appeared to be interrogating him and the artist about the subtle distinctions between two of the pieces on display.
I had three things going for me, and I clung tight to them like a child to a security blanket. First, my upbringing made me a chameleon, both changeable and adaptable. It also gave me a thick skin and the ability to fake confidence. Some kids thank their parents for forcing them to endure Little League in order to build character. I thanked my dad for teaching me how to pull off long and short cons.
Second, I’d seen desire in Cole’s eyes at least twice during the gala. Maybe I was projecting, but I didn’t think so. And if he wanted me, too, then that made my goal that much more attainable.
Finally, I’d slammed back two glasses of wine within the space of five minutes, and I am a lightweight where alcohol is concerned. That meant that I was floating on a cloud of liquid courage, just like I’d told the waiter. And as far as I was concerned, that was a damn fine thing.
“You can analyze,” Cole was saying as I approached, “or you can feel.” The two paintings he was discussing were huge, the canvases each eight feet tall and four feet wide. They stood side by side, the vibrant colors seeming to jump from the canvases. The artist, a South Sider who looked to be on the shy side of twenty and went by the name of Tiki, nodded vigorously from his post beside Cole.
“That’s what I been sayin’.” He thumped his chest with the heel of his hand. “You gotta go with what you feel here. You can pick it apart and hold up color swaths and call in your high-price decorators, but that ain’t gonna tell you what’s gonna feel right when you walk into the room and see that canvas on your wall.”
The woman sniffed. “That may be so, young man, but my husband just paid six figures to our designer to redo the den, and I assure you that if what I purchase clashes with the decor, it won’t be your art I’m feeling.”
Tiki laughed. “You got me there, Amelia.”
I expected her to chastise him for his impertinence, but she only joined his laughter.
“What do you think, Kat?” Cole asked.
I looked up at him, surprised that he was pulling me into the discussion. More than that, I had the distinct feeling that he’d been watching me while I’d been watching Tiki and Amelia.
“I think that your six-figure decorating job isn’t worth a nickel if you don’t make the room yours.” I stepped closer to the canvases, sliding into operator mode. This I knew how to do. “If you had a completely empty room to work with, which would you choose?”
I looked from one to the other as Amelia considered. “It’s a hard choice, I know,” I said. “They’re similar, and yet at the same time each stands alone. They’re evocative,” I added. “The bursts of color. The subtlety of the muted areas.” I glanced at her, saw that she was nodding slightly, and started to reel her in.
“I don’t know about you,” I said—because we were just talking girl to girl now—“but I look at these, and they lift me up.” I did a quick inspection of her appearance. The classic lines of her dress. Her carefully styled hair. She was considering buying modern art, yes, but this was an elegant woman with roots that probably sank for generations.
That analysis told me where to go next. “It makes me feel like . . .” I drifted off, as if considering. “It’s like being at the symphony,” I finally said. “When the music seems to lift you up and carry you away.”
“Yes,” she murmured, nodding. “Why, yes.”
“What I find particularly compelling is the way these two pieces blend together. You see? The colors complement each other. The red here draws out the purple on this one.” I indicated each painting in turn. “They work in tandem—honestly, I’d be afraid that separating them would be like removing all the violins from a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth.”
I laughed, then signaled to a passing waiter. He paused in front of me, and I grabbed a glass of chardonnay.
I held up my finger as I downed it, silently signaling the waiter to stay. Then I exchanged my empty glass for a full one. “Liquid courage,” I said, more to Sloane than the waiter, though his lips twitched as well.
He tilted his head in both acknowledgment and farewell, then slid off into the crowd. I watched him go, knowing that my turn was next. Because Cole was somewhere in that throng, too.
I caught Sloane’s eye, and took strength from her encouraging grin. “Here goes nothing,” I said, then moved away from her and back toward the throng, determined to see this through.
It took a moment, but I finally found Cole surrounded by a group of well-heeled guests, all of whom were gazing with rapturous expressions at a canvas that seemed to be in motion, it was so full of color and life. I couldn’t hear Cole, but I saw the animation in his face, the way he got when he spoke of art.
He used his hands, his body, and with every word and motion he captured the crowd. Hell, he captured me, too, and I moved closer and closer, until finally I could hear his words and I just stood there, letting his smooth voice roll over me and give me courage.
After a moment, he wrapped up his spiel and left the guests to contemplate the painting on their own. When he did, he turned and saw me, and I felt the impact of that connection all the way to my toes.
There’d been heat between us earlier tonight—of that I no longer had any doubt. But Cole had been in control then. This time, I’d caught him unaware, and I could plainly see the pulsing hunger that raged through him as he took in the sight of me.
Go. Now.
I drew in a breath for courage. Yeah, it was time to do this thing.
And so I took one step, and then another and another. Each taking me toward Cole August. Each fueling that fire inside me that raged for him—a fire that had the power to either raise me up or reduce me to ashes.
I could only hope that tonight I would capture the man, and not destroy myself in the trying.
three
It’s not sex that messes you up. It’s desire.
Once sex enters the equation, everyone has something to bargain with. It’s like a contract, and there’s consideration on each side. Maybe the sex isn’t great, or maybe it’s mind-blowing, or maybe the participants are so wrapped up in their own neuroses that it overshadows all the rest. But even then, the basic parameters are there and everyone knows what’s expected of them.
That’s not the case with desire.
With desire it’s all one-sided. You have nothing to go on except perception. A smile. A nod. A handshake that lingers too long. The stroke of a finger over hair.
But all those things can be hidden, and all those things can be faked.
When you grow up in the grift, you know how to fake a lot of things, and you know how to read people.
You think you do, anyway.
I thought I knew how to read Cole. I thought I’d seen the subtle signals that validated my own desire. The little hints and movements, the casual glances and offhand touches.
I thought I’d seen them—but I couldn’t be certain. And if I wanted an answer I had to put myself on the line.
That is why desire is a bitch.
That bitch currently had her iron hand on my shoulder and was steering me through the crowd toward the object of my desire. He’d been pulled aside by an elegant seventy-something woman who appeared to be interrogating him and the artist about the subtle distinctions between two of the pieces on display.
I had three things going for me, and I clung tight to them like a child to a security blanket. First, my upbringing made me a chameleon, both changeable and adaptable. It also gave me a thick skin and the ability to fake confidence. Some kids thank their parents for forcing them to endure Little League in order to build character. I thanked my dad for teaching me how to pull off long and short cons.
Second, I’d seen desire in Cole’s eyes at least twice during the gala. Maybe I was projecting, but I didn’t think so. And if he wanted me, too, then that made my goal that much more attainable.
Finally, I’d slammed back two glasses of wine within the space of five minutes, and I am a lightweight where alcohol is concerned. That meant that I was floating on a cloud of liquid courage, just like I’d told the waiter. And as far as I was concerned, that was a damn fine thing.
“You can analyze,” Cole was saying as I approached, “or you can feel.” The two paintings he was discussing were huge, the canvases each eight feet tall and four feet wide. They stood side by side, the vibrant colors seeming to jump from the canvases. The artist, a South Sider who looked to be on the shy side of twenty and went by the name of Tiki, nodded vigorously from his post beside Cole.
“That’s what I been sayin’.” He thumped his chest with the heel of his hand. “You gotta go with what you feel here. You can pick it apart and hold up color swaths and call in your high-price decorators, but that ain’t gonna tell you what’s gonna feel right when you walk into the room and see that canvas on your wall.”
The woman sniffed. “That may be so, young man, but my husband just paid six figures to our designer to redo the den, and I assure you that if what I purchase clashes with the decor, it won’t be your art I’m feeling.”
Tiki laughed. “You got me there, Amelia.”
I expected her to chastise him for his impertinence, but she only joined his laughter.
“What do you think, Kat?” Cole asked.
I looked up at him, surprised that he was pulling me into the discussion. More than that, I had the distinct feeling that he’d been watching me while I’d been watching Tiki and Amelia.
“I think that your six-figure decorating job isn’t worth a nickel if you don’t make the room yours.” I stepped closer to the canvases, sliding into operator mode. This I knew how to do. “If you had a completely empty room to work with, which would you choose?”
I looked from one to the other as Amelia considered. “It’s a hard choice, I know,” I said. “They’re similar, and yet at the same time each stands alone. They’re evocative,” I added. “The bursts of color. The subtlety of the muted areas.” I glanced at her, saw that she was nodding slightly, and started to reel her in.
“I don’t know about you,” I said—because we were just talking girl to girl now—“but I look at these, and they lift me up.” I did a quick inspection of her appearance. The classic lines of her dress. Her carefully styled hair. She was considering buying modern art, yes, but this was an elegant woman with roots that probably sank for generations.
That analysis told me where to go next. “It makes me feel like . . .” I drifted off, as if considering. “It’s like being at the symphony,” I finally said. “When the music seems to lift you up and carry you away.”
“Yes,” she murmured, nodding. “Why, yes.”
“What I find particularly compelling is the way these two pieces blend together. You see? The colors complement each other. The red here draws out the purple on this one.” I indicated each painting in turn. “They work in tandem—honestly, I’d be afraid that separating them would be like removing all the violins from a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth.”
