Playing With Fire. Carrie Alexander
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like a greedy child until it felt as if her skin had grown plump and glossy with satisfaction. He was uniquely her match. She knew it instinctively.
Pedestrians continued to flow around them. Finally someone muttered, “Get a room,” and they widened their eyes and laughed, breaking apart, then coming together again. They walked to the corner with their hands linked. “We’ll go for a drink first,” he said, and she thought, Daniel, so chock-full of pleasure at the sound of his name in her head that she only belatedly wondered what came “second.” They crossed the intersection among a flurry of traffic and turned toward Mercer Street, their footsteps ringing on the metal vault covers of the loading bays.
Lara’s head was catching up to her impulses. She was astonished at her daring, but intrigued by the direction it had taken her. How far would she let it go?
Earlier, Daniel had drawn her attention as soon as she’d shed Kensington’s fawning attentions and taken a good look around the restaurant. There were other business types mixed in with the artsy uptown crowd, but only Daniel had exuded such a distinctive aura. Already feeling unlike herself in the costumey dress and out-of-use social mask, she’d decided right then to play a little game with him. At first the relationship she’d sensed between him and the pale woman with a casque of ebony hair had been disconcerting, but that had turned out all right.
She and Daniel were free, young and single—there was no reason not to follow her impulses. True, the strength of the attraction was alarming. She wasn’t sure how to curb it.
Or even if she wanted to.
He held her hand tightly as they plunged through a milling crowd of revelers who’d just emerged from one of the upscale loft buildings. She shot him an oblique glance. Chemistry like this was rare. Why not play it out?
They entered a trendy bar—was there any other kind in SoHo?—through vast glass doors, a place known for its funky pseudo-Adirondack style. It was packed with club crawlers, the black-and-white cowhide couch lined with preening fashionistas. Lara lifted her face toward the heavy log beams that spanned the ceiling, seeking a gulp of untainted oxygen. The air was thick with smoke and a constant buzz of gossip.
It was strange to think that she’d once belonged to a similar crowd, though hers had put less emphasis on designer labels and more on individuality. After a few years of struggle by day—she’d tried everything from waitressing to window dressing before her art had become self-supporting—and partying by night, she’d burned out on both and had taken herself to the country. It was there she’d found her best inspiration.
Daniel tugged on her hand. “Follow me.”
They’d been granted a tiny table for two, where they shared a brocade padded bench tucked away in a dark corner beneath a set of antlers. Two icy cold green-apple martinis arrived at the table and she downed a third of hers in one big gulp, hoping the liquor would cut through her otherworldliness. The animated stream of Manhattan nightlife was now wavering like a dream sequence; she blinked and watched the colors weave in and out.
I am light-headed. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her chest and she swallowed it down again.
It was because she’d been alone so much, she decided. But she hadn’t felt out of place at Bianca’s with all her old friends, even though she’d lost touch with many of their current references. What was truly odd was returning, older and wiser, to play dress-up among the glitterati of SoHo. The liquor wasn’t helping in that regard.
No, that’s not all, Lara amended in the next instant. The blame was mostly Daniel’s.
Each time he turned his sharp gray eyes upon her face, she lost touch with the principles that guided her hard-won sense of self. Her intentions—to say nothing of her caution—tumbled into the chasm his eyes blasted into her concentration and when, after several minutes, she came back to herself, she was…unrestrained. Loose all over, like butter in the sun. Oiled like a hinge. The harsh lights and vivid colors burned her eyes. She found herself saying the most provocative things.
Helpless to resist, she leaned toward Daniel, drawn by his compelling masculinity. He was as magnetic as the great Broadway actor she’d met years ago at her father’s stone farmhouse in Umbria. In a swoony Welsh accent, the notorious old goat had told Lara that he wanted to take her to his homeland, that she must see Aberystwyth and the Vale of Glamorgan. His spell was so potent she’d been all but ready to hop a boat…until he’d stuck his hand up her skirt.
Daniel was less inclined.
Thus far.
Lara laughed freely at nothing in particular, except perhaps the heady whirlwind of an attraction that was so deeply sexual it had to be more than sexual. She sensed a possibility of long-term desire…if she played her cards right, remembered her limitations and kept her cool. The latter didn’t seem likely. She crossed her legs, widening the gap in her skirt.
Daniel put his hand on her kneecap. Her nerve endings hummed with pleasure.
She buried her nose in the mahogany-brown hair that curled behind his ear. He had the ears of a satyr; she wanted to nibble on the tip, suckle at the lobe.
“Mmm, Camille,” he murmured when she licked at his ear.
The name was part of her game. It provided the mask that was her safety net. Having grown up as the daughter of a legendary Man of Arts, watching the sycophants, dealers and scholars that revolved around him, hungrily snatching at his soul, she understood the value of simple anonymity.
“Tell me about yourself.” Daniel caught her chin in his big hot hand. She wanted to feel those hands all over her, blasting their heat into every hidden crevice like a relentless Mediterranean sun. “Let me guess. You’re…an artist?”
To avoid his intense gaze, she ducked under the tumbledown mess of her hair. “Some might say so.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well. You know.” She shrugged. “It’s a man’s world. Women’s work isn’t taken as seriously.”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” he said.
She laughingly overrode him, insisting, “No, no, in the art world it’s still 1900.”
“What do you do?”
She swallowed a private smile. “I sculpt.”
“Were you one of the artists with a piece on display at the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
When he frowned, two lines intersected in a vee an inch above the bridge of his nose. His brows were luxuriously thick, but as well-groomed as the rest of him. His nose was a strong beak, matched by a granite jaw. “I’m sorry. There was a lot of art there, but I don’t remember seeing any sculpture. Did I overlook it?”
“Probably. But that’s to be expected. Auguste gets all the credit.” She puffed wisps of hair out of her eyes, amused at Daniel’s confusion.
“I’m lost,” he said, absently stroking her collarbone, sending the tempo of her pulse sky-high.
“As am I.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”
She ducked under his arm and snuggled against him. “That’s the fun of it.”
“All right. I’ll play along.” He said this with such a weightiness she laughed again.
“It’s the weekend, Daniel. Forget about Nasdaq and Alan Greenspan and all the bulls and bears and other nasty beasties. Take a few hours off. Have some fun.” She crinkled her nose at him. “Do you know how to do that?”
“Oh, yes.” His baritone went right through her. “I know how.”
“I’ll just bet you do.” She gave her response equal weight, teasing him.
They skipped briefly over his career at a stuffy old brokerage house and how the world would spin off its axis if ever