Sex, Murder And A Double Latte. Kyra Davis
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took a large step forward. “I’m glad there are other people here who agree with me.”
“Where’s the social commentary?” the guy asked. “Where’s the controversy? This isn’t art, this is navel lint. A crucifix dipped in cow’s dung, a black-and-white photograph of a man sticking his fist up another guy’s A-hole. That’s art. That’s the kind of stuff that will make people stop and really think about their contrived Middle American sensibilities.”
Anatoly stepped back again. So much for bonding with Velvet Pants. Disappointed, the stranger’s head swiveled to Marcus in hopes of finding someone else sympathetic to his grievance.
Marcus made a little talk-to-the-hand gesture. “Don’t look at me, honey—I draw the line at gerbils.” He angled himself next to me in a manner that excluded Velvet Pants from our social circle. “How’s your drink?”
I looked down at my glass. It was only half full now, but I seemed to be having a hard time keeping it from spilling. “I think I’m finished.”
“Do you want to stay a while longer and get a better look at the train wreck, or shall we hail a cab now?” Anatoly asked.
“This isn’t New York,” I said. “You don’t hail cabs here, you call them.”
“Then it’s a good thing I have a cell phone. Marcus, it was very nice to meet you.”
I leaned forward to give Marcus a kiss on the cheek. “You owe me big-time.”
“Free cut and style for the next three visits.”
“I’m not hanging out, either,” the goatee guy announced in case one of us cared. “See you later, Sophie.”
My fingers tightened around the stemware. How many drinks had I had? But Marcus’s expression assured me that he’d caught it too. The night was getting way too bizarre for my taste.
Donato came up to us again. “Ah, now I must show you the rest of my collection.”
“Sorry, but your paintings reminded me that I need to pick up some stain remover to clean up the red wine that I spilled on my carpet,” Anatoly said. “Although maybe it would be more profitable to pull up the soiled fibers and mount them on a canvas—for those art collectors who prefer texture.”
That one left even Donato speechless. I definitely should have thrown my drink at Anatoly when I still had the ability to aim. As it was, it seemed the best course of action was to make a speedy exit.
“Thank you, Donato, your art is beautiful.” I gave Marcus’s hand a little squeeze before walking out into the cold.
Anatoly was close at my heels, so much so that when I whirled around to berate him for his latest impudence, he barely managed to stop in time to avoid a collision. The result was the two of us standing all of an inch away from each other. Old Spice. God, I love that scent. Without breaking eye contact, I became increasingly aware of his other body parts. If I took a deep breath, my breasts would press against his chest, and all he had to do was bring his hands slightly up and forward and they could secure my hips. His eyes finally left mine and lowered themselves to my lips.
He couldn’t possibly be thinking of kissing me. He didn’t even know me. And I hated him. He wasn’t even fully evolved. I needed to turn away. Yep, that’s what I’d do, turn away…in a minute.
Anatoly’s mouth formed into a little half smile, and he leaned forward a bit more. Half an inch. “You were going to say something?”
I could feel his breath. Say something, right. I had turned around in order to say something. What was it? Take me now, my Russian warrior? No, that wasn’t it. Make me your love slave? No, that was off the mark too.
“Well?” he said.
Anatoly still wasn’t touching me, but damn if every inch of me wasn’t responding to him.
Strength. Strength and resolve. I scrunched my eyes shut. “I’m having a hard time thinking. You’re in my space.”
Anatoly’s smile broadened as he took a step back. “Is that better?”
No. “Yes.” I dug my nails into my palm. “You really are a jerk, you know that?”
“As I explained on the day we met, if you’re going to insult me you’re going to have to be a little more creative than that.”
“All right, how about this? You’re an egotistical, arrogant piece of Soviet trash. You know, I didn’t like the paintings in there either, but I didn’t feel the need to criticize and belittle Donato in front of Marcus. The fact that you did just shows what a pathetic and scummy little prick you are.”
Anatoly leaned back onto his heels. “That’s definitely better.”
For a minute or so we just stood there while he turned over what I had said and I tried to find a stable focal point.
“I’m not sure anyone can qualify as a piece of Soviet trash anymore, but you were right on all your other points.”
Okay, I hadn’t been expecting that.
“Donato rubbed me the wrong way as did that stuff he’s trying to pass off as art, but that didn’t give me the right to be cruel. I can be overly judgmental, it’s a character flaw. I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m wrong.”
So now he’d gone and screwed up my first impression. I hated it when people did that. Plus, it was a lot easier to resist him when I thought he was a Cro-Magnon/Neanderthal. Now he was moving into the Homo sapiens category, which meant we just might be sexually compatible, and, considering how long it had been since I’d had sex, if I had to share a cab home with an extremely attractive, heterosexual specimen of Homo sapiens, with a slight Russian accent, no less… Well, I might do something unforgivable like knock him over the head with a club and drag him up to my apartment by his hair.
“If you’ll still share a cab with me, I promise to be nice.” The streetlight caused the shadows of a tree to play against his shirt.
Well, what kind of life would it be if you didn’t take a few risks? “You’d better call a taxi now if we’re going to get one within the next half hour.”
Anatoly raised two fingers to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle that left me temporarily hearing impaired. “I told you, you can’t hail a cab here.”
But I was once again destined to look like an idiot because a cab pulled up right in front of us.
“This never happens.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t.” Anatoly held the door and climbed in next to me as I gave the driver my address.
He seemed distracted now. I felt pretty focused. Granted, the things I was focused on were Anatoly’s hands, but I was focused nonetheless.
“That man in the gallery, the one wearing the biker jacket, you knew him?”
“Thank God for small favors, no.”
“How do you think he knew your name?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he read one of my books. My picture’s on the back cover.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Yep…murder mysteries.”
“Really?” He repositioned himself so that he had a better view of me. “And the art lover back there, he’s your target market?”
“Very funny.” I pulled on a stray thread hanging from my hemline. “I don’t know. I guess my target would be pretty much anyone who likes a good novel with a lot of action, suspense and sex.”
There was a brief silence as Anatoly thought about that. “I like action, suspense and sex.”
The driver must have turned the heat on because suddenly it had gotten very warm.
We