His Inspiration

by Ava Lore

  A ringing bell caught my attention. A phone.

  Frowning, I turned around, scanning the room before I spied a pile of luggage—Jesus, was all that ours?—with Malcolm's jacket folded neatly across it. The sound was coming from it. Already tipsy as hell I tottered across the living room and spent precious seconds hunting through Malcolm's pockets before I located his phone just as the person on the other end of the line hung up.

  Damn, I thought. But then the phone lit up again almost immediately, the ringtone loud in the quiet of the penthouse. In bold letters on the screen, the name Don Cardall shone out. It meant nothing to me.

  I wavered and after a few rings the call went to voicemail. I had no problem with that, as I wasn't ever a fan of people answering my own phone--safely tucked away in my purse at the base of the tower of luggage, thank god--but when the home screen popped up I saw that Malcolm had seventy-eight missed calls.

  Seventy. Eight.

  Holy shit, I thought. This might be kind of important.

  For a second I stood in the living room, trying to decide what to do. On the one hand, I wasn't Malcolm's personal secretary or anything like that, and we'd only known each other for a few days. I should, technically, go wake him up so he could field whatever emergency had popped up back home. On the other hand, I really wanted to stay here and just fuck the next few days away. Maybe drink some good liquor, eat some good food. Bone some more. Especially on that terrace... Perhaps I should just answer and see who was calling and what sort of fire Malcolm had to put out before bothering him. He looked exhausted. I didn't really want to disturb the first good sleep I was betting he'd had since we met. I didn't think he'd slept on the plane, and since he'd been forgetting to eat I didn't exactly trust him to take care of himself in my absence. I took another gulp of wine and pondered, and then the decision was made for me when the phone lit up again. Don Cardall once more. He was very persistent. I was willing to bet he was at least half of those missed calls.

  Oh, I thought, very well. I hit answer.

  "Malcolm Ward's phone," I said, very cool and sophisticated. "May I ask who's calling?"

  "Fuck you, this is a fucking emergency!" Don Cardall spat at the other end of the line. "Where the fuck is Mr. Ward?"

  Chapter Nine

  One and a half glasses of wine on a very empty stomach did not make me the most delicate of people. "He's in a sex coma," I snapped, all my good sex vibes falling away and my typical crankiness reasserting itself. "Who is this?"

  "No, you tell me who the hell you are and you put Mr. Ward on the phone right goddamn now."

  Damn, this dude was rude to someone he'd never met. “I'm Sadie MacElroy,” I said. Then, because I thought I could perhaps parlay it into some sort of social currency: “Mrs. Anton Waters' personal assistant."

  At the other end of the line, Don was quiet for a moment, clearly reassessing the situation. Yes! I thought. Finally that stupid job came in handy for something other than boring shit like keeping food on the table and a roof over my head.

  "I apologize, Miss MacElroy," Don finally said, his voice now stiff and formal, "but I am Mr. Ward's secretary. I hope you will understand that this is an emergency and put Mr. Ward on the line."

  Ah. The secretary to whom Malcolm had given over the reins of the company. I could sympathize. I really could. It was always a frantic day when something big had gone down and you couldn't contact your boss. I know this because it happened frequently when Felicia and Anton decided to go on a sex retreat, although now that I came to think of it I was obviously not any better, seeing as how I had skipped work--and town--to screw some virtual stranger's brains out. And I didn't even have the excuse of being in a relationship with him.

  Still. I didn't really want to wake Malcolm up. It was probably midnight in New York now. I'd been missing from my job for a whole day at this point. I probably had a million messages, too. Ugh.

  I wavered for another moment, then gave in. "All right, just a second," I said. "I'll go see if I can wake him up."

  "Thank you," Don said. I hit the hold button and tottered back to the bedroom. That wine was really hitting me hard.

  Malcolm lay on the bed in the same position I'd left him in. I hated to wake him up. But this was probably really important. I hoped he hadn't skipped out on some kind of life or death deal to bone me in Croatia. I mean, that's flattering and all, but I understand priorities, too. Reaching out, I put my hand on Malcolm's shoulder.

  "Malcolm?" I whispered.

  He slept on.

  I gave him a little shake.

  He continued to sleep. He was out.

  "Malcolm," I said a little louder, but he might as well have been a lump of clay for all the response I got from him. I shook him harder, then moved over to my side of the bed and began to jump up and down on it. "Wake up!" I commanded him.

  He snorted, stirred, then turned over and slipped back down into dreamland.

  Jesus. He was completely exhausted. I turned the phone back on.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "He is completely passed out."

  "Shake him!"

  "I did. I even jumped on the bed and kind of yelled at him. He won't wake up."

  In New York, I could hear Don pondering this as he felt the icy hand of termination creeping up on him. "Did you check to see if he's breathing?"

  All right, forget the rudeness. No one treats me like an idiot. "Oh gosh, no," I said, "I'm just a dumb girl and I can't tell the difference between a living body and corpse. Asshole."

  "Fine," he snapped. "You tell him I called the second he wakes up. This is an emergency, and he needs to be in New York as soon as possible. Wait, where is he, anyway?"

  "You're his secretary," I said. "Didn't he tell you?"

  I knew that would rankle him. "Tell me where he is!"

  "Sheepfuckistan," I said, and hung up.

  It was the wine. I swear.

  Not knowing what else to do, I walked out of the bedroom and back to the living room, putting Malcolm's phone on top of his coat before pouring myself another glass of wine and glancing around. A TV sat against the wall. Bingo, I thought. I located the remote and settled down with my bottle of wine.

  *

  I was good and drunk by the time Malcolm stumbled out into the living room, wearing only a pair of silk pajama bottoms. His sex-messed hair and evening wood had me thinking dirty, drunken thoughts, and when he kissed me good evening I leaned into his lips and it felt like falling.

  “I see you've located the wine,” he said. He took the bottle from my hand—now only a third full—and wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a glass for himself. “I thought we'd go out to dinner. Do you like seafood?”

  “I love seafood,” I said. “Ljubav. Love. Love, love, love.”

  He took a sip of wine and raised his eyebrows at me. “You speak Croatian?” he asked.

  “Hell no,” I said, “I've just been watching Croatian music videos. You can figure out some words from pop songs, because pop songs are the same in every language. All about love and crying and hearts and stuff.” I gestured drunkenly at the television as it flashed a gorgeous, fresh-faced Slavic girl at me, her perfect voice caressing the words as they flowed out of her mouth. I loved it. I love everything when I drink wine. I even loved Malcolm Ward, although I wasn't in love with him. I loved him deeply, though, because he was a fellow traveler on this road of life and all that shit. I'm a soppy drunk.

  “You're drunk,” Malcolm said.

  “Yup,” I replied. “There wasn't any food in the apartment.”

  “True.” He seemed amused. “I'm going to make a few calls and see who wants to give us a private dinner.”

  Calls, I thought. There was something about calls that I was supposed to remember, wasn't there? Calls, calls, calls...

  Oh, shit, I realized. Malcolm's horrible asshole secretary! He needed to call him back. And I'd answered the phone...

  Oh dear. I shouldn't have done that, should I? Well, I was about to be found
out, because he was going to turn on his phone and then he'd see all those missed calls and the answered one would be in the record and I'd better confess right now—

  But Malcolm wasn't going for his cell phone. He was instead lifting a handset off the wall and dialing out. Oh my god, a land line! This really was the Old Town. I giggled to myself as Malcolm spoke to the person on the other end of the line, in French. Surprisingly.

  After less than a minute's conversation he hung up. “You speak French?” I said.

  “Mais oui.” He smiled. “But not as well as I speak German and Japanese. And I certainly don't speak Croatian. I never had the chance to learn. Luckily for me it seems everyone here is multilingual. Dominic knows French best, so I speak to him in French, and he, in turn, laughs at my French. But he will still make the most delectable meal you've ever tasted.”

  “He will?” I was dubious. I've had some damn good food in the last year or two. And New York is lousy with hole-in-the-wall restaurants that would make a gourmand weep for joy—if you know where to find them.

  “Indeed. We should get dressed.”

  Getting dressed took a little longer than it normally does because I was too drunk to match my clothes up, especially because they were all new and I'd never seen any of them before. In the end, Malcolm dressed me, pouring my drunk ass into a corset and delicate stockings before wrapping me up in fine winter clothes and handing me my purse. His hands on me made me happy and warm, and by the soft kisses he planted on my skin I could tell he felt the same. Coming with him had been a good decision. I was sure of it.

  When we finally wandered out into the streets, the city was different than it had been this morning. Lamplight filled the stone world, and the smell of the sea hung sharp and cold in the air. I reveled in it, letting it sober me up a bit as we walked the cobbled streets. Or stone-paved streets. They kept changing under my feet, and it wasn't long before I was completely turned around and lost. All I knew was that we were on a large, main thoroughfare. It had rained again while we slept, and the streets gleamed wetly, small puddles reflecting the street lamps, gilding the stone world in gold.

  I was very warm from my stifling underthings and the walk through the streets by the time Malcolm steered me off the road and into a little cafe. No chairs or tables stood in the street outside it, but inside a few lights burned, and when we stepped through the door I nearly fainted with hunger at the delicate smells of fine herbs and sweet shellfish. Traditional music played, tinny and old-world sounding on an ancient sound system. White tablecloths shone in the warm yellow light, and I immediately felt at home.

  An older man, his face lined so deeply he looked like a raisin, came out of the kitchen and exclaimed something in French, his arms open wide. Malcolm returned the greeting and the two hugged and kissed like old friends.

  Friends. That was what Malcolm was like. A friend to everyone. Straightforward. Open. Welcoming. And despite his strange talk and idiosyncrasies, he seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be. The realization startled me. I'd known so many men who hid things, who led double lives. But Malcolm was completely transparent. Everything there was to know about him was floating on the surface, written in plain words in a language I was learning to decipher.

  Malcolm introduced me to Dominic, and the old man embraced and kissed me as well, his arms surprisingly strong for a raisin. Speaking in rapid French, he ushered us over to a table in the middle of the room decorated with fluttering candles. Malcolm helped me into my chair, then seated himself.

  And then my phone rang.

  Real world calling.

  The happy buzz of the wine receded somewhat before I realized that the ringtone was not Felicia's. I probably had a million texts from her, but she'd known I'd gone to see Malcolm on Monday because he'd asked her for the day off so he could paint me. If there was anyone in the world who would understand getting swept off her feet and off to some other place by a rich, magnetic man, it would be Felicia. So... someone else was calling me.

  I didn't want to answer it. Whoever it was could wait. I kicked my purse under the table and shrugged out of my coat. The corset kept me sitting straight, and I suddenly realized how far my breasts were pushed out toward Malcolm. And he knew it. His eyes glittered at me, dancing mischievously in the candlelight.

  Dominic rattled off more rapid French as he poured out small glasses of liqueur. Malcolm tossed his back immediately and I... well, I let mine sit after taking a whiff and feeling my stomach turn. I really needed something to eat first.

  My phone rang again. I gritted my teeth, then gave Malcolm a bright smile. “Just a second,” I said. “I have to turn that off.”

  He smiled back at me. “Very well.”

  I ducked under the table, the tightness of the corset making me wheeze as I grabbed my purse and ripped it open, fishing the offending piece of technology from its terrifying depths.

  A number I'd never seen before flashed on the screen. New York area code.

  I hesitated. What if it was an emergency? What if something had happened to Felicia and someone was trying to get a hold of me? What if something had happened to Felicia and Anton together? Felicia and Anton and Arthur, and the whole company...?

  Well, okay, the more I thought about it the less likely it seemed that everyone I personally knew would have been consumed by the same disaster, except of course it had happened before. Many times. I hadn't seen the news lately...

  “I have to take this,” I said, suddenly feeling more sick than drunk.

  Malcolm frowned at me. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Haha!” I said. “Probably! Is there a bathroom here?”

  Wordlessly, concern lighting his eyes, he pointed to the back of the restaurant, and I shuffled past him, my heels clacking loudly on the wood floor. I barely made it to the water closet before voicemail picked up. I answered the call. “Hello!” I chirped. “Sadie MacElroy speaking.”

  “Where the hell is Mr. Ward?” Don's angry voice surged across the Atlantic, pissed beyond belief. “I know he must be awake by now.”

  This. Fucking. Guy, I thought. Two could be righteously angry! “How'd you get my number?” I demanded.

  “That's not important. I need to talk to Mr. Ward as soon as possible.”

  My buzz was thoroughly wrecked at this point and my stomach pitched and roiled, basted in acidic wine. I needed to eat something. Preferably a piece of bread. “I'll tell him you called,” I said.

  “Oh, will you? Think you can remember to do that this time?”

  I hated this guy. “I remembered,” I said. “I just didn't do it.”

  A sound of frustration came over the line, and I smiled. I mean, I'm not usually vindictive and unprofessional like that, but I was drunk, I really needed to eat something, and he was just a shithead.

  He changed tactics. “I apologize, Miss MacElroy,” he said after an audible sigh. “It has been a long and very trying few days. Mr. Ward must come back to New York. It is very important.”

  “You're not going to give me a hint about what's so goddamn important?” I said. I obviously didn't have any right to that information, but if it was a business deal or something I was certain it could wait until the end of our meal.

  There was a silence. “Okay. Fine. He's wanted for questioning by the FBI.”

  I nearly dropped the phone in shock. “What?”

  “Yeah. You'd better get his ass back to New York, or he's going to be arrested.”

  I licked my lips. “I have no reason to trust what you're saying. You've been nothing but a shitlord to me since the world hello. You better tell me right now what you need him for or you're just going to have to call him yourself.”

  “Does he have his phone on him?”

  “No.” I wasn't sure, but I wasn't going to give him any quarter.

  “And I have no reason to trust what you are saying. You're just a gold-digger.”

  Now I was so shocked I couldn't even speak. Was that why he was su
ch a terrible person to me? Don seemed to take my silence as an admission of guilt. When he spoke next I heard his smile.

  “He's not crazy, you know,” he said. “It's all an act. You can't get his money by duping him.”

  I felt cold. “I know he's not crazy, you ass. I'm not after his money, either.”

  “Sure you aren't,” he said, his voice brimming with smugness, as though he knew all my motivations. I'd have had no problems marrying someone for their money as long as we were perfectly honest about our relationship... but this wasn't like that.

  “Good luck getting a hold of him when I accidentally drop his cell phone in the toilet,” I said and hung up before I became the target of any more invective.

  Sobered, I stood in the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. I hadn't put on any make up and my hair was loose, but the clothes I wore were beautifully made and they mostly hid my tattoos. I didn't look like someone who would sleep with a guy for the money... did I? And I certainly wasn't the sort of person who would take advantage of a crazy person for monetary gain.

  That dickhole knows nothing about you, I thought fiercely. Leaning over the sink, I splashed some cold water on my face and, feeling a bit more clear-headed than before, I turned and strode back to the table where Malcolm was speaking with Dominic.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, settling back down in my chair.

  “Who was it?” Malcolm asked.

  I shook my head. “No one important.” Just your secretary, telling me you're wanted for questioning by the FBI. Oh yeah, about that...