by Leick, Hera
I stare at her. "Oh God. Have you been drinking already?"
She pushes a steaming cup toward me and acts like she doesn’t hear me. "Not counting your brother, of course. But I've seen his bum. Well, not just me, the whole neighbourhood, most of our friends, and the police, of course."
"I'm going to vomit. Put a sock in it, please."
"Alcohol is one helluva drug."
I groan. "How much should I ask for? Has he noticed me yet?"
Jessica cranes her neck, wiping her hands on her apron. "A million fat ones. And he noticed you just now. Get ready, slapper, he's coming this way."
I squeak and swivel round, splashing my hot coffee over my hand and on my T-shirt.
Cow.
James hasn’t moved at all from the table, and his attention is still locked on to his tablet. Jessica starts snickering.
"Not funny, you hag." I throw down my money, and before I can lose my nerve, approach the table.
James looks up and smiles that cocky smile. "Adelaide." He holds my gaze as he stands. He smells sinfully dreamy. Not cologne. Damp and freshly showered. He’s wearing black trousers, but his button-down shirt, freshly pressed, matches those brilliant irises. I suddenly have another instance of regretting wearing a white T-shirt with soup cans on it—and now thanks to Jessica, a coffee stain—with a baby-pink bra underneath, of course, because that is just the way my day is going.
“What won’t you do to spend time with me, James?”
“Nothing.” He pulls up his shirt cuffs, making them perfectly even, exposing his gold Rolex. “Except kissing another man. Yeah, I wouldn’t do that.”
I laugh. “But everything else is a go?”
“Anything you want, love.” The way his voice purrs quickens my heartbeat a little and my lips part, ever so slightly. He catches the slight movement and I forget myself, standing there like a gormless dimwit, not moving, just like I’d done when I first saw him in the lift.
He reaches over, pulling out a chair. I can’t remember anyone doing that for me, and I can practically feel Jessica's green eyes on us from across the room. I suddenly feel annoyed with myself for my awkwardness while he seems to be so debonair.
Bugger it.
“If you had done what I’d wanted in the first place—”
My brain finally shifts into the right gear. “I’d never do that with any man, James. Not even on their birthday.”
I smirk.
He smirks back.
“I wasn’t talking about that. But I’m glad to hear you can’t get every detail of our night out of your head.”
“Can’t have been that great if I left the next morning.”
“Ouch, Queen, that was low. What I was trying to say is—that if you gave me your number I would’ve phoned you as soon as you got into that lift to arrange a proper date. I’m just glad you didn’t stand me up today.”
"Screw that, thanks for buying my painting."
Utter. Twit.
What happened to shifting the gears back into my favour?
"Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I just"—I lift my cup—"haven’t had any coffee yet. And I had a long night. Well, you know that already, because, uh, you were there."
I watch as his eyes, steel blue and penetrating, flash with something dark. Sinful. "Yes," he replies, his voice low. "I was."
I return his gaze for a few seconds, wanting to stare at every part of his face at once. If I look into his eyes, I can’t stare at his lips, or his killer bone structure, or the curve of his jaw. Why should I only have to pick one?
“Here,” he says, sliding over a plate of chocolate cake across to me. “I know how much you love me watching you eat chocolate, what with the way it makes you feel.”
“James,” I reproach. “God, you’re insatiable.”
“In the best possible way, right?” he chuckles. “Anyway, I didn’t mean anything by it. Get your mind out of the gutter, Queen. This is a business meeting. You really should stop treating me like a piece of meat. I thought we’d talked about this.”
Before I respond, all of a sudden I realise there is something I haven’t noticed about him. Something different.
"You wear glasses?"
"Yeah. I'm near-sighted."
I reach over and slowly pluck them from the bridge of his gorgeous nose, hoping that I look cute enough to pull this off. If his shoes cost as much as Steffen says they do, the price of his glasses must cover a month of my rent. Grinning like a buffoon, I slide them onto my face. "How do I look?"
James smiles, at least I think he does. His glasses are distorting my vision. "I don't know. Can't see without my glasses, love."
"Would it help if I get closer?" I lean in, balancing my upper body over the table.
"Still blurry."
"How about now?" I push in closer, stopping a half-of-a-foot away from his dishy face.
"Still can't see—"
"Brownies," Jessica interrupts, dropping two plates on the table. She grins like a jackal, looking from James to me.
I yank the glasses from my face and hand them back to James. "Why thank you, friend. James, this is my friend, Jessica. Jessica, this is James Hatter, my newest buyer."
"Friends give friends brownies." Jessica laughs, ignoring the daggers I’m shooting at her. They shake hands. "Nice to meet you. Hope you like the brownies, they're a test batch."
"Jessica's the owner here," I explain. "She makes all the pastries and stuff and lets us eat the experiments. And she lets me hang my art up and sometimes someone buys something."
"Or steals it," Jessica adds. "We had a problem of some of her still-life miniatures getting up and walking out."
James takes a sip of his tea. "She’s very talented. Good with her hands." Heat rises on my cheeks, knowing he isn’t talking about my artwork. “I’ve seen her work, up close and. . . ” His eyes bore into mine and I swear he is mentally screwing me with them. “. . . personal.” Wow, I didn’t think it was possible to have a word thrust inside of you.
It’s possible.
Jessica picks up some stray napkins, looking at me mischievously. "I bet you have. Let me know if you need refills. Pleasure to meet you, Mr Hatter."
"James, please. Pleasure is all mine, Jessica. Thank you again."
I wait for Jessica to bugger off. "So, about the painting."
"Oh yeah, the painting."
"So?"
"So?"
“So is this a ruse or are you genuinely interested?”
“Oh, I’m very interested.”
Awkward moment.
“Do you really like Victory or is this—”
“I loved it, Adelaide. Seriously.”
I don’t know why I believe him, but his countenance holds so much sincerity that it’s hard not to.
I’m literally gobsmacked.
I can’t believe this is happening.
"Okay then. . .” I take a deep breath. “Isn't this the part where you tell me how much you're willing to pay for it?"
"My ball's are in your court."
“James.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“I meant, Adelaide—the ball’s in your court.” I cock my eyebrow. He shakes his head and pulls back the plate of chocolate cake toward him. “I’m cutting you off. You’ve clearly already been eating chocolate for breakfast. All those endorphins, remember? You’ve got sex on the brain.”
An image of James and I performing the Sultry Saddle bursts into my mind.
Oh crap.
“No. . . I. . .” I hate that he has this effect on me, turning me into some kind of Hatter fan-girl. Nervously, I pick up a lock of my hair and start winding it tightly round one finger, trying to gather my wits. "Okay then." I then blurt out a number three times as much as Victory is worth.
He doesn’t even blink. "I'll have my accountant set up the transfer."
I’m staring at him, my mouth agape. "Wh-What?" My eyes dart back and forth as I beg
in laughing in earnest. "Wait, aren't you supposed to like, go under?"
“You want me to go under you?” He just won’t quit. “Is this your way of telling me you want to be on top? I don’t think we did that. You should have just asked, love.”
“Stop it,” I say, blushing.
“Stop what?”
“James.”
"I'm supposed to do what now?"
"You know, I name one number, then you say 'that's too much' and then lower the price, and then I lower it a little, and we do that a couple of times until we reach the middle ground."
"Do you want me to pay less?"
"Do you want to?"
James’ laughter is like his voice, deliberate and low. "Adelaide, we're not talking about a toaster at a car-boot sale. This is your magnum opus I'm buying, and whatever you’re willing to part for it, I’m willing to pay."
"Million pounds."
"Ah, now we start negotiating."
The shots of espresso in my bloodstream are starting to kick in. "So, where are you going to put my painting, anyway? Preston mentioned you just moved back to England. Do you even have a place yet?"
He shakes his head. "I’m going to take care of that tomorrow."
"Well. . ." I take a deep breath, unsure of how I’m going to phrase my next sentence without seeming too eager. His ego is far too big for his boots. "I can help you look, if you like."
James pauses for a second. “It was the glasses, right? Can’t resist four-eyes.”
“Gives the illusion of a big brain,” I joke.
“You already know I have a big one.” Taking a sip of his tea, he peers over the rim of the mug. "I’d rather you come out to dinner.”
“What’s this obsession of yours eating dinner with me?”
“I’m a guy. Every six seconds I think about eating with you.”
The Big Bad Wolf has returned; I don’t think he’s talking about dinner any more. “You just can’t help yourself.”
“No,” he says shamelessly, leaning forward. “And I’m having an estate agent pick something out."
"Are you serious? You're going to have a stranger pick out your new home?"
"Is there something wrong with that?"
"Oh my God, yes." My eyes are wide. "This is going to be your new home. It's going to be your sanctuary, and only you know what makes you completely comfortable. It's like having someone pick out your clothes or something."
"I do have someone pick out my clothes."
I stare at him. "You're kidding?"
He shrugs. "I don't have the time or inclination to do so. I haven’t even unpacked yet."
My eyes travel to the ceiling as I let out another squeak of laughter. "I can't imagine anyone picking out my clothes."
"I can." He takes another sip of his black tea, his wolfish eyes never leaving mine. "I’ll choose an outfit for you.”
I reach over for the chocolate cake. “Is that so?”
“You said you wanted to be on top, love. You’ll look great in a cowgirl hat."
11
Queen
“ADELAIDE.”
I turn and search the crowd. "Jessica. You made it." I push through the crowded gallery, nearly knocking myself out of my new gold gladiator boots, and wrap my arms round my friend. "And Noah." I turn to the tall, dark-haired man and redouble my hug efforts. "I haven’t seen you in forever. Where's the kid?"
"We got a babysitter for the weekend," Noah says. "Otherwise known as my parents, who are probably regretting that decision right about. . . now."
"Alice wouldn’t change out of her Tinkerbell costume and she cut her own fringe with a pair of safety scissors," Jessica explains, linking her arm round her husband's. "I know Noah's mum wants to take her to the Country Club and show her off to all her lady friends that lunch, but that costume's getting tattered as hell and Alice will only eat foods that are yellow right now. And we think that somehow she picked up a swear word, but she only says it when we're not really listening so we can't bust her properly."
I shoot a look to Noah. "What? I can't help it that she listens when I watch football. Anyway, it should make for an interesting weekend. A tenner says she drops it in right after my mum forces her to eat watercress sandwiches." He kisses the top of Jessica’s curly blonde head. "We only get to have grown-up fun once in a while—Ah, alcohol." He deftly nabs a passing waiter with a tray full of wine glasses.
"And you decide to come to my show, instead of like, you know, staying home and bonking each other’s brains out. You guys are the best."
"Nice dress." Jessica holds me at arm's length and twirls me round. "Is this new?"
"For once, yes." The money from Preston and Victory had been burning a crater in my imaginary pocket since the transfer went through last week. After a chunk of it had gone to student loans, and another as an advance on next month's rent, and finally, repayment to a few friends that I had owed money to, I’d pulled some out and came home loaded with shopping bags. "Nanette Lapore. Do you think the colour is too loud?"
"What, turquoise? Nah," Jessica says. "So, any word from. . . ?" Jessica lets the question trail while Noah examines a painting covered in LED lights.
It feels like a sock to the gut.
"Not exactly. James hasn't moved the painting yet, and when I called him the other day, he didn’t pick up. Maybe he's out of London."
My friend must pick up the worry in my voice. "Adelaide, quit worrying. He bought your damn painting for probably five times what it’s worth. What exactly does he do, again?"
"He's. . . an international. . . capital investment wealth analyst something, something. I wasn’t really paying attention when he tried to explain it and it sounded really boring. He moved to London to head some new. . . money bank thing place. . . "
I haven’t heard from James in twelve days, and for some reason, it’s making my stomach do backflips. I hate this feeling, the feeling of being needy for his attention. Of course, I’ll never admit it to him.
"Whatever,” I say, mentally shaking myself to get a grip. “Let's have some drinks and some fun and hopefully I'll sell some of these pieces to people who aren't my close personal friends and family. I'm totally feeling these boots, as well. These are sex boots."
"Yeah, I really didn’t want to hear that," my brother mutters. Proving that he hasn’t matured past the eighth grade at twenty-eight years old, he dead-legs me as he rolls an amp across the floor. "Where am I setting up?" He spots Noah and pulls him into a man-hug. "Noah. All right, mate? Where you been, man?"
"Work, family, rinse, repeat. Hey, you gonna join our basketball league? I need a point that can for once handle the ball."
"Oh shit, you know I'm good at handling balls."
"Corner, please," I say, kicking Bailey away. "And hurry up, it's starting to get crowded."
More people have filtered in, but they’re the usual Friday night art crowd; the ones who will drink the free wine and hold pretentious conversations about every piece before leaving for the clubs, without purchasing anything. I’m sharing the opening with a few other artists, and the one who has created abstract sculpture out of chicken wire and surgical tubing is attracting a rather interesting mix of people.
Chloe suddenly appears at my elbow, wearing a black bandage dress and sky-high stilettos, and looking absolutely smashing. "What's up, guys?"
Jessica pulls her into a hug. "Please tell me it’s work and not my pastry screw-ups that have been keeping you away from The Coffee Hole."
"It's work," Chloe laughs, and gives Noah a peck on the cheek. "You know I love to eat your screw-ups. How and where is Alice?"
Instead of responding, Jessica's mouth drops. She shoots out one hand and grabs my elbow, spinning me round so fast I think I may hurl. "Hot damn," she breathes.
Next to us, Chloe lets out a low whistle and says, “Wowser. . . ”
"What’s going on? What’re you guys looking at?" Noah asks, clueless.
My eyes are locked on the line com
ing in the door.
It’s time to put these sex boots into action.
Hatter
For probably the fourth time since exiting the car, walking the twenty feet from the pavement to the gallery entrance, and stepping in line behind the guy with the twelve-inch green Mohawk, I wonder what possessed me to a) wear a suit to an exhibit opening that has a picture of a human-eyed pug dog on the invitation and b) show up in the first place.
The answer for both: Adelaide Queen.
I spot her over the top of Mohawk, huddled with the blonde from the coffee shop and a few others. She looks beautiful. Her platinum-blond hair spills in waves over her greenish blue dress that is very, very short, and makes her dark eyes even more striking.
Returning from a short business trip in Hong Kong I’d found the invitation to her opening in the pile of mail. All it took was an image of her eyes teasing me from behind my glasses, and immediately I booked off time in my calendar.
I never book off time.
Never had a reason.
And that very reason is currently walking up to me. "James. You’re still alive, I see. So you got my invitation?"
"Hey, yeah," I say, returning the stare of a skinny guy in a full-length Neo Matrix coat who is eyeing me up. "I'm sorry I didn’t RSVP, but I only just got back from Hong Kong."
"No worries." God, her smile is brilliant. "Let me introduce you to some friends of mine. You already know Jessica."
"Hi again." Jessica leans in. "This is Noah, my hubby."
"All right, man?" He shakes my hand.
"All right, Noah."
Adelaide pulls a black-haired girl with blue eyes forward. "This is Chloe, my roommate. Chloe, this is James Hatter, the new owner of Victory."
Chloe smiles and shakes my hand. "Heard a lot about you."
"Hey." A guy with Adelaide’s exact hair colour and eyes suddenly appears and winds his big arm territorially round Chloe's waist. "All right, mate? Nice suit."
"All right, mate. Thanks."
"I really mean it, man," he continues. "You look sharp. I’ve a real appreciation for dressing nice. See, well, I'm a graphic designer, and since I do all of my work from my home office, formal wear for me is like, putting on clean pants when the old ones start to smell like ball sweat."