Gregor laughed and held her hands tight. “I have to work later,” he reminded her. She smiled with half-closed eyes, unbuttoned her knee-length narrow black coat, and pulled her wrap-around dress high over her hips. Suddenly she sat on his lap – she was wearing thigh-high stockings – and pushed his hand between her legs. He could feel how aroused she was.
She kissed him as if it had been a thousand days since she saw him last. “Zara,” he whispered breathlessly. She knelt down in front of him, opened his trousers and smiled at him before she proceeded to make up for the week away. At some point he succeeded in pulling her up and entered her forcefully while she sat on his lap.
He was happy that the limousine’s windows were tinted so that no one could see them, or hear them. She stayed on his lap a little while longer and he kissed her gently, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small velvet box.
Zara looked at the box and recognized the wrapping as Winston. He was really very attentive.
He opened the box with one hand and extended it toward her. “You can only have this if you get off me,” he said jokingly. She tried to reach for it, but he pulled it away. She found it very pleasant, actually far too pleasant, when he was inside her. “Move!” he ordered. She twisted her mouth into a pout and gave him a kiss, but obeyed. Then he gave her the box and she put the earrings on.
The jewels were beautiful, very beautiful, she decided as she looked at herself in the mirror. Sex became her well. Her face was still flushed, her lips were fuller than before – she was actually always more beautiful after sex, she noticed with satisfaction.
“Thank you,” she said and kissed him. Gregor had dressed himself again and was searching for his tie. He glanced at her, still looking at herself in the mirror. “Diamonds were not a bad choice, apparently.” “No, never!” she laughed.
She looked at him, fished the tie out of the crease between the seat and the upright cushion, and tied his knot. She was very close to him; he could see her freckles as they danced in front of his nose, and as she moved around he saw her full pink mouth and her little nose.
It may have been the moment that he thought for the first time that he had fallen in love with her and that it wasn’t just sex that he had been missing, but also her intelligence, her humor, her elegance.
“The chauffeur is going to stop at our house, but I’ve reserved a table at Aureole,” he said then, and continued to look spellbound at her mouth and freckles. She smiled; at least he didn’t have a French restaurant in mind, but rather progressive American cuisine for a change.
“Oh, fine, Dante’s food is always good.” Gregor raised his eyebrows. Of course she knew the kitchen chef – that astonished him – since she ate practically nothing, at least in his presence . . .
“As if you were in a position to judge,” he said sarcastically. Zara, who was fixing her hair, looked at him. “Just because I don’t eat much doesn’t mean that I don’t know anything about food.” Gregor smiled apologetically and pulled her to him by the arm. “Okay, you can cook, but not eat.” She pretended to pout, and bit him gently on the lip. “Ow, I have to go to a meeting.” He opened the bar and looked in the mirror – he couldn’t go to a meeting with a fat lip – what would his colleagues think? Zara’s laughter rang out. He was so vain. “Don’t worry, nothing happened. I’m very careful.”
As the car stopped in front of Gregor’s house, the chauffeur opened the door to help them out of the car. He carried the suitcase into the house and grinned at them again and again. He knew full well what the two had been doing in the limousine on the way from JFK to Manhattan.
When the driver returned to the car, Gregor had already raised the partition and said to him, “You’ll have to hurry; they’ll be waiting for me.”
Levin had been Gregor’s driver since he had been in New York; he had seen the actresses, the models, and now Zara. He looked in the rear-view mirror, saw Gregor’s relaxed, happy face . . .lost in thought, but happy. He had never seen his boss quite like this.
“Is it serious?” he finally asked. Gregor looked at the back of the driver’s head. “One could say that, but first the lady has to say yes . . .” Levin laughed. “That won’t be so difficult.” Gregor sighed. “You have no idea!” He looked out of the window. “She is very difficult. Snobbish French nobility.” Levin knew that Gregor was Jewish as he was, and understood what he meant by that comment. “But you’re not religious,” he said. Gregor laughed. “I think Madame doesn’t really care . ” He sighed again and straightened his tie for the tenth time. If it were only that problem, he would have already solved it by now.
Gregor sat in the meeting and from time to time stared out of the window, lost in thought. He didn’t hear when someone addressed him and had to concentrate so that he could follow at least half of what was going on.
Alain shook his head. He had never seen Gregor like this and when he was alone with him in the office, he asked: “What’s wrong with you – you seem so preoccupied, as if you’re away somewhere.” Gregor smiled. This woman, no, his lover -- even the word made him nervous -- was constantly on his mind, most recently the mental picture of her in the car, as she knelt at his feet, her dark blonde shock of hair in front of him – there was something so devoted, so tender about it, that he could hardly think about anything else except the gratification that she gave him, the passion.
“I’m sorry, I guess it’s just not my day,” he said, evasively. “Catherine?” Alain asked, curious.
Gregor shook his head, leaned back and said, “Oh, that’s been over for a long time . . .” After Zara had stood before him naked for the first time, he had never thought of Catherine again.
“Someone new? Tell me.” Alain sat down; what new beauty had Gregor come up with now. “Is it another one of these beautiful actresses?” Gregor laughed. “Well, aren’t you the curious one!” “To be honest, no matter who or what it is, your mood of late has pretty much brought us to despair.” He thought about how serious and grumpy Gregor had been lately, hissing at everyone. “That bad?” Gregor grinned and looked out of the window; had Zara already had such an influence over him, he wondered, on his moods, his spirit? There was that fear again; he could love her more than she would love him, and she could leave him.
Alain watched Gregor. “Now, tell me already, who is it?” Gregor looked at Alain again. He had known him forever. “Zara,” he said slowly. Alain laughed resoundingly. “No, you’re not serious, are you?” Gregor shrugged his shoulders. “Whether or not, back to work. We can go through the analysts’ report again.”
Alain shook his head, dumbfounded. Zara?! All the alarm bells rang when he heard that name. He had to warn Gregor. “Zara? Don’t burn your fingers, she is hot, hotter than fire, and you won’t be the first who burns to a cinder. Look at Robert, he became the laughing stock of the entire East Coast.” Gregor twisted his mouth into a grimace; he really didn’t want to compare himself with Robert. “Could we change the subject now? I have an appointment at 8:00 o’clock.”
On the two floors of the historic old townhouse, fine American cuisine was prepared and served. Zara arrived late, of course, but the maître de recognized her immediately, as she stepped out of the limousine that Gregor quickly sent to the house for her after she left word for him that she would take a taxi.
Not only the maître de recognized her, but also many of the other guests. She wore a delicate dress, off-the-shoulder, with gold embroidery and a long stole that wrapped around the dress once and fluttered at her back, everything in gauzy pale lilac chiffon. Her hair was loosely bound at the back of her head – and, naturally, she had on her new earrings. She smiled as she climbed the stairs behind the maître de, who didn’t miss the opportunity to escort her to her table personally.
Gregor looked up from the menu. He was just drinking a cocktail called a Riviera, which was blood-red. She gave him a kiss – on the cheek, of course. She could behave herself in expensive restaurants and sat down across from him.
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“Oh, I’ll have a cocktail just like that one,” she quickly said to the waiter and pointed to Gregor’s glass. “The drink has a crazy color,” she added in explanation. Gregor laughed about her youthful behavior; sometimes she was playful as a teenager, which was so different from the perfect lady, which she was most of the time. She seemed to change over all, laughing and acting silly. Was that because of him? He couldn’t say that he didn’t like it. He had wanted the cool aristocrat, but now he had begun to love the girl within.
“I’m sorry, have you been waiting long?” she asked and opened the menu. His look gave her a guilty conscience.
But he also couldn’t shake the suspicion that today she had kept him waiting on purpose. After dinner -- during which Zara, in her usual manner, moved food around the plate without eating although it was splendid -- they drove to Stir, a cocktail bar on the Upper East Side.
Comfortable on the dark upholstered seat cushions, it was more pleasant than with the audience at Aureole. Here one couldn’t see exactly who was seated in the neighboring chair, since everything was illuminated by candlelight only. Zara drank a Champagne cocktail called a Flirt; Gregor stayed with his dry Martini, although he already felt a little bit tipsy, which might also have been the result of Zara’s hands, which, as soon as they were in the bar, were all over his body.
The evening passed so quickly that even Zara, who was on a mission, forgot her purpose a few times during its course. He was entertaining, he was charming, intelligent and witty, which she hadn’t expected. But as they sat in the dark bar, she thought more readily about his body and her plan to seduce him – rather than about his intellect.
Gregor had rarely experienced such a lovely evening with a woman, during which he didn’t feel that the woman with whom he was sleeping was dumber than he. She was intelligent, by God, eloquent and witty, but never went too far, in keeping with the setting . . .now, here in the bar, no more.
The diamond earrings glittered at her ears, he stroked her cheek, and since her hand had finally found its way under his shirt and had touched his skin, he said, while holding her hand fast, “Come, we’d better go! I really don’t want to have a public orgasm.” She grinned and said, “Doctor Uptight.” He wrinkled his forehead. Was this really the same aristocrat who looked as if she would fall over dead if she heard the word “fuck?”
On Monday morning, after short nights and little sleep, he was leafing through the Wall Street Journal while standing and waiting for Zara, whom he wanted to take to the airport in the car. Where was she?
He found her and was surprised again by her dressing room; he hadn’t seen anything like it since his modeling days: countless dresses, shoes, hats, gloves, organized according to designer and color, everything with accompanying photos, in part packed away in garment bags – above all the priceless evening dresses. Several dresses were wrapped in paper and hung on a separate garment-stand. In the middle of this trove, which would cause most women to faint, Zara stood in high heels – in black underwear and garter belt, looking as if she was expecting Helmut Newton to arrive to photograph her. Her hair was down, and she was wearing only her Agent Provocateur undies and some jewelry. She was on the telephone with someone, speaking French, and was dropping some designer names. He stopped at the door of the dressing room and watched her.
At first Zara hadn’t noticed that Gregor was in the room. She turned and saw him leaning against the door, smiled, and ended the call.
“Please get dressed,” he said smiling; the sight of her alone drove his blood to a frenzy. She came over to him. In her high heels, she was considerably taller than usual.
“Why, don’t you like what you see?” she asked, with a wide-eyed look. He laughed – if someone had told him just a few days ago that this cool woman would be standing in front of him in her transparent underwear and arouse him to such a degree that he would almost forget all of his appointments, he would have called that someone “crazy.”
“Do you always wear something like this?” he asked and pulled on the strap of her bra. She laughed and nodded, turned around and put on a tight black dress, and provocatively turned her back to him so that he would zip her up. While he was working on the zipper, he said, “I’m glad that I didn’t know before what you wear under your dresses; I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate.” She laughed aloud and reached for a matching purse that lay waiting under her coat.
“Oh, a new evening dress is coming and Giovanni is picking up these things.” She pointed to the dresses that were wrapped in paper. Who was Giovanni? Zara walked over to the stair-landing and called down to the housekeeper in Spanish, “Fiona, at noon a young man will come to pick up some dresses, and he’s bringing something with him . . .”
Gregor shook his head and looked at Zara. She smiled at him. “So, how do you like my dresses?” Gregor had to admit that he hadn’t really noticed so closely; she was always beautiful. She wore a different dress every day, but that was the same as with his other girlfriends in the last few years, and Zara had very good taste. He didn’t know what to say. Women and clothes – that was a delicate topic.
“You should take a look at this young designer – Maurice needs a successor. Khaled is coming to New York this week . . .”
She watched him to see his reaction. He had such a beautiful face, she noticed for the thousandth time, and tried to concentrate on other thoughts. She hoped that the designs of the young Moroccan would also be attractive to him. She had met Khaled in Paris during her “business appointments”.
Had she just suggested a designer to him, Gregor asked himself? He could take a look at the man. Zara grew up in these circles, one of the most famous fashion designers was apparently her godfather, why not, if it will make her happy – and he wanted that so much.
He gently stroked her cheek. “Send the young man to me, if you like . . .” Zara blinked with her large eyes; now it wouldn’t take much longer before he fully fell for her. “Thank you,” she breathed, kissed him, and ran down the stairs. Her high heels clattered on the wood floors.
He watched her, smiling with satisfaction. She actually never talked about what she did in Paris. Lawyers are very discreet – what kind of new firm was it this time? Why did she change jobs again, he asked himself.
Zara reached for a cup of coffee that Fiona held out to her and took a sip.
“You should take more time to eat,” he couldn’t stop himself from criticizing.
“Gregor, leave it be. We’ve already talked about that topic a number of times . . .” Gregor sighed deeply. “Okay, except I worry.” “You don’t have to – I’m an adult!” He gave her a kiss. “Alright, fine. Come along then, the chauffeur is waiting.” With one hand he helped her with her coat and Fiona opened the door.
Zara considered why he never really asked what she did in Paris so regularly and for so long; this acceptance of her work made her a little nervous. If he only knew, she thought, and sank back into the leather seat of the car. She watched him, how he read his newspapers, skimming the articles while the car forced its way through the morning traffic of New York. His eyes wandered back and forth, the discipline and seriousness that he had had since she had met him, even last Christmas on the boat. He was so severe, so serious, as if he always pursued an objective before his eyes.
In the following weeks, Zara was only in New York on the weekends and Gregor missed her so much and so often that he considered moving some of his appointments to Paris so that he could see her during the week. But his pride was greater. He wouldn’t run after her. He mustn’t become so dependent on this woman. He missed her so much physically that every day he could not make love to her gave him pain. He was afraid; he knew that it had long ago surpassed just sex, but also her laughter, the conversations with her. Recently, she asked significant questions about balances, business dates, share prices . . .and when he asked why she wanted to know, she evasively explained that she needed the information for a client . . .
In the middl
e of the week – it was already mid-December – Gregor sat at the bar at the Morgan with David and stirred his Martini, lost in thought. David said, “I don’t think it’s good . . .”
Gregor looked up at his friend, who like him, after work simply wanted the day to end. David straightened his glasses, leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“What don’t you think is good?” Gregor asked, caught up short. Had he missed a part of the conversation? “How dependent you are on this woman.” “What?” Gregor shook his head. David had been married a number of years, already had two children, and he was taking the liberty of passing judgment on a woman such as Zara? “That’s nonsense,” Gregor brushed off the comment. “How long has she been living with you – three months? In the meantime, you have cleaned up her finances, she’s gotten jewelry from you every week – and now you’ve even made her protégé Maurice’s successor – and all of that in these few months. . .” Gregor smiled. “That’s nonsense. I was ready to pay her debts, that was stipulated in the contract, and the jewelry . . .” he shrugged his shoulders. Yes, he gladly gave her these gifts; money didn’t have as much meaning for him now that he had more than enough. Khaled was good, very good, actually; it was a fine suggestion to hire him.
“And Maurice himself has said that Khaled could be the discovery of the decade, so what’s the problem?” He didn’t see a problem; Khaled’s designs were really good. But David wasn’t satisfied. He was afraid for Gregor; he had changed so much in the last weeks. He couldn’t quite describe it. Gregor was simply different.
“What is she actually doing in Paris the whole week? Who is she working for?” Gregor put his glass down; what did David want from him? “She’s working; she worked for you too – or do you have the feeling that she’s lazy?” Okay, Gregor had a point; this aristocrat was anything but lazy. “Who is she working for there? She’s changed jobs again . . .” “Some French law firm.” In all honesty, he hadn’t asked her which one.
Love under contract Page 14