by Laura Moore
He shook his head. “No. Sex isn’t going to work.”
“I think it will,” she contradicted huskily. “It doesn’t matter what you say, Alex. I want you and I know I can make you want me.”
“Sydney—”
“It’s not like you can avoid me. We still have to confer on the decisions regarding the hospital wing. Then there’s the party you’re throwing for the Miller Group’s companies . . .”
Damn, Alex cursed silently. When Sydney had volunteered to oversee the details for his firm’s party months ago, he’d happily accepted her offer. It had seemed like a convenient, hassle-free solution, especially since her public relations company, Raines and Byrne Consulting, was already working for his philanthropic fund, TLM, and handling the day-to-day details for the wing he was donating to the Children’s Hospital in Boston.
Alex knew that one of the main reasons Sydney and his relationship had lasted as long as it had was because they’d both maintained a strictly professional attitude to their business dealings. He hoped Sydney wasn’t going to jeopardize that now. “Naturally we’ll be seeing each other,” he replied. “As business associates and friends—but nothing more.”
She shrugged. “Very well, we’ll play it your way. Perhaps you’re right—a little break might be good for us, darling. That way, when you come to your senses, it’ll be like our first time all over again.” She leaned close and placed a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth, then stepped back. As if by magic, the sash of her kimono came unknotted and the robe slipped silently to the floor. Naked, Sydney stretched sensuously, like a cat demanding to be stroked. Without bothering to retrieve her kimono, she turned, presenting Alex with a view of her backside, which was every inch as enticing as her front. As if knowing his eyes would be on her, she tossed him a provocative glance over her shoulder. “We should get going, lover. You have an eight o’clock meeting, remember?” Then, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, she strolled off toward his bedroom.
The discarded kimono lay in a rumpled black heap on the pale beige carpet, mocking him. He stared at it for several minutes, going over the scene that had just transpired, realizing the enormity of his mistake. Not that he’d decided to call it quits with Sydney, but that he hadn’t anticipated how tenacious she would be when faced with the prospect of losing him. And he should have. After all, it was her tenacity and unflagging drive that had won her the coveted account of handling the PR for Alex’s interests. From the way she’d reacted this morning, it was clear that she wasn’t going to make the breakup easy for either of them. He would have to give Sydney the cold shoulder until she realized once and for all that the relationship was over. So much for the Alex Miller Method of breaking up, he thought. Guaranteed results? Yeah, right. They were bloody spectacular.
TWO
Gen Monaghan squeezed the ancient Yugo into a parking spot a few doors down from the loft. A turn of the key and its motor died with a tubercular cough. Murphy sat up in the back, rumpling the Navajo blanket Gen used to cover the car’s ripped upholstery.
“Yup, we’re here,” she confirmed as she grabbed the leather leash that lay beside her red backpack on the front passenger seat and snapped it onto Murphy’s collar. Her fingers sank into his brindle coat as she leaned forward and dropped a kiss onto his hairy muzzle.
“Okay, let’s go,” she said, and heard his tail beat the back of the seat. “Oh, and Murph?” Gen added, giving her dog a stern look. “Don’t jump on Jiri. You know he doesn’t appreciate that kind of thing.”
Eyes dark and solemn beneath the shaggy fringe, Murphy blinked and then scrambled his way to the front of the car.
“You’re late,” Jiri replied to Gen’s call of ‘hello’ when she and Murphy entered the studio. As the door slammed behind them with a thud, Gen watched Murphy bound across the paint-splattered floor, making a beeline for Jiri. Skidding to a halt, Murphy stood up on his hind legs until he was almost eye to eye with him.
With his customary cry of disgust, Jiri shoved him away. The stream of Czech that followed Murphy as he wandered over to his cushioned dog bed by the small bookcase required no translation.
Murphy, having completed his third and final spin, circling the dog bed, lowered his shaggy body with a loud grunt. For a moment he stared back at the two humans. Then lifting his hind leg, he began grooming himself energetically.
Jiri gave a loud snort. “That,” he said, switching to his heavily accented English and pointing an accusing finger at Gen’s dog, “that revolting creature I will not miss.”
“Ahh, but he’ll miss you, Jiri. Loads,” Gen replied good-naturedly. “Murphy’s been watching you pack all week, getting sadder and sadder. I’m sorry we were late,” she said, diplomatically switching topics. “The park was beautiful this morning, all crisp and fresh-smelling. Murphy couldn’t bear to leave.” She glanced around at the large wooden crates, their sides plastered with red and white FRAGILE! stickers. During the past month she and Jiri had spent hours of each day wrapping and packing his art. “So, what’s left to do?” she asked.
“More drawings,” Jiri informed her with a tilt of his salt-and-pepper head.
Gen glanced over to her side of the studio they’d shared for the past three years. On top of the long plywood plank supported by two sawhorses that Gen used as a worktable were four tall stacks of drawings. Alarmed, her gaze flew around the worktable. Her sculptures, her tools . . . where had they gone? Gen’s jaw tightened when she found where Jiri had put them—next to the large trash bins. Her tools were stashed inside dust-coated milk crates. The stoneware jars that held her paintbrushes peeped over the rim of one. The brushes’ bristles, some a dark mink brown, others originally a light blond but now permanently tinted with the remains of pigment, were listing drunkenly. But it was seeing her sculptures on the floor, in a place where they could be knocked over, that had Gen blinking rapidly against the hurt.
Jiri was perfectly aware of how delicate terra-cotta was. He knew, too, that these six pieces, three busts and three figurines, had been selected for her upcoming show. Moreover, it was Jiri himself who, when he invited Gen to work as an assistant in exchange for letting her share his loft space, had established the one and only rule in their studio: Never touch. “Never touch my art or my tools without my permission, Genevieve. Never,” he’d repeated, his voice as heavy and inflexible as a judge’s.
On any other day, Gen would have been tempted to say something, but not today. She didn’t want to part with bad feelings between them. Jiri was obviously preoccupied with his return to his native Prague and in a rush to get his art safely packed, she told herself. Otherwise he’d never have done something as inconsiderate as this. As she followed him over to the table, however, her eyes darted to her sculptures, trying to penetrate the plastic sheeting that enshrouded them and reassure herself that nothing was damaged.
As soon as Jiri’s drawings are packed, I’ll put everything back in order, she thought. Why bother, Monaghan, when soon you’ll have to pack up, too? Resolutely Gen ignored the nasty voice inside her head. She’d deal with what was now a two-month-old headache, the futile search for an affordable studio space, after the group show had opened. Fixing a smile on her face, she pushed her worries to the back of her mind and walked over to the worktable.
The drawings were neatly stacked, sorted by size to ensure a precise fit in the archival boxes. “Which ones first?” she asked.
“The small ones,” he replied, pulling the smallest of the specially designed boxes toward them. “We work quickly, okay? I have to pack rest of clothes.”
“Sure thing, Jiri.”
They worked systematically, building a multilayered sandwich of Jiri’s drawings between protective layers of acid-free paper. Gen’s previous bout of annoyance evaporated as she gazed at drawing after drawing, openly admiring the brilliance of Jiri’s draftsmanship.
“God, I love this piece.” Between her fingers she cradled a still life Jiri had executed in pastel. “The way you
captured the light is so subtle. And this reflection of the delft vase of peonies against the silver tray is masterful.”
He gave the drawing a passing glance. “That one is too sentimental, too pretty,” he said dismissively.
“Oh, no, I don’t think . . .” she began, but her words died away. She knew this would end like so many of the arguments they’d had recently, with Jiri criticizing her recent series of figure studies. He claimed it was a betrayal of all he’d taught her, this reveling in bourgeois subject matter. She was sullying the purity of her art, weakening it.
Gen hated the strain their clashes had introduced into the studio and realized, too, that the lingering tensions between them were the reason why she’d initially felt a huge sense of relief when Jiri had received and accepted the offer from the National Academy of Art in Prague to be its new director. Yet now that the moment for him to return to his native country was here, she was flooded with sadness. She was losing the man who’d been her teacher and mentor for years; she’d learned so much working by his side. More important, she was losing a friend who loved art as much as she.
Wistful, she picked up another drawing, a more recent one. A large work, the paper was nearly filled by swirling dark masses. In the center, a jagged streak of light ripped through the blackness, like a bolt of lightning briefly illuminating a world of chaos. There was such power here, awesome power. “The National Academy chose well, Jiri,” she said with quiet sincerity. “You’ll make a wonderful director and be a true inspiration for the students.”
Jiri’s angular face softened. Smiling, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, squeezing it. “Ah, Genevieve, my angel, only if I am lucky enough to have students as gifted as you.” He gave a slight cough, as though he were clearing his throat, and added, “I’m sorry I miss the show. . . .” His voice trailed off, leaving an uncomfortable silence.
Gen hurriedly filled it. “That’s all right. I know you want to get settled in Prague and meet with your staff before the semester ends. And it’s not like you haven’t seen my work before,” she said, laughing lightly.
Jiri looked relieved. “Afterward you come for visit and stay with me and Maminka?”
“That’s kind of you, but . . .” she fumbled awkwardly, not wishing to make him feel bad, “but I’ll have to see where I am in terms of finding a new studio.”
An elegantly tapered hand waved that concern aside. “Prague not expensive city. Not like New York. There are plenty of studios in old factories. Big studios,” he opened his arms for emphasis, “you get for nothing. . . .”
“Yes, well,” Gen began, but before she could go further, the phone rang—as it always did, every morning at eight o’clock. Jiri strode over to the small telephone table by the wall.
“Allo, Maminka,” he said before he plunged into a stream of Czech. The pattern of their conversation was the same as ever. Though an ocean separated them, Mrs. Novak kept close tabs on her only child. Never mind that he was a forty-five-year-old internationally acclaimed artist, she required a daily accounting from her adored “Jiriko.”
As always, when Gen thought of Jiri’s relationship with his mother, she felt a rush of gratitude for her own large and loving family. Her parents had raised their twelve children in an atmosphere of unconditional support and encouragement. Gen knew her large and boisterous family was always there for her, ready to bolster her when she was discouraged, cheer her on when she triumphed. She couldn’t wait to see them at the group show; the entire clan was flying in from Boston for the opening.
When Jiri replaced the phone in its base, he didn’t return to help with the remaining drawings but instead walked through the narrow doorway on the left that led to his bedroom. A minute later Gen heard the metallic scratch of wire hangers scraping the metal rod of the coat rack that served as a closet. There was such a distressing finality to the sound, she thought, and her gaze dropped unseeing to the drawing before her.
Gen knew Jiri wanted her to go with him to Prague. He’d hinted broadly that arrangements could be made so she could teach at the academy and continue working as his assistant. This didn’t have to be the end—all she had to do was say yes, and she could continue learning from him and sharing their mutual love of art. But something kept her from accepting his offer.
It was as if she’d come to a crossroads in her life, in her art. Quite possibly, Jiri’s criticisms were right and the course her art was taking would ultimately prove shallow, too conventional to stand the test of time— yet it was a direction Gen nevertheless felt compelled to explore. If she failed, then so be it. But she wouldn’t know one way or the other unless she first stepped out from the long shadow cast by Jiri Novak.
The drawings were all neatly boxed by the time Jiri reemerged, his hands weighed down by two new bulging leather suitcases. Neither he nor Gen uttered a word as they took the jerky, clanking ride in the old industrial-size elevator down to the lobby of the building.
The cab Jiri had called for pulled up alongside the curb within minutes, its squealing brakes rousing them from their oddly frozen state. Jiri turned to Gen and his slender hands reached out to cradle the sides of her face. His eyes were a deep solemn brown as he leaned forward and kissed her. When he pulled back, a melancholy smile curved his lips. “I will miss you, Genevieve. I will miss your bright spirit and your beautiful face. Perhaps I will even miss your odious beast. You come and work in Prague, okay?”
“Yes, maybe.” His arms wrapped about her, gathered her close. Gen blinked back the tears that threatened and nodded shakily. “Take care of yourself, Jiri,” she whispered.
She stepped back from his embrace and with a quavery smile waited as he settled himself in the cab, then raised her arm in a subdued farewell. The yellow taxi pulled away down Spring Street, weaving past double-parked cars and trucks unloading their wares, before rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.
Gen turned and headed back into the building. Bypassing the elevator, which would give her far too much time to cry, she instead raced up the four flights of stairs. Murphy was waiting, his head cocked when she unlocked the door. As if sensing her distress, he got up and trotted over to her. Gen dropped to her knees and buried her face in his wiry coat. “It’s just you and me now, Murph.”
THREE
The two men skidded, slammed, and grunted. Drop-lets of sweat flew from their faces and forearms and rained onto the scuffed white floor as they lunged for the tiny black missile ricocheting off the walls of the squash court. The game was going quickly. Usually Alex Miller and Sam Brody were evenly matched. Today it was a total wipeout.
After Alex won the particularly brutal match point, Sam Brody’s racquet fell clattering to the floor. With an inarticulate exclamation of disgust, he dropped his head, braced his hands against his knees, and sucked in air. When at last he recovered his breath, he looked up at his friend and business associate. “Good game, Miller,” he offered.
“Thanks,” Alex replied and swiped at the sweat streaming down his face with his terry-cloth wristband.
“So, have the European markets been driving you crazy?”
Alex cast him a sideways glance as he continued walking in a tight circle, shaking his legs out. “No, I pretty much assumed we were in for a shaft this week. I made a few adjustments.”
And from that modest remark, Sam guessed that Alex Miller was in the elite minority of investors who’d been able to walk away from the slick slide of the market with bulging pockets. Sam decided to cast his net wider. “The board of directors on one of your new companies been giving you the runaround? Some CEO been throwing a tantrum?”
Instead of replying, Alex went over to the two plastic water bottles resting against the court’s narrow wooden door. He grabbed them, handed one to Sam, and then squeezed a long jet into his upturned mouth. Swallowing, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leveled Sam with a piercing, blue-eyed gaze. “Mind telling me where you’re going with this, Brody?”
“Simple idl
e curiosity.” Sam spread his hands, all innocence. “I was just wondering whether there was any particular reason why you were trying to send that squash ball clear to China.”
“Ahh, I see.” Alex grinned. “Business is fine, Brody. Nope, sorry, there’s no excuse for the eight points you dropped. Must be losing your touch, that’s all.”
“Wait till next week. I’ll be wiping the court with you,” Sam growled good-naturedly. “Come on, let’s hit the steam room. This damned white box is making me claustrophobic.”
“Funny how you only feel that way on days you lose,” Alex remarked casually as he followed him out.
Alex’s and Sam’s lockers at the New York Athletic Club were located in the same section, on opposite sides of the worn narrow wooden bench. Thanks to the Friday-afternoon lull, they had the canyonlike row of blue metal to themselves. Opening his locker, Alex stuffed his racquet into its case and hung it on the metal hook, and then proceeded to peel off his sweat-drenched shorts and shirt. Wrapping a narrow white towel about his hips, he was about to see whether Brody was ready to head off to the steam room when Sam’s low, drawn-out whistle froze him in place.
“Damn. You and Sydney Raines getting into some serious S and M these days?”
The muscles that Alex had managed to relax for the first time since his showdown with Sydney earlier that morning tightened with renewed tension. He bit back a curse. He’d forgotten about the long scratches Sydney had inflicted last night.
“Sydney neglected to trim her nails,” he replied as he shut his locker door with a clang and set the combination dial spinning, only then turning around and meeting his friend’s gaze. “However, she’s been declawed. As of this morning.”
