Part 30 (1/2)

”We'll pull the shade,” Jean-Pierre said. He nuzzled his nose in her hair.

”No,” she said, planting herself firmly. ”Not now. Not with him this close.”

”Then when, Greta? When?”

This had been a mistake. She had to get away. ”Tomorrow,” she said, pulling away from him. ”Tomorrow, Jean-Pierre.” She tugged at her dress, putting some more distance between them as she rearranged herself. Her expression was final, forbidding. She wanted to remember him just like this, standing before her with his arms at his sides, his bright white teeth and eyes, the silvery sharp edges of his muscled chest.

”Where?” he asked, taking her by the elbows.

”Matthew is going to New York. I'll call you.” Afraid that the gentle yet firm and alluring touch of his powerful hands would stall her, she forced herself to pull away.

He handed her her jacket, and followed her into the light of the living room. She opened the door, turned around, and slipped on her jacket, zipping it firmly.

He clasped one hand on the door's edge. With the other he gripped her wrist and pulled her close. She gasped. He kissed her long and deeply. The cold night air chilled her back, while the heat of his mouth warmed her insides. She drew away with a frustrated moan.

He raised her good hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. The stubble of his beard on the silken material caused a sound that had an extraordinary effect on her lower regions. She pressed her upper thighs together.

”Tomorrow,” he said, and released her.

She nodded, then was off and back into the night, back to her home.

Running through the chilly night she remembered the gloves in her pocket. She stopped and removed her silk gloves and put on the pair he had given her. They made her feel secure and warm, but not all the way. Perhaps they would feel right once she had the left one tailored to accommodate her shortcoming.

Whatever it takes, she solemnly vowed, whatever it takes.

Chapter 10

”Mr. Harrell, Mr. Locke has arrived.”

”Send him in, please,” came William Harrell's voice thinly from the intercom on his secretary's desk.

Matthew was surrounded by the kind of opulence afforded only by companies at the highest reaches of the Fortune 500. Plush carpets, deep, rich wooden desks, fine art originals, and people referring to one another as Mr., Ms., Mrs., and ”sir.” It was a sobering contrast to Wallaby's compact, Herman-Miller modular part.i.tion offices, open-air buildings, and first-name protocols.

Had it been only three years since Matthew had occupied an office at International Foods very much like this one, so expansive it was more like a penthouse apartment than an office? Matthew's own office at Wallaby was no larger than the standard manager's office, just big enough to move around comfortably in. He felt queerly out of place entering the ICP building, surrounded by such abundance, such magnitude. He had even forgotten how long it took for elevators to climb tall buildings; Wallaby's tallest building was only three stories high, and almost everyone used the central atrium stairs to travel between floors.

He shrugged his shoulders to straighten his suit - yet another difference between casual West Coast wizardry and starchy East Coast Big Business. He had felt uncomfortable walking through the city, unable to see more than a few blocks in any direction, surrounded by noise, exhaust, and serious faces. Indeed, California, with its rolling hills and vistas, mild weather, and no-hurry att.i.tude had affected him more deeply than he had realized.

In one hand he carried his briefcase, in the other a large binder containing all of Wallaby's product plans, financial summaries, and forecasts, as well as the strategy he had worked on two nights ago. He had finalized the strategy on the plane yesterday and printed the finished copy in his hotel suite last night with his Joey Plus and portable printer.

He had come to think of the binder as his clay, molded into the shape of a new Wallaby, a gra.s.sroots company deemed a serious player by the most important counsel of all, based in this very city: Wall Street. Since last week's introduction of the new Joey Plus, Wallaby's stock had climbed four points, and reviews were glowing.

It was all very exciting. So much so it had affected him in his sleeping hours. Last night he had had a shadowy, romantic dream, that he was as a gemologist transporting precious jewels for Sotheby's of London...then it s.h.i.+fted, and the gems had changed to secret doc.u.ments for the CIA...then it turned out that he was working not for the CIA, but for them...the other side. When he left the hotel this morning for his meeting, he felt as if he were holding in his hands his fate, his life. Many lives. And then a macabre thought entered his mind, left over from his exotic dream: Where was the cyanide pill? He had no cyanide pill if he was caught. It was a preposterous notion of course, his imagination getting the better of him. Nevertheless, still a little intrigued by the role his dream had cast him in, he strode into William's office with his life in his hands and a feeling of pure elation, and just a little fear. Good fear.

”h.e.l.lo, Matthew,” William said heartily, rounding his wide desk with his hand extended. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal business suit, a crisp white s.h.i.+rt, and a burgundy tie. The man's entire appearance exuded sharpness, Big Business. In other words, ICP.

Matthew set his briefcase on the thickly carpeted floor, clutching the binder in his left hand. He noticed William's impeccable manicure as they shook hands. Matthew's own fingernails were chewed and dry, and he could not remember the last time he had had a manicure himself. He was beginning to feel as if he were underdressed, as if he had underestimated the importance of this date. Gripping the binder with both hands, he grasped all at once that it was not his costume that should match William's incomparability; it was the binder's contents: Wallaby.

This was not just his life in his hands, it was his love. And it was perfect.

William's secretary returned with a tray of coffee, tea, and pastries. She placed the tray on the table, and Matthew asked her for a gla.s.s water.