Lost by Joy Fielding Page B

hadn’t she called? Cindy rifled through her purse and checked that her cell phone was on.
    “Everything all right?” Neil asked.
    “Fine.” Cindy smiled, careful to avoid the intense scrutiny of his eyes, eyes she’d noticed immediately that were an amazing shade of blue. Somewhere betweenteal and turquoise. With a sparkle, no less, as if it had been dabbed on with silver paint. Trish hadn’t been exaggerating. Neil Macfarlane was cute all right. More than cute. He was drop-dead gorgeous. Cindy had decided immediately that the less she looked at him the better off she’d be.
    (First impressions: A man, tall and slender, wavy brown hair atop a boyish face, waits for her at the bottom of the elegant, open, red mahogany staircase, the city stretched out tantalizingly behind him in the long expanse of glass; he smiles, deep dimples creasing his cheeks as she warily approaches and the city blurs behind him; he is wearing a blue shirt that underlines the fierce blue of his eyes; his hands are warm as they reach for hers; his voice is soft as he speaks her name. “Cindy,” he says with the quiet confidence of someone who is used to being right. “Neil?” she asks in return, feeling instantly foolish. Who else would he be? Already she feels inadequate.)
    “So what kinds of movies do you like?” Neil was asking as the wine steward approached the table, proudly displaying the requested bottle for Neil’s perusal. “Looks fine,” Neil told him, although his eyes never strayed from Cindy.
    Cindy, in turn, focused all her attention on the wine steward, watching as he slowly and expertly began the process of removing the cork from the bottle. “I like all movies,” she said vaguely, disappointed when the cork put up no real resistance, sliding out of the bottle with ease.
    The steward offered the cork to Neil, who dutifully sniffed at it and nodded his approval, then tasted the sampling the steward poured into his glass. “Fine,” hesaid. “Excellent. It just needs a few minutes to breathe,” Neil advised her.
    I know how it feels, Cindy thought, but didn’t say, watching as the steward filled her glass just short of halfway.
    “So, you have no preferences at all?” Neil was asking.
    What was the matter with him? Cindy wondered impatiently. Why did he insist on making conversation? He didn’t really give a damn what kinds of movies she liked, or how she and Trish had met, or anything about her, for that matter. And if he did, it was only because he wanted to sleep with her, and he knew his chances would be greatly improved if he at least feigned an interest in her. Although why he would want to sleep with her was a total mystery. Look at him, for heaven’s sake, Cindy thought, deliberately looking at the floor. On any given night, he undoubtedly had his choice of any number of much more attractive, much fitter, much
younger
women. Why would he want to sleep with her? That was easy, she decided. He wanted to sleep with her because she was here. It was as simple as that. It didn’t mean anything.
    It doesn’t mean anything
.
    How many times had Tom told her exactly that?
    Cindy raised her head, stared directly into Neil Macfarlane’s brilliant blue eyes. “I like sex and violence,” she stated honestly, the first time she’d admitted that to anyone.
    “What?”
    “You asked what kind of movies I like. I like sex and violence,” she repeated, reaching for her wineglass, taking a long sip, feeling the wine slightly abrasive as it scratched against her throat. He was right. It needed a fewmore minutes to breathe. Cindy tossed her hair back, took another sip. “You look shocked.”
    Neil smiled, the dimples framing his mouth like quotation marks. “I understand liking sex. But blood and guts?”
    “Not blood and guts so much,” Cindy countered, feeling the wine curl into her stomach, like a contented cat in a wicker basket. “I don’t like watching people get blown up ad nauseum. I guess what I like is