moment had no loving wife to go home to—any more than Jess had someone of her own.
Dumb idea. Jess had once fallen hard for a married man. It wasn’t an experience she wanted to repeat.
Better just get out of here , she told herself; but how to get through the crush inside without being endlessly diverted and detained? If only that airplane droning overhead were a flying saucer that would drop a transport beam down for her, she could slip away from all this uproar without having to first plunge back into it.
“Excuse me, but you will spill your drink,” said a male voice quite close by. Startled, she did spill the drink, splashing cold vodka and tonic across her instep.
“God, you scared me!” she exclaimed.
“May I take your glass?” said the stranger, from the shadow of a tall shrub in a wooden planter. He reached out to lift the glass from her fingers and set it down at the base of the evergreen. “Someone will retrieve it later, don’t you think?”
The shadow of the bush beside him seemed to stretch to cloak the man in its darkness. She could just make out the line of his cheek and the shine of his eye. His English was accented in an unfamiliar way. Curious, she cast around for some comment that would draw an answer from him. Accents were part of her professional interest.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’d forgotten that I even had a drink in my hand. I might have dropped it on some poor passerby’s head down there.”
“Ah, well,” replied the other, his quiet voice shaded with humor, “an accident of life in the great city. This is part of the excitement people look for here, isn’t it?”
“Only a newcomer to New York would think so,” she said. “Mostly what people crave is peace, quiet, and not to get mugged.”
He leaned one elbow on the terrace railing behind him, his face still shadowed. “All milieus have their dangers.”
His voice was a youthful tenor, liquid with a curious, uninflected intimacy. It was as if she knew him so well that he didn’t need to stress his feelings for her to know what they were. It threw her back to the early days of her relationship with Nick, who had simply opened his heart to her as if even on such short acquaintance she couldn’t mistake his meaning.
“Believe me,” she said, “if there’s one thing New York has too much of, its dangers. And you are—?”
“Someone with a taste for theater but a small tolerance for large, noisy parties,” he answered. “From your tone, I think I have somehow offended?” He made a sharp little bow with his head, a European gesture. “I beg your pardon if I have annoyed you.”
Who was this guy? Jess felt a little thrill of interest.
“Are you a friend of the Whitelys?” she asked.
“Mr. Whitely asks me to consult about his collection.”
Jess thought of the various items she’d glimpsed on display in the apartment—Japanese kimonos spread flat like animal hides to show their designs, South American pottery that ran to goofy-looking little clay people doing uninterpretable things, exquisitely framed historic photographs of old New York.
“Which collection?”
“Most of them,” he answered. “My expertise is broad.”
“Are you a collector yourself?”
“Ah, no,” he said. “A traveler must keep his possessions light, isn’t that what they say?”
At that moment Sinclair hailed Jess commandingly from the open doorway; she spotted his aquiline profile silhouetted against the brightness inside. “Jessamyn Croft, what are you doing hiding out here? Come in and laugh at my stories; none of these stuffy young people will!”
As she turned to answer, Jess felt the hidden stranger stepped past her with a murmured apology—his breath stirred the hair of her temple, he passed so close—and she saw a man hardly taller than herself, broad-shouldered and elegantly tailored, cross the terrace and slip by Sinclair. In two strides the stranger had vanished into the crowd.
Her blood seemed to
Dumb idea. Jess had once fallen hard for a married man. It wasn’t an experience she wanted to repeat.
Better just get out of here , she told herself; but how to get through the crush inside without being endlessly diverted and detained? If only that airplane droning overhead were a flying saucer that would drop a transport beam down for her, she could slip away from all this uproar without having to first plunge back into it.
“Excuse me, but you will spill your drink,” said a male voice quite close by. Startled, she did spill the drink, splashing cold vodka and tonic across her instep.
“God, you scared me!” she exclaimed.
“May I take your glass?” said the stranger, from the shadow of a tall shrub in a wooden planter. He reached out to lift the glass from her fingers and set it down at the base of the evergreen. “Someone will retrieve it later, don’t you think?”
The shadow of the bush beside him seemed to stretch to cloak the man in its darkness. She could just make out the line of his cheek and the shine of his eye. His English was accented in an unfamiliar way. Curious, she cast around for some comment that would draw an answer from him. Accents were part of her professional interest.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’d forgotten that I even had a drink in my hand. I might have dropped it on some poor passerby’s head down there.”
“Ah, well,” replied the other, his quiet voice shaded with humor, “an accident of life in the great city. This is part of the excitement people look for here, isn’t it?”
“Only a newcomer to New York would think so,” she said. “Mostly what people crave is peace, quiet, and not to get mugged.”
He leaned one elbow on the terrace railing behind him, his face still shadowed. “All milieus have their dangers.”
His voice was a youthful tenor, liquid with a curious, uninflected intimacy. It was as if she knew him so well that he didn’t need to stress his feelings for her to know what they were. It threw her back to the early days of her relationship with Nick, who had simply opened his heart to her as if even on such short acquaintance she couldn’t mistake his meaning.
“Believe me,” she said, “if there’s one thing New York has too much of, its dangers. And you are—?”
“Someone with a taste for theater but a small tolerance for large, noisy parties,” he answered. “From your tone, I think I have somehow offended?” He made a sharp little bow with his head, a European gesture. “I beg your pardon if I have annoyed you.”
Who was this guy? Jess felt a little thrill of interest.
“Are you a friend of the Whitelys?” she asked.
“Mr. Whitely asks me to consult about his collection.”
Jess thought of the various items she’d glimpsed on display in the apartment—Japanese kimonos spread flat like animal hides to show their designs, South American pottery that ran to goofy-looking little clay people doing uninterpretable things, exquisitely framed historic photographs of old New York.
“Which collection?”
“Most of them,” he answered. “My expertise is broad.”
“Are you a collector yourself?”
“Ah, no,” he said. “A traveler must keep his possessions light, isn’t that what they say?”
At that moment Sinclair hailed Jess commandingly from the open doorway; she spotted his aquiline profile silhouetted against the brightness inside. “Jessamyn Croft, what are you doing hiding out here? Come in and laugh at my stories; none of these stuffy young people will!”
As she turned to answer, Jess felt the hidden stranger stepped past her with a murmured apology—his breath stirred the hair of her temple, he passed so close—and she saw a man hardly taller than herself, broad-shouldered and elegantly tailored, cross the terrace and slip by Sinclair. In two strides the stranger had vanished into the crowd.
Her blood seemed to
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