Impossible (17 page)

“Can I stay for a while?” She nodded, and he held her, and a little while later they made love again. They spent the whole day in bed, alternately sleeping, holding each other, and making love. Eventually, he brought food up for the puppy, and two bowls of ice cream for them.

“Have I gone insane?” she asked him, as she ate chocolate ice cream, lying in bed with him. This was all she wanted. Being there with him, with ice cream dribbling down her chin. He gently wiped it off.

“I've never been saner in my life. I can't speak for you.”

“This feels like a dream.”

“If it is, it's a very good dream.” He smiled at her and kissed her.

They stayed in bed together all day Sunday. They shared a bath in her bathtub and went downstairs long enough to eat dinner, and then hurried back to bed, like children running from their parents. There was no one to run from. Nowhere to hide. Sometime during the weekend, Sasha stepped over the line into his arms. She had no idea what they would do now. All she knew was that she wanted to be with him, for however long it lasted.

They cooked together, ate dinner laughing and talking easily, played with the dog, did the dishes, and then rushed back to bed and made love again.

“I'm too old for this,” she said afterward, barely able to catch her breath.

“So am I.” He laughed. “You're wearing me out.” And then she looked at him, worried.

“When are you going back?”

“How about never?” He was teasing her, but they both liked the idea. “What if I spend the week here?” It would be a good experiment to see how they did in real life. Sasha hadn't expected him to make the offer, but she liked the idea.

“I could tell everyone at the gallery that you came to meet them, and you're staying with me as a guest.” He knew she felt she had to explain things, but however she did that worked for him.

“Sounds fine to me. Or you could just tell them I'm your boyfriend, and we'll be in bed all week.” She looked nervous when he said it, and he kissed her. “Don't worry, I'm not going to say anything to embarrass you.”

“You better not,” she warned him.

“I promise.”

They lay in bed together and held each other close that night. Sasha was excited at the prospect of spending a week with him. The day before she had promised herself she would give him up, and in the course of a single weekend, she had decided to risk her life with him. She had no other choice now, whether this was possible or not. They would soon find out.

Chapter 8

Sasha looked even more respectable
than usual when she, Liam, and Socks walked across the courtyard to her offices on Monday morning. The gallery was closed on Monday, but the offices were open, and it was a good chance for all of them to catch up on deskwork. Sasha was wearing black slacks and a black sweater. And Liam looked like Liam. He was wearing cowboy boots, a leather jacket, white T-shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap. They were planning to go out to buy him more T-shirts and some underwear that afternoon. He hadn't brought enough to last the week, since he only planned to be there for the weekend.

Sasha introduced him to all her employees. He was easy and pleasant, and everyone seemed to enjoy meeting him. He had sent them slides of his work the week before. Bernard said they were anxious to show it. They talked about his solo show in New York at the end of the year. In the meantime, both branches of the gallery were going to show his work, in Paris and New York.

It was an incredible opportunity for him. And Eugénie nearly fainted when she saw him. She told Sasha afterward that she had never seen a man as beautiful in her life. Nor had Sasha. That was part of the problem that was doing her in.

That night, as they talked about the gallery, he lay sprawled out on her bed like a young lion, after they made love.

“So what did you think?” she asked him. She was interested in his opinion, from an artist's point of view. She had a rare opportunity for insider information from him, as an artist evaluating the gallery. It was an interesting perspective for a dealer, and she respected his opinion, although her own as well. Her instincts had always been extremely good about the gallery and her artists.

“What did I think?” He looked blank. He was still catching his breath from what they'd just done, and surprised she was thinking of work. “Well, let's see … better than last night … not as good as this morning … maybe I was tired…I thought the best ever was on Sunday afternoon in the bathtub …” He went on cataloging and comparing their sexual exploits, as Sasha giggled.

“Liam! Stop it! I meant about the gallery and the employees.”

“Oh, that. Very nice. I liked everyone.” He was much more interested in making love to her than talking about work.

“Be serious for a minute,” she chided him. She loved sharing her work with him. She had loved that with Arthur, too.

“Serious? If we make love any more often, I'm going to collapse in your arms, and you'll have to revive me. I'm older than I look.”

“So am I,” she said, with a look of regret.

“I've never done this so often in my life. I'm beginning to feel like a sex toy,” he said, looking worried. “Come to think of it, maybe I am. Is that all I am to you?” He was serious for a moment.

“Don't be silly,” Sasha said, lying back on her pillow. But she had to admit, she was having fun with him. A lot of it.

“I feel like the sex slave of the Faubourg St. Honoré. Maybe I should call the SAMU to rescue me.” The SAMU were the paramedics, the French equivalent of 911.

“I think you're becoming an addiction,” Sasha admitted, but she was having too much fun now to worry. She had put her fears on the back burner for the week, and was enjoying having him around every day.

“Maybe we should go to a twelve-step group. Love Slaves Anonymous. But hell, why spoil our fun?” He looked amused.

“Exactly,” she said, as she leaned over to kiss him. Neither of them could believe it, but they made love again before they went to sleep, and again before she went to work the next day. She felt girlish and giddy and tried not to act it, when she walked in.

Liam arrived shortly after, and enjoyed seeing the gallery once it was open. Sasha was pleased to discover that Bernard had invited Liam to lunch. They all seemed to like him, which was at least something. She'd been worried about how he would fit in, but so far he did.

Liam spent the rest of the week wandering around Paris, looking up artist friends in the Marais, and Sasha did her best to lighten her workload so she could spend time with him whenever possible. Although sometimes she had to meet with clients who were expecting to see her and buy important paintings. Liam walked in on one of those meetings, toward the end of the week. He was wearing a T-shirt, leather motorcycle jacket, baseball cap, jeans, and his cowboy boots. And, unbeknownst to anyone but Sasha, socks and underwear. He was determined to be proper and civilized that week. She introduced him to the clients she was meeting with as soon as he walked in, looking for her. He hadn't hesitated to interrupt her, which upset her. And she was looking stern and somewhat irritated, as he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. Sasha was furious with him. Her clients were in their seventies, the wife was an Italian princess, and the husband the head of an important French bank. Her clients didn't get more conservative than them. Sasha had worn a Chanel suit with a skirt for the meeting, and pearls. She looked as respectable as they did. Liam looked like James Dean with long blond hair, which was definitely not their thing. She introduced him as one of their artists, and was somewhat unnerved when he sat down, uninvited, to have tea with them, and then changed his mind and poured himself a drink. He made himself totally at home, which didn't go unnoticed by her clients either. The princess looked shocked, and the banker was obviously annoyed. All Sasha could do was hope they thought him an eccentric artist, although his kissing her on the mouth certainly tipped their hand, and would have been hard to explain. What's more, they wanted Sasha's full attention. They had just bought two paintings for half a million dollars each. Liam looked singularly unimpressed by the paintings standing on two easels, and commented that they were very pretty, but not exciting. Sasha wanted to kill him. As soon as they left, she turned on him with a vengeance.

“What in God's name were you thinking, to say something like that? This is how I earn my living. Those two people just bought two paintings for a million dollars, in cash, and I don't care if you think what they bought is exciting or not, and neither do they. You could at least have pretended you liked them,” she said, fuming. “And how dare you walk into a meeting? This is my business, not my bedroom. Have you lost your mind?” He had just done exactly what she feared he would. He had embarrassed her with important clients, and he didn't look the least bit apologetic. It was the control thing. No one was going to tell him what to do or how to behave. Boundaries and rules didn't exist for him.

“I never lie about art,” he said, looking nonplussed, as he stretched out on the couch in her office. “I have too much integrity to do that. And I was being polite. I told them they weren't exciting. Actually, I thought they looked like shit. They're from a terrible period in the artist's lifetime, and he did much better work before that.”

“I'm perfectly aware of that, Liam, but those two paintings are what they wanted, so I located them. It took me eight months to get them from a dealer in Holland, and you damn near screwed up the sale. Besides which, you can't just stroll through here and pour yourself a drink while I'm meeting with clients. You have to show some respect.”

“So do you,” he said, looking annoyed. “You think you run the world here. I'm every bit as good as they are. You can't just sweep me under the rug because someone with a fat checkbook walks in the door.”

“Oh yes, I can. They're my bread and butter, and my children's. And if you're going to be here, when I dance to their tune, so do you.”

“Like hell. I'm not your little minion, Sasha. I don't work here. If I'm the man in your life, you have to treat me with respect.”

“Then don't push your luck and show off. You looked like a Hell's Angel, strolling in here and pouring yourself a drink, while they were having tea.”

“That is total bullshit and you know it. All you have to tell them is that I'm one of your artists. That's all they need to know. I'm not going to parade around here in a suit and drink tea because you're selling two rotten paintings that you shouldn't be selling anyway. If that's what they wanted, then educate them, find them something better, and charge them more. But those two paintings were shit, and you know it. And as far as how I look, I'm wearing underwear and socks. That should be enough for you. I'm not going to walk around like a monkey on a leash, in a costume for you.”

“No one's asking you to do that. I'm just asking you to be polite to my clients, look decent, and be discreet. You can wait to have a drink till they leave. And you have no business walking into my meetings. I don't care how independent you are, I'm not going to tolerate that from you.”

“Who do you think you are?” he shouted at her. “You're not my mother. I can do anything I want. You can't tell me what to do. I love you, but you're not going to control me, Sasha. I'm not one of your employees, or your children. In fact, I'm not even sure what I am to you.” He was working himself into a rage, as she spoke quietly. She was not going to get into a war with him. If she did, she knew no one would win. But she was not going to allow him to behave any way he wanted either. The wacky artist was in full swing.

“You
kissed
me, Liam. On the
mouth
,” she said as he glared at her from across the room. “In front of
clients.
That's completely inappropriate and you know it.”

“Don't tell me what's appropriate!” he shot back at her. “I love you. I didn't stick my tongue down your throat, for chrissake. I gave you a peck on the mouth.

“What am I, just a boy toy you're having fun with? And that you want to keep in the closet?” he asked, looking insulted. She had hurt his feelings by criticizing him, and she knew it. But he had to learn to behave. This wasn't going to be easy, just as she had feared. She loved being with him privately, but he made her nervous when he strolled around the gallery, doing and saying whatever came into his head. Sometimes he just didn't think. And he was obviously allergic to any kind of rules.

“You're too old to be a boy toy,” she said demurely. He started to say something to her, looking heated, and then burst out laughing.

“You're right. I guess I am. But I feel like that sometimes. You're so uptight when you meet with clients, and so stuffy. Why don't you just relax? They might like it better too.”

“They're not that kind of clients. People who buy emerging artists are different, Liam. These kind of clients expect you to be stuffy and uptight. If I weren't, they'd be buying from someone else who is. Believe me. I've been in this business for twenty-three years. And I watched my father do it from the time I was a little kid. I know what I'm doing. There are certain rules about this.”

“You and your rules,” he grumbled, but he got over it quickly. Quicker than she did. He had upset her terribly walking in on her client meeting. As far as Sasha was concerned, it didn't bode well for the future. It had unnerved her. In spite of that, she took him to dinner at Le Voltaire that night. It had become his favorite restaurant too. He didn't have to get dressed up to go there. He could wear his jeans, leather jacket, and cowboy boots, even though some of the most stylish and sophisticated people in Paris went there. He was in a much better mood after a great bottle of wine. But she was still uneasy after their brief but heated quarrel that afternoon. He had felt disrespected, and she had been outraged at his cavalier behavior while she was conducting business. He was going to have to learn the ground rules very soon. Something had to give, and he was it. If not, they were going to run aground very quickly. It took her the rest of the evening to calm down, and by the next day she did.