London Broil (4 page)

"James, please
don't let them bring a pricey bottle of wine. This place is
probably already more than I can afford."

He turned toward
her on the banquette they were sharing and said, "Laura, I hope
you'll do me the honor of allowing me to pay this time. And that
reminds me. Before we take the intimate step of asking for a
single check, you ought to introduce yourself properly. You
never told me your last name."

"It's Livingston.
Laura Livingston," she said, holding her hand out. Instead of
shaking it, he grasped it in his right hand and then placed his
left hand beneath hers, with the fingers extended so that they
touched her wrist and the sensitive skin of her inner arm.

"Did you wonder
where I was last Friday?" he asked, not letting go of her hand.

"Mmm. I did."

"I had to go out
of town. I tried to tell you that night, but you ran inside
before I had the chance."

He released her
hand as he saw the server approach with their wine. He presented
the label to James, then expertly opened the bottle and poured
each of them a small amount. James tasted it and nodded. The
server filled their glasses and they brought them together with
a soft clink, turning to face each other. James' eyes were
mesmerizing, she thought, and very expressive. She sipped the
wine, which was dry and full-bodied; it mixed well with the
taste of the gruyère cheese that lingered in her mouth.

"When I ate at
Roxana last Friday, George asked to see me," she said. "It seems
that you were right. He was afraid for my virtue."

"And... does he
have reason to be afraid?"

She considered
him as she sipped more of the wine, her gaze wandering up to his
hair, and down past his eyes to linger on his lips. "Oh yes.
After the other night, all I could think of was how much I
wanted to sleep with you."

He grinned at
her, showing his teeth. "Laura... you're causing a dilemma for
me as to whether we should leave right now or stay and eat the
meal we just ordered."

"Oh, of course we
have to stay. I wouldn't dream of missing this meal. Besides, I
have a dilemma of my own. The Greeks had an expression for what
I'm feeling: 'limb loosening Eros.' Looking at you turns my
knees to water" --here she paused to enjoy his expression as she
said this-- "but that doesn't mean it's right for me to sleep
with you. I need to know whether anyone would be hurt as a
result."

"You mean, do I
have any other commitments? Not as of last week," he said.

"What about your
ex-wife?"

"Magda? I admit
that's complicated," he said. "But I can assure you that if
you... that is, if we... sleep together, you'll have my full
attention. I think that's how you put it the other night."

She noted with
amusement that he seemed a bit flustered. Perhaps the women he
usually saw were less direct about their intentions and
expectations.

"The second thing
on my mind," she said, "is that I'm enjoying this feeling of
anticipation, and I want to savor it a bit longer. It's like
baking bread. A great deal of the pleasure lies in mixing it,
kneading the dough, and smelling the yeasty aroma as it
bakes...before you ever taste it. And when you make something
new, there's only one first time to taste it. After that, you
enjoy it, but it's never quite the same."

"I see. I shall
take that as a challenge. And how long would you like to...
savor the anticipation before you eat this meal?"

"As long as I can
stand it and as long as you'll be patient. To be quite honest,
though, I doubt I'll last very long." And as she said this, her
left hand crept under the tablecloth to his thigh and up toward
his crotch. He caught it in a surprisingly tight grip and placed
it firmly back in her lap.

"I can see I'm
going to have to help strengthen your resolve," he said with
mock severity. "Ten years ago I mightn't have had time for this.
But now, and with you..." He didn't finish the sentence, but
leaned over and whispered in her ear, speaking in an exaggerated
Irish accent: "You're a naughty miss, so you are. Now sit up
straight and be good or I'll take you over my knee later!"

Laura was shaking
with laughter, but she put her hand over her mouth and composed
herself. Their salads arrived. After the apparent interruption
of an intimate moment with the arrival of the wine, the waiters
had been observing them closely, waiting for them to break it up
before presenting the first course. She felt only a slight
embarrassment, reflecting that they must see this kind of
behavior all the time. The seating arrangements seemed designed
to facilitate displays of affection.

Her salad was
composed of fresh, tender greens tossed with a tart, creamy
dressing, and topped with generous curls of parmesan cheese as
well as a few crisp golden croutons; his was thin green beans in
a balsamic dressing, with pink pickled onions and chunks of blue
cheese. They tasted each other's food, spearing up particularly
luscious mouthfuls to hand over on a fork, or raiding each
other's plates. He set his fork down while she was still working
on her salad and soon she felt his right hand steal behind her
and settle at her waistline, then slide under the fabric of her
top and up her back. He spread his fingers and she could feel
the outline of his hand, large and warm, on her lower back.

"Did you bring me
here because you knew this was a good place to canoodle?" she
asked.

"That may
possibly have entered my mind," he answered, "but I also knew
you'd love the food and wine here. Do you often eat at
restaurants other than Roxana?"

"Oh yes. I go out
two or three times a week, and I try to find someplace new every
week, though one of my meals is always at Roxana. I set aside a
large amount of my savings for restaurants when I planned this
trip, because food is so expensive here. London is a finer city
for food than people in the States realize."

"I agree. I know
the restaurants here rather well, and they are far better than
they were twenty years ago." His hand was still splayed against
her back, and she arched herself slightly against it, reveling
in the feel of his touch on her skin.

"Your job allows
you to have evenings free?"

"It does now,
yes. I have deputy editors who cover the evening hours, though
if there's a big story brewing, I still work evenings and
weekends."

He withdrew his
hand as the waiters brought their entrées. Her soufflé was light
and fluffy inside, and crusty golden brown on top, with a creamy
sauce that tasted of champagne. On the side were asparagus
spears grilled so that they were caramelized and blistered on
the outside, but still crisp and green, sprinkled with fleur de
sel, and lying in a buttery sauce. James' dish was sole
garnished with toasted almonds and lemon. He also had asparagus,
and a small mound of whipped potatoes, piped onto the plate with
a ridged design on top that had probably been browned with a
blowtorch. The waiter brought their wine from an invisible ice
bucket somewhere nearby, and refilled their glasses.

"James, have you
ever tried this soufflé?" she asked, forking up a bite, dipping
it in the sauce and holding it out for him to taste.

"No, as a matter
of fact, but.... mmm. It's very good," he said, shutting his
eyes for a moment as he savored it.

"I have this
theory, you see, that carnivores often miss out on the best
dishes, because they never order an entrée unless it has meat.
This is a perfect example."

"You have a
point, but I'd be very reluctant to give up meat and fish. Why
not simply order something like this from time to time and enjoy
both?"

"Ah, but will you
actually do that? Being a vegetarian forced me to try a lot of
things I would never have tasted otherwise. It's a bit of a
paradox, but by limiting my diet, I've experienced more flavors
than most people. As a child I hated vegetables, but now I enjoy
almost anything. Except brussels sprouts."

"That's because
nobody has ever cooked them properly for you. You'll see. I'll
make you dinner and you'll love them."

James advised
against ordering dessert, because Le Loup adhered to the
time-honored tradition of serving
petits fours
and
mignardises
after the
meal, a variety of small, sweet cookies and candied nuts, which
they enjoyed with Courvoisier.

"James," she said
as they were walking back toward her flat, "that may very
possibly have been the best meal I ever ate. I don't know how to
thank you enough for this evening."

"I enjoy watching
you eat," he replied. "Most of the women I've dined with eat
like birds. As a matter of fact," and here he hesitated for a
moment, "I'm quite keen to discover whether your appetites in
bed are as healthy as they are at the table."

"I suppose that
depends upon the menu," she said, treating the question
seriously. "I've not had as much experience of sex as of food. I
never had an interest in marriage. I lived with someone for
three years once, but our sexual life wasn't particularly
exciting."

"Were you in
love with him?"

"I think so."

"You weren't," he
stated firmly. "If you were, you'd have known. Laura, do you
mean to tell me you've never been madly in love?"

"If you mean a
full-blown case of
eros
,
I suppose that is true. You know, Epicurus said that sexual love
never did anyone good, and we're lucky if it does us no harm. It
can be dangerous, and from what I've seen, it can cause a great
deal of pain. I've always been more interested in friendship."

"Epicurus? I
thought he taught that people should live for pleasure."

"He did, but if
you overindulge in pleasurable things, you cause pain to
yourself and others. For example, he would never advocate
drinking too much, because the hangover the next day cancels out
whatever pleasure you had."

"Hmm. Weren't
there any philosophers who thought sexual love was a good
thing?"

"Well, there were
the Cynics, who taught that we ought to do what comes naturally
without shame. Diogenes used to masturbate in public, and he
said he wished it was as easy to satisfy an empty stomach just
by rubbing it. And then there's Aristotle. I think he liked sex
well enough, but my friend Juniper says he didn't know the
clitoris existed."

He snorted with
laughter and put his arm around her as they walked, pulling her
close. "We'll definitely have to continue this conversation
another evening." When they reached her building, he stopped and
faced her, grasping her by the shoulders. "Until next Friday,"
he said and bent down to kiss her. He took his time doing so.
His mouth tasted of Cognac, and something else that was
distinctively James. She stood with her body pressed against
his; one hand went around his neck while she ran the fingers of
the other through his hair, something she had wanted to do for
weeks, even months. The texture was softer than she expected.
The smell of him was deeply exciting. They broke the kiss and
gradually eased apart. She looked back at him as she went
through the outer door. He was watching her with an unreadable
look on his face, his dark eyes glinting in the lamplight.

5.
The Porteous Library

On Monday, she
had an appointment with a Mr. Porteous, who happened to own a
great many books from the libraries of the famous. Mr. Porteous
and his collection resided in a palatial house in Knightsbridge,
one of the swankier London neighborhoods. She was shown into a
reception room by a woman in a black suit, about her own age,
who appeared to be a female butler. In the center of the room
was a round table topped by an elaborate flower arrangement, and
the floors were of marble pieced together in an intricate
design. A few uncomfortable yet expensive-looking side chairs
were distributed about the room; one wall had a bay window, and
another held a massive abstract painting in a lacquered frame.

After a few
minutes a tall man strode in, his hand extended. "Miss
Livingston? I'm Hamish Porteous. My father is Alexander
Porteous. I regret to say he is indisposed, but he asked me to
show you the collection." He took her hand in an unnecessarily
vise-like grip. His blond hair swept like a wave over his
forehead, complementing his piercing blue eyes and straight,
sharp nose. He's very good-looking, she thought.

Hamish took her a
few steps down the hallway to the library, which was beautifully
appointed in a contemporary style, with light oak shelving, and
a long, heavy slab of distressed blond wood that looked like a
relic of some ancient Anglo-Saxon feast hall, arranged over
industrial-looking metal supports. A few sleek easy chairs with
lamps and ottomans beckoned. The library window was covered with
tightly shut blinds, which was appropriate for the storage of
rare books.