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“Michael,” she whispered.

“I need to handle something,” he said. He buttoned his suit coat and pushed his chair back into place. “I’m sure you two have a lot to chat about. Back in a few,” he mouthed over his shoulder.

Claire laced her fingers tightly, feeling the patina of the evening start to crackle and fade like an out-of-range radio station.

“Asian markets on fire?” Andrew asked, filling the silence.

“There’s always a deal burning somewhere.” She took a sip of wine, washing away the prickly sensation in her chest. “I’m sorry for the disappearing act. These calls tend to take a while.”

“He lives up to his reputation.”

Claire’s right eye began to twitch, as it often did when the headaches started. “You know, I’d really prefer to hear more about your interest in art,” she said, clothes-pinning any further discussion of foreign markets and Wall Street reputations. “Talk to me about what’s happening in New York now.”

Andrew took off his glasses and set them beside Claire’s hand, studying her face. “A much more enjoyable topic.” Effortlessly he launched into details of recent shows at two of her favorite Tribeca galleries, the amusing provenance of a collector friend’s rare Kandinsky, and his own modernist preferences at the MoMA. “I also saw an incredible artist in Montreal awhile back. I was at the ‘Picasso Erotique’ exhibit, and . . .”

Her eyes refocused. “I saw that exhibition the last time we were there. Amazing, wasn’t it?”

“It was. But the real find was this guy I’d never heard of. Renato something. He did these pen-and-ink drawings of nudes. The images were unbelievably powerful.”

“Renato Gaffarena?” Claire began pulling up the images in her mind, stunned. “Maltese artist?”

“Yeah, I think you may be right. Do you know him?”

“Years ago we oversaw the auction of a private collection that had about fifteen of his drawings. Right after he committed suicide.”

“That would explain the darkness.”

“I thought he was incredible. Those sensual, fluid lines. It was as if they poured from his pen.” For an instant Claire was back in New York seeing the drawings for the first time, the artist’s pathos and lust prompting a visceral response in her. “I desperately wanted one of his pieces at the time, but he was out of my price range. Especially after his death.”

“Had you met him?”

“No, but I became a little obsessed with his work. I remember
feeling
the moods of his models, the frenzy in their worlds each time I looked at one of his pieces. And somehow he made these women seem, I don’t know, almost chaste and erotic at the same time.”

“Ah, but art is never chaste,” Andrew said in the voice of a man who’d been a stranger to chastity for a good long while.

“I’m impressed. An entrepreneur who can quote Picasso.” Her headache flitted away like a cocktail umbrella on a warm breeze. She pictured Gaffarena’s nudes, and her thoughts wandered to
The Thomas Crown Affair.
And to two art lovers passionately tangled on a staircase.

Andrew slid his chair in closer to hers. “So, what else do you like, Claire?” His voice was plummy and smooth, decidedly more like Pierce Brosnan’s Thomas Crown than Steve McQueen’s.

She swallowed slowly and placed both of her hands on the table to steady them, but also for a bit of lighthearted emphasis. “The second floor of the MoMA is, hands down, my favorite place to spend an afternoon in Manhattan.” Her rings caught the light from the nearby candles and reflected it onto Andrew’s attentive face. “I would add Magritte and Klimt to your list, and just a bit of Dali for some fun, but I think we have very similar tastes.”

“I think we do,” Andrew said. A hush descended as they stared at each other over the flickering glow.

“Yes,” Claire whispered.

“Maybe I could coax you into a professional tour of MoMA some day?”

She cradled her wine with both hands, looking down into the heavy redness, her head suddenly swimming a bit.

“See the future in there?” he asked after a moment.

“I was just thinking about a movie.
The Thomas Crown Affair
. I know it sounds corny, but I was watching the remake on TV last night, and it always gets me.” A veil of wine slid down the inside of her glass as slow as honey.

“I saw the Steve McQueen version.”

Claire looked up at him, into his deep-set soulful eyes, and she felt herself veering far enough from her comfort zone that she was afraid she’d missed a detour sign and stumbled onto some dodgy alternate route. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, smoothed her napkin over her skirt. She thought of the highly charged cat and mouse game the actors had played in both versions of the movie. “You should catch the remake,” she said, tracing the rim of her glass. “The art and characters, the clothes. And the chase. It’s all very . . .”

Andrew waited for her to find the right words. But she never did utter them. “Well, it sounds like a worthwhile evening,” he finally said. “I’ll be sure to take your advice.”

Claire reached for her water glass.

“So,” Andrew continued, his gaze still locked on her, “tell me about the little project Michael mentioned.”

She worried a piece of ice with her tongue and waited for her pulse to slow its dervish spin through her chest. Easing back into less hazardous territory, Claire started with an overview of the museum benefit—thrilled, she realized, to actually have been asked. She described the décor, the commissioned bronze sculpture and the Villa in Cannes she’d wrangled for the auction, the new exhibits the museum would be able to mount with the gala revenue—her enthusiasm recovering, detail by detail, its luscious pre-headache ripeness. As Andrew listened, Claire saw in his face her father’s interest and esteem, the Spaniard’s smolder, and Michael’s first glimmerings of attraction. And something else.

“Well, then”—Andrew raised his glass of Silver Oak to her— “to Denver’s own version of the Costume Institute Benefit. It’s going to be a huge smash.”

“You go to the Met party?” She took another small piece of ice into her mouth, fixing on the strong, un-manicured hand caressing the glass just inches from her face. “Seriously?” she said, swallowing the ice. “We’re in New York for it every year. God, you probably recognized that I, uh, borrowed a few décor ideas—the apple tree hedges?” She watched him smiling wordlessly at her blabbering. “Anyway,” she said, pausing for breath, “maybe we were even seated at nearby tables last year?”

“Intriguing thought, isn’t it? Parallel lives?” His right eyebrow lifted in the center and he tapped her glass with his own, intersecting their parallels. “But I was the guy in the cheap seats and you, I’d hazard, were the stunning brunette seated near the dance floor with her husband.”

“A lovely compliment, but five points off for inaccuracy. Michael hates those functions and usually finds a last-minute business engagement.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I sat with one of the extra men.”

“If I’d only known.”

“Well, our son, Nicholas, is home for the summer now, so I’ll have at least one terrific date for the benefit here. He’s a very talented artist himself,” she said with pride. “And if Michael
doesn’t
show, he’s a dead man.”

Andrew rested his elbow on the table. “I admire your enthusiasm. It’s great to have a passion that gives your world so much luster. Don’t you think?”

Luster.
Until then Claire had been unable to pinpoint what it was she had started to feel. But his words hit her with unexpected force. She nodded, open-mouthed, feeling as if he somehow understood something she had long ago forgotten. And in that dreamlike moment when the world exists in a narrow, slow motion frame, she reached out and touched the scar above his lip, letting her fingernail rest there for a second. His skin was warm and damp. “God, I’m so sorry,” she said, quickly withdrawing from the intimacy of the gesture.

Andrew delicately brushed the inside of Claire’s wrist before she’d completely pulled away. “It’s all right. It was a skiing accident when I was a kid.”

Sabina appeared at the table as Claire was collecting herself to offer coffee and dessert.

“I’ll just have a cappuccino, thanks, Sabina,” she said, twisting her napkin tightly around her offending finger. She felt heat in her cheeks and neck.

“Oh, come on. Live on the edge. Have some cheesecake in honor of New York, and its karmic possibilities.” He ran a bent knuckle back and forth over the scar.

The dessert arrived on one plate, with two forks, and they relished it as little children would a last piece of birthday cake. Claire steered the conversation back to the safety of a certain Italian bakery on Mulberry Street, and to the city in general.

“So, what made you leave New York?” Andrew asked.

“Michael, actually. We met at the home of a mutual friend on Long Island. He was in from out of town, and he swept me right off my Charles Jourdan stilettos.” She placed her fork on the edge of the plate and stared silently into the candlelight, recalling a dinner party nearly two decades earlier when a charming and brilliant new player had crashed her social whirl.

“And?”

“And after a few months of commuting, I found myself back in the Bay Area, engaged. It was the late eighties and Michael was just striking his semiconductor gold in Silicon Valley. Life was so . . . exciting.” Her thoughts drifted, and she felt Andrew’s leg skim hers under the table.

“Excuse me,” he said with some embarrassment; whether it was feigned or real, Claire couldn’t tell, and she didn’t mind.

His eyes seemed a brighter green to her now with a hint of aqua, almost the same color as her own, and they burned with equal parts attraction and unbound desire. They picked up their forks. Claire wiped phantom crumbs from the tablecloth with her other hand. “Enough about me. Tell me what you do with
your
time when you’re not attending museum galas or checking out the galleries.”
Banter, I can do banter,
she reminded herself. “No, wait, let me guess. You like car racing. You definitely ski. And you paint animal portraiture on Thursdays.”

“Very nice—ten points for originality and near-accuracy.” Andrew swallowed the last of his wine. “I do actually enjoy car racing, and I like to heli-ski these days.”

“Ah. I always seem to gravitate toward risk-takers.”

Andrew raised both eyebrows this time.

“I mean, Michael’s that way. The nature of his business and all.”

As they stabbed at the crust of the cheesecake, Michael reappeared at the table and apologized to Andrew for his long absence. Issues in Hong Kong, he offered by way of excuse. “So, how long will you be in town, Andrew?” Michael asked, focusing in on his guest.

“I have meetings scheduled through the end of the week, and I’ll be visiting friends in Aspen next week. But I’ll be at the Hotel Monaco while I’m in Denver.”

Claire ran her fingers through her hair, tucking one side behind her ear, leaving the other to fall over the corner of her eye and cheekbone.

“Fine. I’ll be in touch with you before I leave for Europe.” Michael handed his credit card to Sabina. “Excellent job as always, sweetheart,” he said to the exotic server, who smiled demurely.

Andrew shook Michael’s hand as they stood and walked out of the restaurant. “Thank you. It was a great evening. And you certainly have a lovely wife.”

“So I’ve been told.” Michael laughed and gave Claire’s arm a squeeze before heading to the valet with his ticket.

Andrew stared at Claire for several seconds before speaking. “It was truly a pleasure.”

“Yes . . . thank you. I enjoyed our conversation.”

Andrew held the door open for her, and they parted at the valet.

 

In the days that followed, Claire wondered if Andrew had thought about the evening as much as she had. With Michael in London on business and Nicholas just home from boarding school and anxious to catch up with old friends, her dinner encounter with Andrew had taken up a cozy residence in her consciousness. During restless moments she paged through old Sotheby’s catalogs and imagined the MoMA tour she might give. Alone in bed at night she tried to conjure Andrew’s face and voice, and the competent, fascinating person she’d been with him, along with the dizzying chemistry she knew she hadn’t invented. When she awoke from old familiar dreams, she felt the hot whisper of
querida
in her ear.

Feeling every inch the ridiculous schoolgirl, she telephoned Andrew’s hotel three times before she actually had the nerve to be put through to his room. She hadn’t planned any script beyond the “Hello, just checking to see how you’re enjoying Denver” opener. But the words spilled out in rapid, ineloquent succession as she paced the wide perimeter of her bedroom. She found herself inviting him to the house to hear more about his deal. Michael mentioned there might be a diabetes application she said she’d like to hear about, maybe just a quick stop on his way to dinner if he had the time. And there was a painting she’d recently acquired at auction that she thought he might like to see as well. Similar impact to Renato’s work, she explained.

“I’d love to,” Andrew said, interrupting her description of the finer points of the artist’s use of perspective. “Seven thirty?”

“What? Oh. That’s . . . great,” Claire spluttered. She clicked off and folded into her mohair reading chair, stunned by her own audacity. Closing her eyes, she whispered reassurances that there was nothing inappropriate about improving her grasp of technology, or showing a great piece of art to someone who genuinely shared her interest.

C
HAPTER
3

I
nside the library with Andrew, Claire imagined that she was someone else, that what was happening was somehow valid, even vital. She looked down at her hand on his. Their shared electricity seemed to course through her, and her breath came in shallow spurts. She felt heat, cold, fear, and restlessness—all the walls beginning to recede. Andrew let the pen fall and curled his thumb around her index finger, massaging it with a rhythmic and tender sensuality. She turned to him, about to speak, just as the library door swung open. Andrew inched to the left.

Nicholas stood framed in the doorway, and Claire saw Michael’s blue-gray eyes staring back at her, saw the boy, the man, her son. She jerked her hand away from the desk and into her pocket, wondering what he had seen in that instant. “Nicky, honey, I thought you were at Reese’s.”

“Apparently,” she heard him say under his breath.

Claire stepped forward and cleared her throat. “I’d like you to meet Andrew Bricker.” Nicholas stared at her, unmoving, his eyes frozen wide. His light brown hair, a beautiful compromise between her chestnut and Michael’s blond, fell in thick waves around his face, which now bore an expression of undisguised surprise. His arms hung at his sides, tan muscles peeking out from the sleeves of his Nantucket-red T-shirt. “He and your father have had a couple meetings. About a new biomedical software concept Mr. Bricker’s company is funding.” The room was deadly quiet, but for her voice. “And he just stopped by to drop off some papers.” Claire turned back toward her guest. “Andrew, this is my son, Nicholas. He just finished his junior year at Andover and is home for the summer.”

“Good to meet you, Nicholas.” Andrew moved to shake his hand. “It must feel good to have a few months off from the grind.”

“Yeah.” Nicholas glanced down at Andrew’s hand, then at the outline of Claire’s in her pocket. He pulled away. “My dad won’t be back from Europe for a week. You could’ve just dropped that off with his assistant downtown.”

“Actually, your mom wanted to take a look at the prospectus. She was at our first dinner meeting and was very interested in the business.”

Nicholas shot Claire one of his trademark sarcastic looks. “When did you get so into biomedical stuff?”

Claire walked over to Nicholas and sat down on the edge of the chair in front of the antique radio console Michael’s parents had given them when Nick was born. “I’m interested in some of the applications, honey. There could be a diabetes connection,” she said, guilt choking her words into a whisper.

Nick glanced at his Medic Alert bracelet, and then squinted back at her, and at Andrew. “Yeah, well. Cool, I guess.” He splayed his fingers around the doorknob. “I’ve gotta go. Reese is picking me up and we’re heading out.”

“You’re leaving?”

He nodded.

“O-kaay.” She wasn’t certain if what she felt was gratitude or dread, but she kept her gaze trained on Nicholas, trying to assure him he was the only person in the room who mattered. “Whose parents are out of town tonight?”

“Catherine Miller’s,” he said. “Just her dad. Don’t stress.”

Claire arranged her face into composure. “You know the rules, Nicky. And I don’t want you getting into a car with anyone who’s been drinking.” She stood. “If you need a ride, you call me.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like you home by midnight.”

“I’m staying at Reese’s tonight. He got the new
Call of Duty.
”

She wrapped her arm around her son’s torso, squeezing him close to her. He smelled of soap and Axe spray. “Why don’t you just call when you’re leaving the party?”

“Sure.” He twisted out from Claire’s embrace. “I gotta roll. I’ll see you in the morning.” As he turned to leave he looked back over his shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dicker.”

“It’s Bricker. But Andrew’s fine.”

Nicholas pulled the door shut behind him. A horn honked in the distance and the front door slammed.

Claire felt her stomach churn, and collapsed into the fringed toile pillows of her chaise. “Oh my God. I hope he didn’t get the wrong idea.” She reflected on the irony of her statement.

“Aw, he’s just a kid dying to get to a party.” Andrew sat down next to her. “The Dicker comment was clever, though.” He placed his hand on Claire’s clenched fist. “You okay?”

“No,” she blurted out. Acid inched up her throat. “What must he be thinking? What if he—”

“Hey,” Andrew said reassuringly, “we were just two people standing at a desk. It was nothing. He won’t even remember this in an hour.”

“But it was—”

“He’ll be with his friends, flirting with all the girls. And between that and the new video game at his buddy’s, he’ll be
very
busy. Trust me. You know how teenage boys are. The goings-on in adult world don’t hold much interest.” He studied her intently. “How about a drink? You look a little pale.”

Claire eyed the decanter on the shelf and moistened her dry lips, wanting to believe his logic. “I don’t know.” What would it matter now, she wondered? This whole thing, it was as if she was folding origami and none of the corners were matching up. She looked back at him, took him in, concerned expression and comforting hands. “Okay,” she whispered. “Sure,” she exhaled, as she struggled to bring her nerves under control.

Andrew poured two glasses of scotch and set them on the cocktail table next to Claire. “Whatever I can do to help.” He smiled softly, brushing her hair from her cheek, and Claire closed her eyes, trying not to think of all the reasons she had wanted him to come. “In fact”—he lowered his voice—“I think I have something right here that might provide a little diversion.”

She opened her eyes to see Andrew’s hand resting on his pants pocket. Her initial irritation quickly turned to curiosity as he reached for something from deep inside the pocket. The small glass vial he pulled out caught the light of the chandelier above and glimmered.

Jesus.
Claire did a double take at the powdery contents and heaved herself out of the chaise and away from him. Her mind spun. In her younger, mildly experimental days in New York, she’d tried a little coke, when everyone was doing coke. But it was a vague and distant memory from a lifetime away. What the hell had she been thinking at this stage in her life—the unlikely chemistry with this man she barely knew, her wild thoughts and desires? And now this.
This?
She had lived eighteen faithful years in the happy confines of her marriage to Michael. He was a good man. She loved her family. This was all a crazy, senseless mistake.

Andrew hastily shoved the vial back into his pocket and rushed to Claire before she’d pieced words together into a coherent response. “God, I’m sorry.” He took her hands in his again, this time rubbing them as if to erase the memory of what he’d just offered. “I was trying—obviously in the most misguided,
idiotic
way—to distract you with a little party favor to take the edge off. And it was stupid. Mind-bogglingly stupid.”

The hair of his forearm felt like tiny sparks along Claire’s skin, and she retracted her hands.

“An old friend from Aspen, he dropped by and left it. I shouldn’t have even—Forgive me? Please?”

With her edges frayed and about to unravel, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest and studied the crown molding through a haze of bewildering sensations.

“Let’s start over—erase the last ten minutes.” Tentatively, he wiped a smear of berry lipstick from just below her lip with his finger and turned her chin in his direction. “Please,” he reiterated solemnly. “I’m an idiot, but you’re extraordinary. Luminous. From the moment I saw you at the restaurant, I was bewitched.”

Her shoulders descended an inch while her feet prepared to bolt.

“You’re such a captivating, intelligent woman. And I’m fascinated by this buttoned-up sexiness you have about you. And that inner luster . . . I hope you know how attractive you are, Claire.” He appeared to be replaying the memory of that evening in his mind with a zeal Claire was all too familiar with. “But”—he abruptly broke from his reverie and looked around the room—“you’re living in a cage,” he said. He stared squarely into her puzzled expression.

“What?” She felt her equilibrium ricochet like a pinball.

“It’s a beautiful cage, no doubt. But let’s be honest here. It could use a little . . . rattling, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes were suddenly as penetrating and entrancing as the Spaniard’s, his voice magnetic and certain. And Claire felt equal parts panicked and spellbound—panicked that she subconsciously might have been looking for a little disaster
and
that he could actually see this in her—and no less gripped by the force field that seemed to have enveloped them. She tried to back away, but tripped in the process. Andrew caught her shoulder and helped her regain her balance. He led her back toward the table and handed her the scotch.

She took a long drink, buying time. Her hand shook, the ice in the glass clattering as she tried to pull herself together. What else had he seen inside of her, she wondered? What did he know that she didn’t? “Tell me . . . um . . . more about the software,” she barely managed between more sips.

“Why don’t we just relax for a minute?” He pointed toward the couch. A gust of wind kicked up outside and sent a faint whistle through the fireplace behind them. Neither of them moved.

Claire felt his gaze boring into her. “You know, I’m not comfortable with this,” she said, finally finding her voice and setting down the empty glass. “I should never have called, and I think it would be best if you—”

Andrew stepped in closer to her. “I’m very glad you did call,” he said before she could finish. “And, truly, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sorry for that. I came here for
you,
Claire.” There was a hunger underlying the contrition in his voice. “Because you asked me to.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Because I wanted to see you, to be with you again.”

He was just inches from her and she could smell him, too—the scent of his soap and urgency, and some intoxicating quality that hindered her reason. It was a familiar, ambrosial essence that brought her back to a time when everything had seemed exciting and hopeful. She breathed it in, wanting him gone just as much as she didn’t.

Just then, Andrew’s cell phone breached the intense silence, startling them both. He checked his BlackBerry, looking distressed that the moment had been interrupted. And equally resolute that it would be continued. “I apologize,” he said. “It’s work and I unfortunately need to take this. Is there somewhere I could have just a minute?”

“There’s the guest room.” The words seemed to come from someone else as she indicated the doorway in the hall, instead of telling him to take the call in his car and leave. She watched him look back at her as he walked toward the door, his confidence and obvious desire for her rendering her paralyzed. She knew she should stop him and tell him to go, but she just stood there. Things like this did not happen to people like her. And yet. It was lopsided origami everywhere.

When she was finally able to unglue herself, Claire began to pace the long gallery-lit hallway outside the guest bedroom, punctuating her thoughts with the odd articulated word, and fighting to banish images of Michael and Nicholas. She stopped in front of a large oil painting by a still unknown modernist—the painting she’d wanted to show Andrew.

Lightly tracing the raised ochre curves of the nudes on the canvas, she listened to Andrew’s muted voice as she tried to re-summon her strength. Turning away from the painting, she slid down the wall to the floor, still wanting and knowing that she shouldn’t.

 

“This was a mistake,” Claire said as she pushed open the bedroom door, “and you need to go.” She squeezed the doorknob with one hand, and rubbed at her temple with the other. Her pulse hammered into her knuckles. “Please.”

Andrew was just placing his phone into his pocket. “Claire,” he said, moving toward her. “You can’t tell me that’s what you really want. You don’t want me to leave now.” He grasped her biceps. “I don’t want to go,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Her arms dropped to her sides. They stood hip to hip and she felt the energy between them again, and sensed her fragile control slipping. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

“Shh.” He placed his fingers on her lips. “It’s okay. Don’t think so hard.” His mouth grazed her earlobe and dotted a path down her shoulders.

“No.” She didn’t move.

He kissed the side of her neck. Her skin prickled as he circled around to her throat, his breath hot and then cold on her. She pulled away from him, and the unsettling sensation that had flooded her evaporated. There was a dreamlike instant of quiet in her head, a cessation of thought. She took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth deeply until it was no longer a kiss and they were devouring each other’s lips and tongues. Andrew tugged her head back by the nape of her hair and caressed the hollow at the base of her neck. Then, winding her arms around his back, she yanked his shirt from his pants and ran her nails up the curve of his spine. Their clothing left a haphazard trail as they stumbled from the door to the bed.

Andrew laid her down and cupped her right breast in his hand and stroked her nipple, softly at first and then pinching it until Claire felt the reverberations between her thighs. She arched her head back and moaned as he flicked his tongue over her other nipple. It was a raw nerve, hard as a pebble. As she watched his face move rhythmically down her stomach, he whispered what he planned to do to each inch of her, what he had imagined doing since the night they’d met. “Do you want more?” he asked with a soul-seizing fervor that Michael had never displayed in their composed and quiet lovemaking.

“Yes,” she panted.

Andrew leisurely alternated between her breasts and the small of her stomach, teasing open her thighs with his fingertips each time his mouth dipped to her belly button. She felt heat between her legs and a sudden, scorching desire for him to plunge his fingers inside her. As he caressed her nipples again, she reached down and his hand met hers. “Do you want me to touch you, Claire?” he asked, running his fingertips up the insides of her thighs.