Once and Again
First all, I wanted thank everyone who reviewed my last story, Confessions Of a double agent. Your enthusiasm has touched me deeply. I'm no good with this kind of speechs so, i will leave as it. I hope you like this one too. Oh, and I'm keeping to write SOP, but I like diversions, since when I'm so slow and all. This will be short AU.
Happy Reading !
Smiling Sky
**********+
Michael Samuelle knotted his necktie before the mirror with economic, quick movements.
His Armani black suit, coordinated with a pale grey shirt, made him look more similar to a refined businessman rather than the painter he was.
But on this matter, as on many other regarding this man, existed contrasting opinions: some people sustained his habit of dressing in dark colors was becoming to his image of a brooding artist, some other interpreted it as instrumental to stick out in the crowd, a sign of his superb nature.
Michael didn't particularly love neckties -nor did he particularly despise them, to say the truth- and giving himself a last glance, he discarded his rapidly, leaving it on the shelf. He saw no need to be exceedingly formal for his first official show in Ontario.
He unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt, then fixed his watch. He didn't contemplate in the mirror the final result, being by no means a vain man. He was always aware of his good looks, and although he was mostly indifferent to them, he knew they were certainly a commodity, and allowed him to spare efforts to seem elegant.
He had learned to paint when he was four, and his mother kept him on her knees and guided his little hands on the canvas, teaching him to love the smell of colors, the magic behind them. He wasn't, anyways, always sure this was all what he wanted do with his life; when he was younger he had excelled in anything he did and had been encouraged to '' keep his open mind to other options '', as his father called it. It had taken time for him to see that painting was more than displaying a perfect technique: it was expressing your knowledge of the world through symbols, facing your inner demons and dissecting for simple experiment. Painting was an endless quest inside yourself and inside those around you. Nothing, absolutely nothing could be more challenging than that.
Often he imagined it would be perfect if he could become a machine for painting: no necessity for eating, no need for sleeping, no other need except the one for colors and brushes. But then he would lose the third eye of the artist.
At 32 years of age, he was lucky to consolidate his position with a show frame organized at the St Lawrence Hall. The salon was the principal local space dedicated to society life and culture during the second half of '800 and now was utilized mostly for public and private parties; if it was chosen as see, it was to confirm the importance of this exposition.
While Michael wasn't the only author hosted, it was true that he was certainly the principal one.
But it wasn't the art beginning to create the pitch in his stomach. Public apparitions didn't bother him and he wasn't worried about critics about his work, whose presence he had already put on account.
He would favor getting out by himself from the exclusive quarter where his hotel was localized and find the St Lawrence Hall for courtesy of his sense of orientation. Instead though, the group organizing the exposition had insisted to make him have a companion.
'' This woman is more than a driver. She has familiarity with how media work and knows all the local journalists. You will be glad to have a filter person like Nikita Wirth ''- they told him.
What none of them knew was that he had already met Nikita Wirth.
It was years ago, when they were both young university students in Montréal, and it wasn't a simple acquaintance, far more than that.
They had been lovers.
She had been the first woman he had truly loved, and every one coming after her had lost against her ghost or, like he came to admit more willingly with time, against the idealized image left in his mind when his anger at her had worn off.
He would have the chance of requiring a substitution, and he would have gotten it if René Dian, his oldest and dearest friend, had not flaunted in his face how little of sense this decision made. After all these years, it was foolish evading her presence in a time when he could use it.
He could meet her, see with his own eyes that Nikita didn't mean anything anymore for him, but a fleeting and sweet memory of the past.
Or resign himself to live with René 's, certain and constant, reminders of his cowardice.
It didn't matter whether she had left him without a word after their last fight, without letting him know that it was the last time he ever saw her, why he had wondered for months why she had not returned after the spring break, why she had changed University, why she had not informed him personally of her moving.
It didn't matter whether he had only two passions in his life: painting and Her.
In the long run this is all Nikita had been: a passion. A passion of the past.
It has been in the past for too long for him to actually feel anything but a faint discomfort and curiosity at seeing her again.
Michael sighed, ready to leave his room, dismissing any feelings of anticipation he felt for what was to come.
* As He got past the hotel's doors a woman came close to him '' Mr. Samuelle? ''
She wore a cocktail black dress, simple but with an elegant cut and seemingly very expensive.
Her blonde hair was long, falling on her shoulders and framing her still very beautiful face, creating a golden halo of light around her figure, contrasting with the black of her dress and the peach color of her skin. It was very different from the short cut she exhibited in his memories, the one she loved because it was so easy to fix.
'' You must be Miss Wirth '' He acknowledged, playing along.
She extended him a perfectly manicured hand, and her fingernails were polished of a pearly shade.
'' Nikita ''
'' Call me Michael ''
As they shook hands her lips, red as mature fruit, smiled friendly and he half-smiled back at her.
'' I hope your room was satisfying. ''
'' There were even a basket of fruit and a champagne bottle. The staff was very forth coming. ''
Michael offered, matter-of-factly.
'' They are famous for this.''
She smiled again at him. Her smiles weren't embarrassed or shy, but not seductive either. They were as enigmatic as Mona Lisa's smile.
A glance had sufficed him to establish that this wasn't the Nikita he once knew: that girl had looked innocent, untouched, yet literally humming with sex and life.
This Nikita was an adult woman and every thing in her showed self-awareness and a subtle, sensual maturity.
She inclined her head, alluding at the car waiting by the end of the arbour, hardly visible from where they were. The movement was a familiar note in new melody.
The car was already prepared by the usher, a boy covered with freckles. Nikita handed him the tip with elegant doing, and the boy blushed visibly, grinning like an idiot as he took the money. The usher recommended her prudence in the traffic, his voice a hitch higher and squishier than necessary. This obviousness bemused him and Michael was caught by the unexpected and childish fantasy of resting his hand on her side, possessively, just to spite him.
While Nikita controlled the traffic before getting in the street, he had the occasion of observing her profile without being noticed by her. She looked relaxed.
'' Will we keep pretending we don't know each other ? ''
He asked her, careful of not sounding resentful or disappointed, only amused.
'' In many ways we don't. It's been 10 years. ''
She answered humorously.
It wasn't a real answer. Or was it?
She stopped at red traffic-lights and turned to look directly at him. When their eyes met he understood she was as uncertain as he was about the attitude to assume. It made him more comfortable with the situation.
'' What time was it when you arrived in Ontario ? ''
'' Two o' clock ''
'' Good, you had time to relax then. ''
'' Yes ''
Nikita got the impression that, although he wasn't amenable to work for making the situation less awkward, Michael wasn't contrary to any attempts from her side. Perhaps it was a good idea taking on this assignment herself, after all, and not the latest proof of her being a glutton for punishment. Seeing him again was strange, but not painful as she thought it would be.
It was rather the kind of strange which provoked alternating knots and butterflies in her tummy.
The traffic-lights morphed to green, and when she lifted her foot from the brake to press the accelerator the hem of her dress unveiled a quarter of her knee. Michael wasn't aware of his attention being drawn to it until the sound of her voice didn't force him to move quickly his gaze to her face.
'' If you are thirsty, in the fridge bar behind me there are soft drinks and water bottles. ''
He declined politely, hoping his defiance really had been lost to her as it appeared. The alternative was too humiliating to contemplate.
'' I was told that I would have to prepare you for a big event tonight. I will introduce you to the reporters of the important headings, but you must not let them monopolize your time. When you get tired of answering their questions, you'll make a signal and I'll excuse you to lead you to somebody else. This way I'll be the one to play the bad guy. Same goes for potential buyers. Probably, a good number of both connoisseurs and critics will be present but, they tend to be the most impressed if artist isn't paying them more attention than it's due. ''
'' It isn't going be a problem ''
Usually all that was required from him in these occasions was shaking hands and exchanging few words with the interlocutor of turn, so he had not expected this show to be very different. Michael wasn't completely sure that it wasn't all an exaggeration. He was rather reluctant to believe that his public debut required so much bother, since the most difficult part was supposed be conquesting a spotlight in a universe where anybody could claim the right to be acknowledged. The rest, in his opinion, was a matter of talent, not of image.
'' I' m sure it won't be, Michael ''
Hearing his name pronounced again by her, her throaty voice wrapping gently around the syllables, stirred awake something inside him and he didn't like it. Nikita felt stupid for feeling nothing at all about taking a such common liberty, but at the same time. she found she liked saying his name. * Michael was forced to come back on his assessment of the evening, before he even put his foot inside the St. Lawrence Hall, four reporters blocked their way and began to frantically ask him questions. His earnest shock was expertly covered by Nikita, who took his arm and explained firmly they were late, without stopping to lead him.
Just enough distance was put between them and their followers, he felt her pressing his elbow against her breast, and whisper in his ear: '' Only those who got a special pass can enter. Other press employers who try and stop us before, you can ignore. ''
'' Fine '' he nodded, finally realizing her usefulness. Nikita kept smiling graciously as she escorted him inside the Hall, her fingers still lightly curled around his elbow. Michael could almost believe that she was aware of his recent realization, and was quietly enjoying her vantage over him.
At their ingress, he expressed his appreciation of the new renaissance style of the Hall, and she took the time to entertain him with some historical information linked at the place. He was glad to have her with him, not just because she was good at her job, but because he enjoyed her company, in spite of his determination to not.
One of the two painters sharing the show with Michael, Jonathan Health, was the first to cross them. He was an old eccentric man, and his appearance usually so gruff and graceless that most people wouldn't have looked at him twice if his pictures didn't reflect a genius greater than his hostility toward anybody who contradicted him.
But this time the man looked fully out character: distinguishably tailored, he walked through the Hall with a young beautiful woman at his arm, all smiles as he met various guests.
The lady at his side had be at least partly responsible for his kindness: she was in her early twenties, Asian, with raven hair elaborately styled to be piled on her head and left many tendrils falling down, a lithe figure wrapped in a cloud of exotic perfume and in a yellow silk frock, whose gown reached her ankles.
Health even smiled at the younger colleague in very apparent good mood and complimented him with numerous but flowery words. The object of his courtesy was genuinely disconcerted by that brusque change of hearth, and was somewhat reassured learning that Nikita was well acquainted with both the painter and his companion.
Once they were alone again, Michael asked Nikita if the lady worked for her Agency.
Nikita looked at him speculatively '' How did you understand it? ''
'' She has looked at you like as if asking for your approval''
'' I didn't notice. Jasmine is new, but knows what she's doing. She's a fast learner. ''
A moment of silence stretched between them, then Nikita surprised Michael looking directly at her.
In past this scene had repeated itself countless times, and often she had wondered if he knew the effect of his focused gaze on her. Someway, his eyes had the power of dominating completely her attention, cancelling the impact of any other sensation on her mind.
'' You could have sent her in your place ''
She didn't catch his meaning at first, amazed at her unwillingness to look away: What was he thinking?
'' Would you prefer so? ''
'' I thought perhaps you would. ''
She looked away. Certainly, if Jasmine was there and she was there, accompanying one or the other of her clients was purely her choice. She couldn't reply to that. Nor did she feel like adding that after 10 years of avoiding him did it make sense.
'' No ''
Nikita bothered to look up at him as she said it, but the potential moment was broken by the intervention of an appraiser.
No other figment of personal conversation had taken place for the remainder of the evening. *
When they left the Hall, Nikita attributed Michael's prolonged silence to fatigue. As they approached the parking lot, the attendant directed them to the car. For his part, Michael was just glad that their departure had spared him further contact with the crowd.
Nikita handed the parking man a five-dollar bill and a smouldering smile before joining him in the car. She gave Michael a cursory glance before stating, ''It went all right. ''
''Yes.''
Nikita eyed him wondering if she should express her congratulations but dismissed the idea because it looked as if her offering would not be welcome. She limited herself to asking if he wanted something to drink.
''Is there somebody waiting for you at home? ''
This was unexpected and a low blow. Nikita's stomach lurched but she turned to him only when they reached the stop.
"Why?'
''I was thinking that I have not eaten anything. I would enjoy some company for dinner if you don't mind and it is not an imposition''
Even if she had no reason to stay, Michael hoped she would. There were many things he wanted, needed to ask her before letting her go.
Without checking her watch, she knew it was late. She could easily come up with an excuse, accompany him to the hotel and put an end to this uneventful and tense evening, even though it wasn't the normal approach she used with her clients. After all, he certainly couldn't be classified as an ordinary client. Accepting would be awkward but then why had he invited her in the first place?
''It is not an imposition and, after all, it's part of my work to put my client at ease. ''
If she had not accompanied her words in a singsong voice, he would have thought she felt obligated.
Nikita then offered that she had an idea about where to go if he had no specific place in mind.
Michael nodded and she started to describe a nice Italian restaurant where they cooked only wonderful Sicilian rustic dishes and a perfect Sicilian pizza, which was not what one would classify as the 'usual pizza'.
He admired her ability to sustain a conversation dangerously like a monologue but all the while managing to give him the feeling of taking an active part. This was only one of her traits that Michael remembered.
There were those, he included, who thought sex wasn't important in a relationship and that friendship and getting along was what made it last years. But at the same time, he looked at her, this woman talking to him, and knew that was a lie. He remembered the soft violence of their passion, his ravenous need for her touch, and the friction provoked by their joined bodies. He remembered the impatient roughness of the caresses they exchanged, how he craved the taste of her, how their hunger never seemed to cease, and how he had been so sure it was the same for her.
The first time he had seen her, she was only Rene's 'girlfriend of the month'. She had lasted longer than that actually, longer than any of the others. He supposed it was because she hadn't been easy to bed or because she was so full of enthusiasm and of contrasts: vulnerable and wilful, cynical yet naive.
He had noticed her only because she was constantly around his circle of friends and because she was breathtakingly gorgeous.
From the first look, he had wanted to paint her. He had liked everything about her: the length of her legs, the colour of her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the light of her hair, the quickness of her mind and vibrancy of her soul. He remembered the expression of her face when he had explained to her why and how he wanted to portray her. When they had drifted together, everybody had known it would happen, everyone but them.
First all, I wanted thank everyone who reviewed my last story, Confessions Of a double agent. Your enthusiasm has touched me deeply. I'm no good with this kind of speechs so, i will leave as it. I hope you like this one too. Oh, and I'm keeping to write SOP, but I like diversions, since when I'm so slow and all. This will be short AU.
Happy Reading !
Smiling Sky
**********+
Michael Samuelle knotted his necktie before the mirror with economic, quick movements.
His Armani black suit, coordinated with a pale grey shirt, made him look more similar to a refined businessman rather than the painter he was.
But on this matter, as on many other regarding this man, existed contrasting opinions: some people sustained his habit of dressing in dark colors was becoming to his image of a brooding artist, some other interpreted it as instrumental to stick out in the crowd, a sign of his superb nature.
Michael didn't particularly love neckties -nor did he particularly despise them, to say the truth- and giving himself a last glance, he discarded his rapidly, leaving it on the shelf. He saw no need to be exceedingly formal for his first official show in Ontario.
He unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt, then fixed his watch. He didn't contemplate in the mirror the final result, being by no means a vain man. He was always aware of his good looks, and although he was mostly indifferent to them, he knew they were certainly a commodity, and allowed him to spare efforts to seem elegant.
He had learned to paint when he was four, and his mother kept him on her knees and guided his little hands on the canvas, teaching him to love the smell of colors, the magic behind them. He wasn't, anyways, always sure this was all what he wanted do with his life; when he was younger he had excelled in anything he did and had been encouraged to '' keep his open mind to other options '', as his father called it. It had taken time for him to see that painting was more than displaying a perfect technique: it was expressing your knowledge of the world through symbols, facing your inner demons and dissecting for simple experiment. Painting was an endless quest inside yourself and inside those around you. Nothing, absolutely nothing could be more challenging than that.
Often he imagined it would be perfect if he could become a machine for painting: no necessity for eating, no need for sleeping, no other need except the one for colors and brushes. But then he would lose the third eye of the artist.
At 32 years of age, he was lucky to consolidate his position with a show frame organized at the St Lawrence Hall. The salon was the principal local space dedicated to society life and culture during the second half of '800 and now was utilized mostly for public and private parties; if it was chosen as see, it was to confirm the importance of this exposition.
While Michael wasn't the only author hosted, it was true that he was certainly the principal one.
But it wasn't the art beginning to create the pitch in his stomach. Public apparitions didn't bother him and he wasn't worried about critics about his work, whose presence he had already put on account.
He would favor getting out by himself from the exclusive quarter where his hotel was localized and find the St Lawrence Hall for courtesy of his sense of orientation. Instead though, the group organizing the exposition had insisted to make him have a companion.
'' This woman is more than a driver. She has familiarity with how media work and knows all the local journalists. You will be glad to have a filter person like Nikita Wirth ''- they told him.
What none of them knew was that he had already met Nikita Wirth.
It was years ago, when they were both young university students in Montréal, and it wasn't a simple acquaintance, far more than that.
They had been lovers.
She had been the first woman he had truly loved, and every one coming after her had lost against her ghost or, like he came to admit more willingly with time, against the idealized image left in his mind when his anger at her had worn off.
He would have the chance of requiring a substitution, and he would have gotten it if René Dian, his oldest and dearest friend, had not flaunted in his face how little of sense this decision made. After all these years, it was foolish evading her presence in a time when he could use it.
He could meet her, see with his own eyes that Nikita didn't mean anything anymore for him, but a fleeting and sweet memory of the past.
Or resign himself to live with René 's, certain and constant, reminders of his cowardice.
It didn't matter whether she had left him without a word after their last fight, without letting him know that it was the last time he ever saw her, why he had wondered for months why she had not returned after the spring break, why she had changed University, why she had not informed him personally of her moving.
It didn't matter whether he had only two passions in his life: painting and Her.
In the long run this is all Nikita had been: a passion. A passion of the past.
It has been in the past for too long for him to actually feel anything but a faint discomfort and curiosity at seeing her again.
Michael sighed, ready to leave his room, dismissing any feelings of anticipation he felt for what was to come.
* As He got past the hotel's doors a woman came close to him '' Mr. Samuelle? ''
She wore a cocktail black dress, simple but with an elegant cut and seemingly very expensive.
Her blonde hair was long, falling on her shoulders and framing her still very beautiful face, creating a golden halo of light around her figure, contrasting with the black of her dress and the peach color of her skin. It was very different from the short cut she exhibited in his memories, the one she loved because it was so easy to fix.
'' You must be Miss Wirth '' He acknowledged, playing along.
She extended him a perfectly manicured hand, and her fingernails were polished of a pearly shade.
'' Nikita ''
'' Call me Michael ''
As they shook hands her lips, red as mature fruit, smiled friendly and he half-smiled back at her.
'' I hope your room was satisfying. ''
'' There were even a basket of fruit and a champagne bottle. The staff was very forth coming. ''
Michael offered, matter-of-factly.
'' They are famous for this.''
She smiled again at him. Her smiles weren't embarrassed or shy, but not seductive either. They were as enigmatic as Mona Lisa's smile.
A glance had sufficed him to establish that this wasn't the Nikita he once knew: that girl had looked innocent, untouched, yet literally humming with sex and life.
This Nikita was an adult woman and every thing in her showed self-awareness and a subtle, sensual maturity.
She inclined her head, alluding at the car waiting by the end of the arbour, hardly visible from where they were. The movement was a familiar note in new melody.
The car was already prepared by the usher, a boy covered with freckles. Nikita handed him the tip with elegant doing, and the boy blushed visibly, grinning like an idiot as he took the money. The usher recommended her prudence in the traffic, his voice a hitch higher and squishier than necessary. This obviousness bemused him and Michael was caught by the unexpected and childish fantasy of resting his hand on her side, possessively, just to spite him.
While Nikita controlled the traffic before getting in the street, he had the occasion of observing her profile without being noticed by her. She looked relaxed.
'' Will we keep pretending we don't know each other ? ''
He asked her, careful of not sounding resentful or disappointed, only amused.
'' In many ways we don't. It's been 10 years. ''
She answered humorously.
It wasn't a real answer. Or was it?
She stopped at red traffic-lights and turned to look directly at him. When their eyes met he understood she was as uncertain as he was about the attitude to assume. It made him more comfortable with the situation.
'' What time was it when you arrived in Ontario ? ''
'' Two o' clock ''
'' Good, you had time to relax then. ''
'' Yes ''
Nikita got the impression that, although he wasn't amenable to work for making the situation less awkward, Michael wasn't contrary to any attempts from her side. Perhaps it was a good idea taking on this assignment herself, after all, and not the latest proof of her being a glutton for punishment. Seeing him again was strange, but not painful as she thought it would be.
It was rather the kind of strange which provoked alternating knots and butterflies in her tummy.
The traffic-lights morphed to green, and when she lifted her foot from the brake to press the accelerator the hem of her dress unveiled a quarter of her knee. Michael wasn't aware of his attention being drawn to it until the sound of her voice didn't force him to move quickly his gaze to her face.
'' If you are thirsty, in the fridge bar behind me there are soft drinks and water bottles. ''
He declined politely, hoping his defiance really had been lost to her as it appeared. The alternative was too humiliating to contemplate.
'' I was told that I would have to prepare you for a big event tonight. I will introduce you to the reporters of the important headings, but you must not let them monopolize your time. When you get tired of answering their questions, you'll make a signal and I'll excuse you to lead you to somebody else. This way I'll be the one to play the bad guy. Same goes for potential buyers. Probably, a good number of both connoisseurs and critics will be present but, they tend to be the most impressed if artist isn't paying them more attention than it's due. ''
'' It isn't going be a problem ''
Usually all that was required from him in these occasions was shaking hands and exchanging few words with the interlocutor of turn, so he had not expected this show to be very different. Michael wasn't completely sure that it wasn't all an exaggeration. He was rather reluctant to believe that his public debut required so much bother, since the most difficult part was supposed be conquesting a spotlight in a universe where anybody could claim the right to be acknowledged. The rest, in his opinion, was a matter of talent, not of image.
'' I' m sure it won't be, Michael ''
Hearing his name pronounced again by her, her throaty voice wrapping gently around the syllables, stirred awake something inside him and he didn't like it. Nikita felt stupid for feeling nothing at all about taking a such common liberty, but at the same time. she found she liked saying his name. * Michael was forced to come back on his assessment of the evening, before he even put his foot inside the St. Lawrence Hall, four reporters blocked their way and began to frantically ask him questions. His earnest shock was expertly covered by Nikita, who took his arm and explained firmly they were late, without stopping to lead him.
Just enough distance was put between them and their followers, he felt her pressing his elbow against her breast, and whisper in his ear: '' Only those who got a special pass can enter. Other press employers who try and stop us before, you can ignore. ''
'' Fine '' he nodded, finally realizing her usefulness. Nikita kept smiling graciously as she escorted him inside the Hall, her fingers still lightly curled around his elbow. Michael could almost believe that she was aware of his recent realization, and was quietly enjoying her vantage over him.
At their ingress, he expressed his appreciation of the new renaissance style of the Hall, and she took the time to entertain him with some historical information linked at the place. He was glad to have her with him, not just because she was good at her job, but because he enjoyed her company, in spite of his determination to not.
One of the two painters sharing the show with Michael, Jonathan Health, was the first to cross them. He was an old eccentric man, and his appearance usually so gruff and graceless that most people wouldn't have looked at him twice if his pictures didn't reflect a genius greater than his hostility toward anybody who contradicted him.
But this time the man looked fully out character: distinguishably tailored, he walked through the Hall with a young beautiful woman at his arm, all smiles as he met various guests.
The lady at his side had be at least partly responsible for his kindness: she was in her early twenties, Asian, with raven hair elaborately styled to be piled on her head and left many tendrils falling down, a lithe figure wrapped in a cloud of exotic perfume and in a yellow silk frock, whose gown reached her ankles.
Health even smiled at the younger colleague in very apparent good mood and complimented him with numerous but flowery words. The object of his courtesy was genuinely disconcerted by that brusque change of hearth, and was somewhat reassured learning that Nikita was well acquainted with both the painter and his companion.
Once they were alone again, Michael asked Nikita if the lady worked for her Agency.
Nikita looked at him speculatively '' How did you understand it? ''
'' She has looked at you like as if asking for your approval''
'' I didn't notice. Jasmine is new, but knows what she's doing. She's a fast learner. ''
A moment of silence stretched between them, then Nikita surprised Michael looking directly at her.
In past this scene had repeated itself countless times, and often she had wondered if he knew the effect of his focused gaze on her. Someway, his eyes had the power of dominating completely her attention, cancelling the impact of any other sensation on her mind.
'' You could have sent her in your place ''
She didn't catch his meaning at first, amazed at her unwillingness to look away: What was he thinking?
'' Would you prefer so? ''
'' I thought perhaps you would. ''
She looked away. Certainly, if Jasmine was there and she was there, accompanying one or the other of her clients was purely her choice. She couldn't reply to that. Nor did she feel like adding that after 10 years of avoiding him did it make sense.
'' No ''
Nikita bothered to look up at him as she said it, but the potential moment was broken by the intervention of an appraiser.
No other figment of personal conversation had taken place for the remainder of the evening. *
When they left the Hall, Nikita attributed Michael's prolonged silence to fatigue. As they approached the parking lot, the attendant directed them to the car. For his part, Michael was just glad that their departure had spared him further contact with the crowd.
Nikita handed the parking man a five-dollar bill and a smouldering smile before joining him in the car. She gave Michael a cursory glance before stating, ''It went all right. ''
''Yes.''
Nikita eyed him wondering if she should express her congratulations but dismissed the idea because it looked as if her offering would not be welcome. She limited herself to asking if he wanted something to drink.
''Is there somebody waiting for you at home? ''
This was unexpected and a low blow. Nikita's stomach lurched but she turned to him only when they reached the stop.
"Why?'
''I was thinking that I have not eaten anything. I would enjoy some company for dinner if you don't mind and it is not an imposition''
Even if she had no reason to stay, Michael hoped she would. There were many things he wanted, needed to ask her before letting her go.
Without checking her watch, she knew it was late. She could easily come up with an excuse, accompany him to the hotel and put an end to this uneventful and tense evening, even though it wasn't the normal approach she used with her clients. After all, he certainly couldn't be classified as an ordinary client. Accepting would be awkward but then why had he invited her in the first place?
''It is not an imposition and, after all, it's part of my work to put my client at ease. ''
If she had not accompanied her words in a singsong voice, he would have thought she felt obligated.
Nikita then offered that she had an idea about where to go if he had no specific place in mind.
Michael nodded and she started to describe a nice Italian restaurant where they cooked only wonderful Sicilian rustic dishes and a perfect Sicilian pizza, which was not what one would classify as the 'usual pizza'.
He admired her ability to sustain a conversation dangerously like a monologue but all the while managing to give him the feeling of taking an active part. This was only one of her traits that Michael remembered.
There were those, he included, who thought sex wasn't important in a relationship and that friendship and getting along was what made it last years. But at the same time, he looked at her, this woman talking to him, and knew that was a lie. He remembered the soft violence of their passion, his ravenous need for her touch, and the friction provoked by their joined bodies. He remembered the impatient roughness of the caresses they exchanged, how he craved the taste of her, how their hunger never seemed to cease, and how he had been so sure it was the same for her.
The first time he had seen her, she was only Rene's 'girlfriend of the month'. She had lasted longer than that actually, longer than any of the others. He supposed it was because she hadn't been easy to bed or because she was so full of enthusiasm and of contrasts: vulnerable and wilful, cynical yet naive.
He had noticed her only because she was constantly around his circle of friends and because she was breathtakingly gorgeous.
From the first look, he had wanted to paint her. He had liked everything about her: the length of her legs, the colour of her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the light of her hair, the quickness of her mind and vibrancy of her soul. He remembered the expression of her face when he had explained to her why and how he wanted to portray her. When they had drifted together, everybody had known it would happen, everyone but them.