Perfect Strangers

He’s even more handsome than I remember.

It’s probably the combined effect of candlelight and the hazy glow of sex hormones being produced en masse by the cluster of simpering females surrounding him, but the man is positively stunning.

Standing beside a grand piano in a corner of the elegant salon, James is all in black. Black dress shirt open at the collar, black slacks, black leather shoes that I can tell from where I’m standing cost more than the gross domestic product of Guam.

Conversing with his admirers, he appears neither happy nor at ease. In fact, he looks like a cornered wolf.

Interesting.

Then he glances up, catches me watching him, and falls still.

I’d look away, but I’m frozen. Pinned in place. Turned to stone by that same jolt of electricity that crackled through me at the café when he looked into my eyes.

No, not stone.

Molten lava.

Heat rises in a wave from my chest to my neck, then engulfs my face. I stand there, ears burning, heart pounding, until the connection becomes unbearable, and I tear my gaze away.

The relief is instant.

I vow to myself I’ll never look his way again.

“Ah, there you are! Welcome, my dear, welcome!”NôvelDrama.Org (C) content.

A beaming Edmond appears beside me and proceeds to kiss my hand. Then he bends his head close and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. “You look très magnifique in that gown. Half the men in this room are probably in love with you already.”

The gown in question is the only dress I brought with me, a body-skimming number in sapphire blue chiffon that manages the miracle of complementing both my complexion and my figure. I brought it on impulse, thinking maybe I’d wear it to the opera or such, but as the rest of my clothing consists of jeans, T-shirts, and comfortable shoes, I figured this was as good an occasion as any.

“Thank you. I thought I’d be overdressed, but I can see I was wrong.”

The salon is filled with people who obviously attend the fashion week couture shows. I’ve never seen such glamour in my life. You’d think we were about to receive the Queen of England. Even Edmond is dressed to the nines in an exquisite navy suit with a robin’s-egg blue silk tie and matching pocket square. His patent leather loafers are so shiny they’re blinding me.

“That’s the guest of honor over there by the piano, but he’s surrounded at the moment so let me introduce you around. Come.”

Edmond takes my elbow and leads me forward into the crowd. I feel like a cow being led to slaughter.

As luck would have it, the first person I’m introduced to is the nubile blonde with the firm tits and lungs like Pavarotti’s. Even clothed and upright, she’s instantly recognizable as the screamer across the way from Estelle’s.

“Mademoiselle Gigi, please meet mademoiselle Olivia.” Edmond adds proudly, “Olivia is a writer.”

I murmur an alarmed hello as Gigi throws her arms wide and lunges at me, lips pursed. She grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a hearty kiss on both cheeks, then holds me at arms’ length, grinning like a lunatic.

Her breasts are even more impressive up close.

“Bonsoir, Olivia!” she shouts. “I am so pleased to meet you!”

It’s drugs. It’s got to be.

She turns her head and hollers over her shoulder, “Gaspard! Venez ici!”

A man in conversation with a few others halfway across the room turns and looks our way. He’s tall and slim, dressed in a lovely dark suit, and walks with a slight hitch in his gait that I can only assume is due to his chapped, dehydrated, and overworked penis.

It’s Gigi’s partner. The cause of all her caterwauling.

The grunter.

Smiling in a friendly way, Gaspard stops in front of me and extends his hand. He says something incomprehensible because it’s in French.

I take his outstretched hand and try not to feel like I’m in one of those terrible sitcoms, the ones with the canned laugh tracks starring the kind of bumbling idiot who would be in jail in real life.

“Bonsoir, Gaspard. Nice to meet you.” I know how you sound when you come.

Either Gaspard doesn’t speak English or he’s the type of Frenchman who does but wouldn’t admit it on pain of death, because he answers back in French, still smiling his pleasant smile while openly ogling my cleavage.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”

In response, Edmond, Gigi, and Gaspard launch into an animated conversation in—you guessed it—French.

Gaspard still has not released my hand.

“Lovely to meet you both,” I tell Gigi, extracting my hand from Gaspard’s clammy grip and edging away, “and now I’m going to get a drink.”

I turn and make a beeline for the bar set up on the opposite side of the room, hoping Edmond isn’t scurrying along behind me because I might be forced to kick out at him like a frightened horse.

Not even five minutes in and I’m already panicking.

“Bourbon,” I tell the bartender when I arrive, breathless from my short sprint.

I really should start exercising, but unfortunately I only enjoy physical activities that can be done lying down.

The bartender is a young woman with beautiful skin and an elegant neck who doesn’t bat an eyelash when I down the bourbon she’s poured me in one go and demand another. She might be the only person in this room I could like.

Then beside me appears a tall form dressed all in black, and I wonder what I did in a previous life to make God hate me so much.

“I’ll have whatever the lady’s having,” says James to the bartender, tilting his head my way.

Not sure if she’s got any extra mental breakdowns lying around, but knock yourself out.

She pours him his drink, then turns her attention to a couple who’ve just walked up, leaving James and me standing there in silence facing the wall with our drinks in our hands.

He smells delicious.

I hadn’t noticed that at the café. Most likely because all my other senses were too scrambled from looking at him to function properly. But now I’ve got his scent in my nose, and it’s just as delicious as the rest of him. The only sensible thing to do is chug the rest of my bourbon, which will sear his smell right out of my nostrils, so I do.

“Hello,” he says after a while, not looking at me.

I debate on a dozen different responses—including bolting from the room—before settling on a reasonably calm sounding, “Hi.”

I couldn’t even manage the two syllables that would be required for hello. This person is not healthy for me to be around.

But I’m a grownup who’s been through much tougher shit than standing beside an attractive man, so after a quick mental pep talk, I speak to Mr. Delicious again.

“So apparently you really are an artist.”

A hint of laughter warms his voice. “Apparently.”

“I hear you’re very talented.”

He turns his head and looks at me. It feels like standing in the sun.

“Are you a fan of the arts?”

“No. Well, yes. I mean, sort of. It depends. Some arts more than others. Cinema. Music. Literature. Those I like. But I don’t know anything about art art. Like you do. Drawing and painting and such.”

He’s silent for a moment, probably wondering just how far advanced my brain cancer is. Then he says, “You don’t like me.”

I finish the rest of my bourbon and set the glass carefully down on the bar. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. That full body cringe of yours is doing the job pretty well.”

“That’s not dislike.”

It’s out before I can retract it, hanging there as dangerous and raw as an open wound.

“No?” says James quietly. “What is it, then?”

Shit. “I…don’t enjoy parties.”

“Hmm. So your obvious discomfort now and at the café yesterday has nothing to do with me.”

He sounds unconvinced. I really hate it when people are too observant. And by “people” I mean men. Why is he just standing there, looking at me?

Seeing me?

I say drily, “You are inconveniently perceptive.”

“I can pretend to be stupid if it will get you to look at me.”

I think about it, aware that I’ve made myself a vow to never again look his way, and also aware of the growing urge to do so. With his lovely smell in my nose and the rich timbre of his voice in my ears, my resolve is quickly crumbling. But I can’t give in without setting some boundaries.

“I’ll look at you if you promise not to ask to draw me or say anything weird about my eyes.”

“Deal,” he says promptly.

That was too easy. “And maybe try to dial down that stare of yours a few thousand notches.”

“Stare? I don’t have a stare.”

“You definitely do.”

His voice drops an octave. “If I do, it’s only because you’re such a pleasure to look at.”

“Ha! Flattery will get you nowhere, Romeo. I’m immune.”

I had to go with sarcasm so he didn’t notice the little shiver that went through me at his words, how all the hairs on my arms stood on end.

I’m in danger here. Serious, imminent danger of being charmed senseless by a handsome artist who arouses in me the dueling urges to run away screaming or strip naked and fling myself onto his torso and cling there like a crab.

My mind takes the opportunity to present me with a Technicolor memory of the fantasy I conjured up of him while masturbating. The fantasy of him fucking me like a champ and slapping my ass.

“Bartender! Another bourbon, please!”

She returns and fills my glass again without giving me a reproachful look that I’ve ordered three drinks in as many minutes, bless her.

When she drifts away, James and I lapse into silence again, but this time he’s staring at my profile, and I’m wishing I had something to fan myself with.

When I don’t turn to look at him, he gently chides, “C’mon. You can do it. I promise I don’t bite.”

“Sure. That’s what all biters say.”

“Really? You know many biters?”

“Oh yeah. I’m kind of a biter magnet, to be honest.”

“How interesting. Do you work at a kennel?”

“Worse.” In publishing, where the piranha are only outnumbered by the sharks.

“If I guess your job right, will you look at me?”

“You’ll never guess. But go ahead.”

“You’re a writer.”

I whip my head around so quickly to stare at him I’m surprised my neck doesn’t break.

“There you are,” he says, smiling into my eyes.

Jesus, yes, here I am, all ten thousand degrees of me. My veins have begun conducting fire. “How did you know I’m a writer?”

“I heard Edmond introduce you to Gigi.”

“Heard? You were across the room. Talking with other people.”

“Yes, but I was paying attention to you, looking like you’d wandered into the seventh circle of hell, wearing this dress that nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Speaking of heart attacks, I’m having one. I can’t think of anything to say, so I simply stare into the endless blue depths of his eyes and hope he can’t see the smoke rising up in curls from my skin.

After a long, blistering moment, he murmurs, “Tell me I’m not the only one standing here feeling like I just stuck my finger into an electrical outlet.”

I say faintly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He exhales slowly, his jaw working, his gaze locked onto mine with such force he could pick me up and pin me against the wall with it.

“If you want me to leave you alone, I will. I don’t want to bother you—”

“You’re not bothering me,” I blurt. “You’re bothering me.”

When he moistens his lips, I almost collapse. Thankfully, Edmond arrives to rescue me.

“My dear! You’ve met James! Wonderful, wonderful!”

I don’t know why he’s so excited about it, but he’s practically levitating at the discovery that James and I are already acquainted. Perhaps he senses all my invisible fault lines and assumes the blue-eyed stallion who is so “popular with the ladies” will help shore them up.

I’m telling you, single women of a certain age make people jumpy.

“Yes, we’ve met,” says James. “In fact, this isn’t the first time.”

“Oh?” Edmond’s ears perk up. He looks back and forth between us with open curiosity while James continues to gaze steadily at me, a faint smile playing around his lips.

Time to finish my drink.

“Yes. I saw her at Café Blanc yesterday and asked permission to draw her portrait.”

Edmond’s gasp is low and thrilled. He turns to me with his hands clasped to his chest, as if in prayer. “Oh, you must sit for him, my dear. You must. James is an incredible artist. Just incredible. It’s quite an honor to be asked to sit for him. Quite an honor, to be sure.”

His habit of repeating himself with more emphasis the second time is really starting to grate on my nerves. But I suppose I’m guilty of that with my crushingly awkward admission that James wasn’t bothering me, he was bothering me, so I really don’t have a leg to stand on.

I offer Edmond a pinched smile. “I’m sure he can find a much more interesting subject than me.”

“No,” Edmond replies solemnly. “You’re perfect. It’s in the eyes. They’re very arresting, if I may say so. Almost…” His gaze turns pensive as he looks at my face.

If he says “haunted” I’ll strangle him with his necktie.

I turn to James. “You didn’t ask permission.”

He lifts his brows.

Maybe my tone was a bit too tart. “What I meant is that you said you’d love to draw me. You didn’t ask if you could.”

“Is that why you ran away? Because I didn’t ask?”

He knows full well why I ran away. It’s written all over his face. In the knowing heat in his eyes. In the way he’s moistening his full lips again and good God why does he keep doing that?

Sweat breaks out along my hairline. My heart beats uncomfortably fast. I have the painful sensation of being a peeled grape, stripped of my skin, everything raw and achingly tender. Even the air hurts as I breathe it into my lungs.

But I refuse to be like those women clustered around him at the piano. The school of desperate minnows vying for his attention and longing for his smile.

I say, “The thought of someone immortalizing my likeness for generations of people to stare at long after I’m dead is about as attractive to me as contracting the Ebola virus.”

He says, “I’m guessing you’re not a big fan of selfies, then.”

“I’d rather be shot than post a picture of myself on the internet.”

“That flair for exaggeration must serve you well as a writer.”

“I’m not exaggerating.”

“Like you weren’t lying yesterday when you told me you were waiting for someone?”

His tone is neutral, but he’s pushing me. Challenging me. Scaling that wall I keep trying to build between us to keep him at a safe distance. Why is he doing that when he could have, with a snap of his fingers, any one of a dozen willing women in the room?

We stare at each other, unsmiling. My heartbeat pulses in the palms of my hands.

It’s Edmond who finally breaks the tension. “Perhaps you’d like to see his work before you decide if you want to sit for him?”

I’ve already decided I won’t sit for him, but this seems like a good opportunity to escape the tractor beam of James’s gaze, so I allow myself to be led across the room by the elbow by Edmond, who wouldn’t keep doing that if he knew how much it makes me want to trip him.

Then we’re standing in front of a row of easels lined up against the windows of the salon, and I temporarily lose the ability to breathe.

Edmond was right: James is incredibly talented.

The six portraits I’m looking at are done in pen and ink with such meticulous and lifelike detail they appear to be photographs instead of drawings. Each is of a woman from the shoulders up. The subjects are all facing forward. The backgrounds are left blank, which emphasizes the startlingly realistic quality of the faces and also adds an eerie three-dimensional quality.

And my God, their eyes.

I’ve never seen human misery so perfectly depicted.

What’s that cliché? A picture is worth a thousand words? Well, it’s inaccurate. I could write a million words and never come close to capturing the emotion I’m seeing here. The suffering I’m seeing. The black, bottomless pain.

In a hushed voice, Edmond says, “The collection is titled Perspectives of Grief.”

Like a key fitting into a lock, I understand why James is drawn to me. And why he would be moved to create these particular drawings of these particular people, their anguish so raw I can almost reach out and touch it.

Birds of a feather flock together, as my mother used to say. Water seeks its own level, and like attracts like.

Death has touched him, too.

I turn and look at him, standing where I left him at the bar. He’s looking back at me, of course.

His gaze is snapping white heat. Shimmering intensity. Velvet blue darkness.

I know we’ll be lovers the same way I knew as a young girl that someday I’d put pen to paper and write stories for others to read. The same way I knew my marriage would collapse under the weight of grief. The same way I knew, sitting on the cold front pew in St. Monica’s church gazing at my daughter’s small white casket, that I would never be whole again.

Our bones have a wisdom that our hearts will always follow, regardless of the roads down which our rational minds think we should head.

“Edmond.”

“Oui?”

“Please tell James I’d love to sit for a portrait.”

I turn and make my way from the room.