She noted his wounded pride. 'Well, just this once.' She put her wallet away.
He sighed his gratitude. 'That would have been really humiliating.' She smiled to show she understood. 'I haven't seen you in here before.'
'I haven't been in here before.'
'Well, figures.' He was floundering. 'What made You-?'
'I was out in the rain. I must have walked a long time. Then I felt thirsty and saw the glow and-' She shrugged. 'Guess I was looking for some kind of refuge.'
'Glad you chose Aspen. It's a friendly place. I know most of the regulars.' He hesitated, then took the plunge. 'Which is why I can honestly say you're the most attractive woman to drop in here in quite a while.'
She pondered his compliment before accepting it. She wanted him to know she could not be so easily won. Finally she smiled, a signal that she would allow him to warm her up. Encouraged, he set eagerly to work.
He did his job well, careful always to offer a personal revelation before soliciting one from her. Still, he was thorough. After half an hour he had touched upon all the appropriate questions.
He was a staff writer at Smart Money magazine. She told him she worked in publicity at Simon amp; Schuster.
He was from St. Louis and had gone to Dartmouth. She told him she was from Oakland and had attended Cal.
He was thirty-six, divorced, an excellent skier, an earnest tennis player, also interested in art. She told him she was twenty-six, had broken up two months before with a live-in boyfriend, belonged to a health club, and, as for tennis if they ever played he'd better watch out!
They discussed some of the concerns of people in their cohort: how difficult it was to live in the city with so much crime, homelessness and AIDS; how hard it was to meet nice people outside of work; the relative virtues and drawbacks of the alternate coast.
They oriented themselves by social-economic class (he was a child of the suburbs; she was brought up near a university where her father taught history); by personality type (he was gregarious; she thought of herself as more of a loner). Then they talked about their jobs.
He told her he'd been thinking about recycling as a TV correspondent.
But the truth was he believed in print.
She did, too, she said, which was the only reason she stayed in publishing, where the workload was heavy and the pay disgracefully low.
Still, she was thinking of moving on. There'd been some sexual harassment at her office. Subtle but unnerving, and, in its own way, insidious. In fact, the reason she'd gone out to walk in the rain that evening was to try to think through her options.
He turned compassionate. He knew exactly what she meant because he, too, had suffered something similar a couple of years back from a female superior.
'And it was insidious, because I knew if I complained I'd look like a total jerk. What could I say? That she made comments about my clothes, my build, told me I played ' major role' in her fantasies? I should have been flattered, right? Physically speaking, she was a fairly desirable woman. Under other circumstances I might have been interested. But not in the workplace. Not for me, anyway. There's a time and place for everything, don't you think? A place to work and a time to play… '
Gelsey picked up a half dozen signals from that little monologue. She made her eyes gleam so he would know she had caught them all.
He stared at her. There was a silence. They listened to a little burst of laughter from a table in the rear.
'Are you comfortable here?' he asked.
'Tell you the truth, there's too much smoke.'
'Well,' he said, 'I hope this doesn't sound pushy. But I was wondering-see, I practically live around the corner.'
This was it: the bar pickup end game. She stared at him, noncommittal.
She wanted to make him work for it.
He swallowed. 'Like I said, I don't want to sound pushy. But I've got an interesting idea.'
She leaned forward slightly. 'Tell me.'
He grinned to dispel any intimation of aggression. 'I was thinking we might mosey out of here, go over to my place and, you know, have a nightcap… or something.'
She reached across the table, took hold of both his hands, lightly played her fingers along his wrists. 'Is that all you had in mind?'
He tried not to show too much excitement. 'Well, that would be up to you,' he said carefully.
She met his gaze, then lowered her eyes demurely. 'What if we went up to your place and then I told you I'd like us to take off our pants?'
She gazed at him again. 'What would you think about that?'
He shook his head. He was enormously aroused.
'I'd think you were about the most intriguing person I'd met in a very long time.'
His building was a fifteen-story white-brick-with-doorman, constructed as a rental in the sixties, converted to a co-op in the eighties. There were several mirrors in the lobby, one nice one between the elevators.
They entered, Roger pushed the button for the penthouse, they leaned against opposite sides of the cab and smiled at one another as they rode up.
'Let's get these wet raincoats off,' he said, fumbling with his keys.
Once inside, he switched on a set of track lights, then dimmed them down. There was a classic Manhattan penthouse view: squared-off apartment buildings against soaring midtown towers, a hundred thousand lit-up windows, golden cages hanging in the sky.
She looked around. The sparse furnishings were expensive: Matching soft black leather couches faced one another across a spare glass-topped cocktail table. Smooth white walls served as background for a small collection of average-quality contemporary prints. She knew the look: downtown gallery. She peered about more carefully, hoping to be surprised. But she could find nothing personal; the decor spoke to her of risklessness. Yet Roger had taken a major risk-he had invited her into his lair.
'I've been saving a bottle of very good wine. Think I should open it up?' She thought a moment, then shook her head. 'Actually, I'd rather have a drink.'
'Great. What would you like?'
'Let me make it?'
He grinned at her. 'I bet you can mix up something pretty good.
'Gelsey's Special.'
'Sounds interesting.' 'It is. I promise,' she said.
He led her by the hand into his kitchen, showed her where he kept his booze, glasses, bar tools and blender, then excused himself to dry his hair.
'Just call me if you need anything.' His voice trailed off.
She set up a pair of highball glasses, quickly marked one with a slight smudge of lipstick against the rim, then set to work creating her potion. As she was finishing she heard music. He had put a Mabel Mercer CD on the stereo.
She carried their drinks into the living room. He was slouched on one of the couches, jacket off, hair engagingly tousled.
She handed him his glass, sat down on the opposite couch, took a little sip from hers.
He grinned at her. 'Starting to mellow out?'
'Very much so.' She leaned back, flicked her hair, then casually stuck out her legs. She looked around. 'I imagined you'd have a place like this.'
'Really? Like what?'
'Cool. Hard-edged.' He looked perplexed. 'Am I really that predictable?'
'We'll soon find out,' she replied in a throaty whisper. Then she lightly touched her breasts.
It was a fine moment, the kind she tried to create every time she played, full of the promise of lust-tastes, aromas, moves and caresses that could not be predicted and would therefore surprise and delight. It was a moment that a worthy opponent would want to savor and prolong, knowing that anticipation is almost always sweeter than
