A 21st Century Courtesan Read Free Page A

do besides taking your mother to the opera?”
    “Professionally? As in ‘what do you do’?”
    He's grinning, but there's nothing mocking in it; he's just being nice.
    “Professionally, personally. Whatever you'd like to tell me.”
    “My job is fairly boring. I'm in real estate development. A family business.”
    “I don't think that's boring at all.”
    He shrugs. He has the broad shoulders of an athlete. Nice. “It doesn't make for exciting discussion unless you're also in real estate. Are you?”
    I can see he's teasing me, but I like it. “No. I'm definitely not in real estate.”
    “Ah, good. Because I really hate to talk about work.”
    “Tell me something else, then.”
    “Something else?” He pauses. “I play hockey twice a week. I'm on a team. I run sometimes in the mornings. I don't have time for much else. The occasional play. Or the opera with my mother. Or without my mother, as the case may be.” He flashes a boyish grin. “And I love art. I like to go to the Getty at least once every couple of months. I'll see whatever's there.”
    “I love the Getty.”
    He steps closer, his voice lowering, as though we're havinga private conversation. Perhaps we are. Another shiver runs up my spine, long and slow and warm. Exactly as I imagine his touch would be.
    He says, “Let me guess. You like the Impressionists. Paintings from the more romantic eras.”
    “I do like the Impressionists, especially those who came into the game a little later. But I'll admit what I really love are the Neoclassicists. Leighton, Alma-Tadema, Collier. Waterhouse, of course.”
    “Ah, but still romantic.” He gestures with his drink, then takes a sip. I watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.
    I smile. “Yes, I suppose they are. But I'm afraid my taste in art isn't very sophisticated. I like it to be pretty.”
    “A feminine trait. Not necessarily a bad one.”
    He moves in a step closer, a few inches, really. But I feel as though we are in our own bubble, apart from the crowd around us.
    “What about you? I'd guess you like something completely masculine, the more modern artists. Pollack? de Kooning?”
    “Actually, I prefer the surrealists. Hockney. Dalí.”
    I nod my head. I love a man who knows art; it really makes me swoon. Or maybe it's just him?
    “So, what do you do for work, Valentine?”
    I freeze for a moment. I have a few standard answers I use in order to sidestep this question. But suddenly my mind is a blank. The lies won't leave my mouth. I lift my drink, take a long swallow, letting the gin go to work, loosening my insides. I still have no idea what to say.
    The house lights flash.
    “Time to go back in,” he says. “Let me get rid of these glasses.”
    He takes mine, holding it between his fingers along with his, brings them to the rapidly emptying bar while I stand there, feeling a bit lost. Then he's back at my side, his hand going to the small of my back as he guides me through the theater doors.
    His palm is warm through the thin silk of my dress. And my sex is going so damp from this nearly innocent touch, I'm almost afraid to sit down. To try to hold still for another hour or more, next to him in the dark.
    I manage to do it. But the entire time I am more aware than ever of his tall, muscular body next to mine. I don't dare to look at him. I don't have to. I can feel him. And I'm soaked the entire time.
    Torture.
    When the show is over we stand and I feel awkward again. Do I simply leave and say good-bye?
    “Did you drive?” he asks.
    “I took a cab.”
    “Let me find one for you.”
    His hand at my waist again as we walk out of the theater. I can hardly stand for him to touch me. To touch me but not
touch
me.
    At the curb he waves a taxi down.
    “I won't be so rude as to ask for your address, so you'll have to tell the driver where you're going. But I hope you'll call me.”
    He pulls a business card from his pocket and slips it into my hand, grasping it with his fingers