Tangled Ashes Read Free Page B

to enhance her toned and trim physique. If he kept his eyes on that and away from her calculating gaze, he was okay. But if he met her dollar-sign stare for more than a few seconds at a time, the beer soured in his stomach.
    “So talk fast—I’m between meetings. What’s Gary’s harebrained scheme this time?” she asked, swiveling toward him on her stool, legs crossed, the tip of her foot sliding around his calf. “Turning another dilapidated factory into a schooner museum?”
    Beck turned to dislodge her foot. He dispensed with subtlety—wasn’t in the mood for it anyway. “I’m heading to France. For a few months. Big project for one of Gary’s contacts.”
    Leslie raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Nice. Can I come along?”
    On the television screen, Paul Pierce took a shot from the top ofthe key and failed to make a basket. “I leave in two days. Thought you should know.”
    There was a pause while Leslie absorbed the information. Then she leaned in, her mouth close to his neck, and whispered, “Guess we’d better make the most of the time we have left, huh, slugger?”
    The beer on her breath repulsed him. The way she touched his thigh did too. Then again, he’d never been more than mildly intrigued by her. Theirs was a cynical arrangement of convenience and distraction. He got the distraction and she got the . . . He wasn’t sure what she got, actually. It wasn’t predictability and it certainly wasn’t entertainment. More often than not, they used more words ordering their drinks than they did having a conversation. That’s where the convenience came into play. Hours of company and no need for small talk. Didn’t get any better than that.
    “Actually,” he said, taking a long swallow from his glass, “I’m going to be swamped, so . . .”
    “There are a lot of hours in a couple of days,” she insisted, her voice dropping a notch or two as she traced the veins on the top of his hand with a fingertip. Whoever said a person couldn’t live on hope alone had never met Leslie. She’d known him for several months and still lived with the delusion that she’d get him into bed. “What are you—a monk?” she’d asked one night, when he’d driven her home in the wee hours after a protracted cocktail party and dropped her at the curb. He’d driven off without answering, watching in his rearview mirror as she stomped her foot on the wet sidewalk. But she’d recovered fast enough and somehow made peace with the situation. As long as they played with fire on a regular basis, she seemed happy to be his drinking partner and social accessory. Suited him just fine.
    Beck downed the last of his beer and dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the polished surface of the bar. He stood, grabbed his jacket off the stool next to him and moved toward the door.
    “What—no ‘See ya later’? No ‘Nice knowin’ you’?” Leslie swiveled on her stool, hands out in amazement, a flush of red high on her cheeks.
    Beck gave her a long look, racking his mind for something meaningful to say. But he could no more validate their relationship with declarations than he could end it with regret. He shrugged, averted his eyes, and turned to go.
    It hadn’t taken long for Beck to say the rest of his good-byes. Most of them had required no more than a few words of instruction and a casual wave. Such was the nature of his friendships. They were about work or about distraction. Period. They didn’t keep him warm at night, but they sure made transcontinental moves less complicated.

T HÉRÈSE G ALLET FUMBLED with the oversize key and carried on a flurry of conversation as she tried to unlock the castle’s front door. Beck stood by with waning patience. He’d been through the same drill minutes before at the castle’s main gate, and the routine was getting old. Jet lag was weighing him down, and Thérèse’s inefficiency was stoking the kind of anger that made him miss his punching bag.
    Thérèse spoke English