Cat In A Topaz Tango

He shut his eyes. He was more than the sum of all those enviable things, flattering as the last evaluation had been.

If he’d been rich and powerful, as she’d assumed, his current situation had stripped any pride he’d taken in that anyway. He’d needed this encounter. Desperately. Needed her. A woman’s touch, and what passed for her love. He’d been wounded in body and mind.

He would not apologize to anyone for the human connection and bliss and self-confidence he’d gotten from her this past night, whatever she was, whether her intentions toward him were for good or ill. Why did he have to have this suspicious core? Why couldn’t he take anyone or any act at face value? He must be a very lonely man. Rich, yes. And with that came certain kinds of power, probably overrated.

He had the right instincts. Revienne had loved the expensive room service feast. Or had she loved his thoughtfulness, his thinking of her? That was free. That cost nothing but caring for another.

He looked at her again, remembering the moment of mutual orgasm. Thinking of hers, not his. How cool it was to be part of it, like he was rediscovering sex. Rediscovering himself.

She opened her eyes as his fingers stroked her brow. Caught him unawares.

“You are a very strange man, Mr. Randolph. You almost look right now as if you loved me.”

“This is only a situational liaison,” he said, smiling.

“Exactly what I’d call it, professionally. We are two, mostly healthy, heterosexual individuals forced by danger into close quarters. It is only natural that our will to live should manifest itself in an overwhelming attraction and sex. Classic.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘underwhelming sex.’ Classic feels very good.”

“Yes,” she said. “It does. Are you still determined to be rid of me right away?”

“What about your sexual liaisons? A woman like you wouldn’t sleep alone unless she wanted to.”

“And what is ‘a woman like me’?”

“Intelligent, beautiful, sophisticated, compassionate.”

Her smile faded. She bit her lip on his last word. “You think this was a pity fuck.”

“Where’d you hear that phrase?”

“I’ve treated Americans before.”

“In bed?”

“Americans are not usually such a treat in bed. Nor Irishmen.”

“Based on your wide reading, or personal observation?”

“You think I’d tell a monogamous prig like you?”

“We don’t know for sure that I’m that warped. Check it out.”

“Again?”

She did.

He sat in the sleek Italian chair at the Hugo Boss Black collection shop in the Jamoli department store. This was where he’d bought his stressed champagne suede thigh-long jacket, to go with his slightly glossy gray casual pants and black silk T-shirt. The army-green silk shirt and toffee tie were in the Bally duffle bag at his feet. He’d been attracted to black, so avoided it. Might be a giveaway.

He still carried the cane, more as a weapon than a crutch. Necessity and the mountain had made a molehill of the process of rebuilding his leg muscles. He’d not be doing acrobatics for some time, but they were definitely in his future, he thought with some regret as Revienne came out from the dressing room wearing a Hugo Boss Black silk suit. The cut and sheen were fabulous, but it wasn’t pink, like her ruined one. Only Parisian designers tried something as surprising as that. The Swiss liked the colors of money, muted tones that whispered of great wealth.

This suit was a mossy mocha shade that made her gray eyes look almost green and her blond hair like saffron silk. It was belted, with a short, hip-hugging peplum and a neckline open to four inches above the belt. There was a large black-and-white photo of a runway model wearing it with nothing underneath, and not much of anything to show for so much exposure.

Revienne had chosen a dull violet silk T-shirt that made her glossed lips look good enough to eat.

He sighed. Enough of that nonsense. They had serious arrangements to make over lunch.

They ate at the excellent department store restaurant, their table for two well isolated. The expensive, marble-clad décor made the place a discreet echo chamber where it’d be hard to bug a conversation.

“You seem to have recovered from your scruples,” she said, tucking her box and bags against the wall. “Spending all these other people’s money, I mean, to see me off to the clinic.”

“The credit cards I filched before in Alteberg were from tourists, maybe on a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Didn’t want to mar that too much. What I’ve taken here has been from millionaires, and probably predatory ones at that.”

“Won’t it be suspicious if I come back looking like a million dollars?”

“Au contraire. Here’s the story you tell: I’d had a bit of a paranoid episode and recovered enough of my memory to secretly call a driver. You didn’t think it a good idea to leave me in such a mental condition. So you accompanied me into Zurich, where I paid you royally for your trouble and the unexpected overnights and went off, refusing further treatment. I take it the clinic collects a portion of your fee, and it was prepaid?”

She nodded.