“Yessir,” Brent replied, recalling the correspondence file, all the distributions for human need or world peace.
Dr. Faisal turned to several young women standing behind him. “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Amina, and her two friends from Princeton, Margot and Elizabeth. Ladies, this is Mr. Brent Lucas.”
Brent nodded hello to the three young women. Dr. Faisal’s granddaughter was unmistakable, tall and thin with her grandfather’s prominent nose. She seemed shy as she shook Brent’s hand. But then she held his gaze, and he realized that she had inherited her grandfather’s quiet dignity. He chatted with Dr. Faisal and the three young women until the girls moved off toward the buffet table. Dr. Faisal moved to follow, but before he did, he turned to Brent. “I will invite you to stop by my home in Manhattan where we may speak at greater length.”
Brent promised to call and set up a time then watched the old man hurry protectively after the three young women. He checked his watch. Time to hit the road if he was going to make his movie.
“That is a grave responsibility.”
He turned and found himself confronting a pair of rich blue eyes set into a stunning face. A longer look revealed remarkably high cheekbones and ripe lips that seemed to pout and smile at the same time. This woman, whoever she was, emanated a sensual energy that caught him off guard and made the air around him seem to hum. Her hair was blonde, pulled close around the scalp, and a choker hung at her throat with a red gem the size of his thumbnail. A quick glance at her left hand showed no ring, and he wracked his brain for a name, thinking she had to be famous, certainly a model or movie star.
“What responsibility is that?” he asked, trying to recapture his bearings.
“Running Dr. Faisal’s account,” she said.
Her accent was English with a hint of German or Dutch. Her floor length black dress was cut low, and he struggled to keep his eyes from the swell of tanned cleavage and the puckered nipples outlined against the sheer fabric. “I guess,” he said.
“You must think you’re up to it,” she said, sounding a challenging note.
“I’ll just do my best and hope it’s good enough,” he countered, wondering again who she was, how she knew so much, and where she’d come from.
“Now you’re being falsely humble.” She smiled. “Dr. Faisal wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t very good.”
“I’m very new,” Brent said.
She held out her hand and laughed, the sound melodic in his ears. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Very New. I’m Simone Hearkins.”
“Brent Lucas.” Her hand was dry and firm, her fingers strong. She held his gaze and let her hand rest in his a second longer than necessary.
“Um, I’m kind of dry from talking. Can I get you something from the bar?”
“That would be lovely. White wine, please.”
Brent hurried away and returned a moment later, half expecting Simone to have changed her mind and disappeared. To his surprise, she was where he’d left her, beside one of the tent supports watching the band.
She turned, smiling, her eyes dancing with a light that seemed to suggest wild thoughts. “There you are,” she said as she took the wineglass. Something in her manner suggested she’d missed him. Her voice was low and warm with an aura of restrained sexuality that made his breath catch.
They sipped wine and made small talk for a time. She explained that she lived in London and knew Biddle through her job at a British investment bank. When their conversation paused for a second she turned, glanced at the band, and her next question surprised him. “Would you care to dance?”
Brent shrugged. “I’m not much in the dancing department.”
“You’re being modest again,” she said with a delighted laugh as she took his hand and led him onto the floor. Her dress, cut high along one side, exposed a long sweep of thigh as she moved. She kept her eyes on him, seemingly unaware of the stares she drew from other men.
Finally, the band slowed the tempo. Brent started to thank her, expecting to leave the floor, but Simone put her hand on his shoulder and stepped close. They began to move again, and she folded her body against him, pressing her hips in a way that was more than casual and then responding when he pressed back. Maggie flashed through his mind, but only briefly. Why should he feel guilty when she wanted nothing to do with him?
They found a small table when the band eventually took a break. Simone said it was her turn to go for more wine. Brent found her far too fascinating to mention the slightly bitter taste of the glass she handed him. A few minutes later whatever was wrong with the wine no longer mattered because he’d started to feel more than a little light-headed, but so incredibly relaxed.
Simone was the only thing he could think about. He’d never connected to anyone so quickly. Her beauty seemed to expand as they talked, and her desire for him was as tangible as heat. When she leaned back, the fabric of her gown lay against her skin like a coat of wet paint, highlighting the perfect outline of small nipples and areoles. He imagined them in his mouth.
“Do you want to drive me back to Manhattan?” she asked, as if she’d read his mind.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Simone took his hand and started to lead him toward the main house, but as they reached the veranda fireworks began to rise from a string of barges several hundred yards offshore. They turned, and Simone folded against him, the mound of her mons veneris pressing his thigh.
In the distance Brent saw a large yacht motoring smoothly toward Biddle’s dock, its graceful lines silhouetted in the bloom of an exploding rocket. He felt rooted in place. In addition to the heat and urgency of Simone’s body, the fireworks seemed overwhelming, their colors pulsing and vivid in an unearthly way, more beautiful that anything he’d ever experienced. At some point he realized she was tugging his arm, and he turned and followed her through the house.
“Can I drive?” Simone asked when the attendant brought his mint BMW 3.0Csi.
Brent waved her into the driver’s seat, even though he seldom let anyone drive his precious antique. Tonight was an exception. He felt so warm, so incredibly desired. As they left Biddle’s estate and wound along the darkened country lane, Brent realized that lights were dazzling his eyes so much that he couldn’t have driven if he’d wanted. They came to a stoplight and were suddenly back in traffic. Oncoming cars became twin lasers that swirled like roller coasters. Other lights, those of businesses and strip malls, kaleidoscoped into stunning patterns.
He stared, transfixed. Rather than being shocked or frightened, he felt elated, as Simone drove with easy competence. He relaxed into a hammock of comfort, as though they’d been best friends forever.
As they neared the city, Simone’s hand slid onto his thigh. Lines of heat radiated from her fingertips, moving upward, igniting him. They reached Manhattan and stopped at a light, and he traced his fingers along the top of her dress then slipped them inside. She looked at him and smiled.
“Where should we go?” he whispered.
Simone’s look said the answer was obvious. “Your apartment.”
They parked and hurried the two blocks to his building, their hands already exploring. In the otherwise deserted elevator Simone wrapped her legs around his waist, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and pulling his lips toward her breasts. By the time they stumbled out and he unlocked his apartment door, the air in his nostrils burned, as though his lungs were full of fire.
He pushed open the door and mumbled an apology for his unpacked mess. She laughed and then disappeared in the kitchen to get them both glasses of ice water. When she emerged a moment later to hand him his glass, she was naked.