“I’m not going to argue with you.” His voice is deep and understanding. “But this job is our future, Kat. And this client is very important. If I can at least settle this case, then I’ll be made partner.”
If he makes partner, he’ll work just as hard and long to prove himself. It’s in his nature. I know this is all a sacrifice for our family. Gabriel has it in his head this is what I want and we need. It's a grand departure from the things he used to do in life. All he ever enjoyed was sailing, and he doesn’t even do that anymore.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m tired anyway.” I am really looking forward to our bed right now. I pick up my bag and start heading for the door.
Gabriel spends the next five minutes convincing me to go to the exhibit anyway. He says we already have a sitter and the exhibit is only on for a few more weeks. Since I already bought tickets, I concede, but only promised to go for one exhibit because I really am tired.
The Museum of Modern Art is on 53rd street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Since it is a warm June night, I decided to walk and am extra thankful to be wearing my flats.
I step into the building, taking a program from a curator standing at the entrance, and head straight toward the exhibit I want to see. The museum has been having an ongoing screening cycle of movies throughout the twentieth century. All the films are being looked at through the eyes of the director. It seems boring to some, but I’m the kind of girl who watches the director’s cut DVDs and the cast and crew interviews in the bonus chapters. The exhibit has been going on for quite some time, but there is a particular feature on Charlie Chaplin I want to see, and today is the last day.
My mother got me into old movies, and I was always fascinated by Chaplin. I studied him in one of my art theory courses. Actually, I’m fascinated by all silent movies, especially those without subtitles. To be able to express your emotions without the use of words is incredible.
The next feature is a film called The Dictator. Charlie Chaplin made silent films well into the period of sound films, but this was his first talking picture. He starred, wrote, produced, and directed this film, which became his most commercially successful film.
I can’t say I care for its content, but I’m fascinated to see what the museum has from Chaplin on his thought process going into his first major talking film.
I take a seat, placing my bag and the program on my lap, and hope not to fall asleep during the two-hour showing.
The screen lights up and my eyes start to dim.
I don’t know if its been two minutes or two hours, but my body startles awake. I lift my head from its slumped position and remove my knuckles from my chin. There is a tiny bit of drool coming from my mouth so I wipe it away. How embarrassing.
Looking down at my phone, I see only twenty minutes have passed. There is no way I am going to enjoy any of this.
I run a hand through my hair and wipe under my eyes in case any mascara leaked during my power nap. Grabbing my bag, I stand and leave the room and make my way to the main lobby.
Taking my compact out of my bag, I take a better look at my appearance. My reflection tells me to go home. Smart woman.
There is a beautiful couple to my side, talking with a curator. The woman has long blonde hair and an enormous rock on her finger. Her body is svelte in a curve-hugging crimson dress that lands just above the knee. The dress is long-sleeved but sexy as hell. You can see her perky breasts bursting out the V-neck and every muscle on her glutes through the fabric. A gentleman is resting his hand on her lower back, and they look the epitome of refined. Middle-aged with a slightly round stomach, the husband’s face is rosy in the cheeks and his eyes are kind, especially when they look toward his wife.
At least some people can make time for date night.
My thoughts are interfered as an intense energy comes over me. I don’t feel heat; I feel chills, as if someone opened the door on a blistery winter day. A tingle runs down my spine and the hairs on my neck stand up.
I rub my hands on my forearms to calm the goose bumps. Its an odd feeling to have on a warm June evening. My nerves spike at the feeling of this new energy, and it pulls me from my thoughts in the form of a deep melodic voice.
“It’s not appropriate to stare.”
I close my eyes briefly before turning around to see the source of my nervous energy.
And then it’s heat. Nothing but heat.
Alexander Asher is standing not ten feet behind me. His hands rest in his pockets and he has a grin on his face, amused by his own comment. His body seems casual, but his eyes glare… no, they pierce daggers straight into mine. I take a moment to appraise him again. He is just as tall and well built as I recall. His shoulders wide with clear definition you can see even in a suit.
He is wearing a deep charcoal-gray suit with a platinum tie over a crisp white shirt. A Patek Philippe watch glistens under the pin lighting of the museum, as do his eyes.
Those golden eyes are wide and mesmerizing. It’s like looking at the sun. You know you shouldn’t stare directly at it because it’ll hurt your eyes, but just knowing you shouldn’t makes you want to do it more.
I wish there were magic sunglasses that could protect me from his gaze. They are serious in contrast to the unnerving curve. It’s not wide or even a smile. It’s a dare. A dare to enter his world.
I look down for fear of being pulled in. He is an arrogant son of bitch, and I have to remember that. Staring at the floor, I look for something, anything else, to focus on. His feet are pointed slightly outward as his legs are spread wider than most, as if to accommodate a large…
Get a grip, woman!
“Good evening, Mr. Asher.” My voice is courteous and professional. He is, after all¸ my boss’ boss.
“Good evening, Mrs. Monroe,” he says.
I choose not to correct him. Our exchange the other day was intense and, honestly, I don’t know the appropriate thing to say.
Yet, as if on cue, he opens his mouth and leads the way. “You’re a voyeur. I would have pegged you for an exhibitionist.”
I lift my head. The comment catches me off guard, as with everything he does. I don’t know if he is alluding to the fact that I was caught staring at the couple, which would easily make me a voyeur, and I don’t know if I can really deny that. Or perhaps he’s just acknowledging I am at this exhibit. It’s a harmless thing to say.
But the look in his eyes and his shit-eating grin alerts me he is shrewder than that. I follow his eyes as they trail down the bridge of my nose, past my lips, and watch them slowly trickle down my neck and farther south until they stop, ever so slowly, on my breasts.
Oh, for the love of God. He’s staring at my breasts and the bastard is easily recalling my “exhibition” last week in my wet white shirt!
Of all the inappropriate…
My eyes are wide and my mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but I stop myself. I can’t make assumptions. And, more importantly, I cannot give him the satisfaction of affecting me in any way.
I am a professional woman, and he will treat me like one!
I hold the program for the exhibit in my hand over my cleavage and block his eyes from their current entertainment. “Chaplin fan?” I ask, satisfied when his eyes rise again to meet mine. They might affect me when they’re staring into mine, but I’d much prefer it over his staring at my chest.
Asher doesn’t miss a beat. “Not particularly, but I have come here quite a few times to see other films.”
He’s a man who likes the arts. I shouldn’t be surprised now that I know a thing or two about him. He has a strong connection to music through his acquisition of a music company and his charities. He bought Marks Communications so he has a vast interest in production. Makes you wonder why someone with his interests would go into mergers and acquisitions.