“Not everything. We do not own any ice cream shops or casinos.”
“A temporary oversight, I’m sure. You’ll have to fix that. Brainstorm a private casino or something.”
“I’ll put that on my list,” he said.
Chapter 17
Everything in the lobby of the security building was gray or stainless steel; even the upholstery looked modern and stark. The glass elevator seemed to hurl them upward into the darkness. A sense of vertigo took her as they hurtled through the night, stars seeming to press in on the glass walls as they moved with a swift whoosh. Britt steadied herself on Jack’s arm, wobbling a little on her heels.
His apartment was magazine perfect, a low curving couch like an apostrophe facing the vast floor to ceiling windows with their sparkling city view with the water beyond only a dark ribbon on the horizon. A broad marble topped coffee table was stacked with glossy books and an orchid in its urn. Everything about announced the services of a professional decorator. A huge canvas over the piano was a bold abstract piece with emphatic streaks of jungle green, gold, and pale peach. The size of the room, its unapologetic vastness was the most reflective of Jack. Not the orchid or the art, but the open space, the variety it housed.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s great. Very—fancy.”
“Is fancy a problem?”
“No, I’m just afraid to sit down because if I left a fingerprint, I know I couldn’t afford to replace a single throw pillow in this place.”
“I’ll just have the girl who does payroll garnish your check until my pillow’s paid off. Don’t worry,” he said.
“Can I wear shoes in here? Should I take them off?”
“You’re welcome to take off anything you like,” he said, dropping his jacket on a chair, taking off his tie.
Jack rolled up his sleeves, and she stopped unfastening her shoes to watch.
“What?”
“The tattoo on your wrist. I didn’t get a good look at it. I’d like to know what it is.”
“I guess I get the arrow but what do the letters mean?”
“That I was drunk off my ass in Singapore.”
“You had this done in Singapore?”
“I’m not defending it as one of my better choices.”
“What does it say?”
“You hold a buffalo by his ropes, and you hold a person by his promises.”
“You have a buffalo tattoo? That is hot,” she teased, tracing the arrows lightly with her fingertips.
“Only think of the wisdom there...about buffalo,” he teased.
“Don’t get drunk in Singapore?”
“Or you’ll end up with a Malay proverb tattooed on your arm,” he finished.
“Maybe India with you was a crap idea after all. I could’ve wound up with Hindi tattoos.”
“There’s always that possibility. Now sit down and get comfortable,” he instructed.
Britt curled her legs up under her, seated in the curve of the long white couch. Jack disappeared into the other room and came back with an acoustic guitar. He sat down on the coffee table, one foot tucked under him, balancing the instrument. Carefully, he set his fingers on the neck, placing them. An experimental strum or two, and he began.
If she had thought the glass elevator gave her vertigo, this was worse and better at the same time. A cavernous room with the yellow glow of one lamp whose light dissipated long before it reached the walls, tall windows at a dizzying height, and the consuming sight of Jack Fitzsimmons with a guitar in his hands. The way his hands moved over the curving body of the guitar, the way he stroked the strings reminded her of the way he had touched her, held her.