Closer by Aria Hawthorne Read Free Book Online Page A

voice booming off the sleek marble floor.  The front door vibrated ajar and Inez’s blurry figure strode through it.
    “You’re late,” he stated, as if it was a fact rather than an accusation.
    “It’s not my fault that your driver navigates the slow lane like he’s a cadaver.”
    Sven muted his smile as she approached him.  It was true .  James did often drive in the slow lane like a cadaver. 
    “It’s a new Rolls.  I’m sure he was just being extra careful.”
    “Well, next time, let me drive that thing myself and I’ll get back when you want me back.”
    “Hopefully, with the car in one piece.”
    “Optional.”  She shrugged and brushed past him towards the panoramic windows.  “Wowzas…that’s some view.”  Pressing her nose and forehead against the glass, she peered out across Lake Michigan, tinged pink and orange by the withering rays of twilight.
    “It’s a bit of a commute,” he said, yielding to a strange desire to make his lifestyle seem more modest and accessible to her. 
    “Why?  Because your office is downtown?”
    “No.  Up and down the elevator.”
    He heard her snort, amused by him.  It was a start .
    His gaze lingered on her clothes.  Jeans and a wide neck T-shirt, slung to one side.  He strained his vision to make out the curve of her exposed bra strap.  Orange .  Then, he looked down at her feet—sneakers.
    She gazed down at the tiny dots along the bike path. “It must be nice to be constantly reminded that we’re all just tiny ants in this cruel, cruel world.”
    Normally, he would seize upon a remark like that and belittle it.  But there was an edge of sincerity in her voice that made him refrain from provoking her.
    “And there it is…The Spire,” she proclaimed, her voice trailing off as she cast her eyes onto the twisting silver spindle of reflective glass and steel, cutting like a spear through the cityscape.  “I suppose it says something about you that you can see it directly from your penthouse.”
    “Only that it’s the most important building in my career,” he asserted.  “I designed it, built it, and financed it from ground zero.  Every part of it represents me.  It is my most accomplished achievement—as an artist and as a man.”
    “Too bad it’s the most hated building in the city.”
    He stopped, uncertain whether to be annoyed or charmed.  She had that effect on him .  It was hard to take himself so seriously when she refused to.
    “Can I make you a drink?” he asked, like a peace offering.
    “I’m not certain I should be drinking on the job.” 
    “For both of our sakes, I’m fairly certain you will need to.  Wine?” 
    “French Martini. Vodka, pineapple juice, Chambord.  Shaken not stirred.”
    He flinched, absorbing the complexity of her order.  She was challenging him , obviously .  And he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he enjoyed it. 
    He turned towards the kitchen, silently counting his steps.  Three months ago, when his vision had started to degenerate, he completely re-designed his penthouse to help him navigate with ease.  Six steps to the contemporary handwoven floor rug.  Six steps across it.  One step to the base of the half flight of stairs up to the entertainment bar.  Four steps up to its apex. 
    “So how much help do you need these days?” she asked. 
    Perhaps he had counted too loudly, or perhaps he was moving too slowly. Like poor James, the cadaver .
    “You see that painting with the water lilies?” He pointed across the living room, seeking to divert her attention away from him.  “Today, I can only see twenty of the lilies.”
    “Um…you mean the Monet painting on the wall?”
    “Yes.”  He fumbled around the liquor cabinet, searching for his mixer and martini glasses.
    “The friggin’ real Monet painting on your wall?”
    He stopped to consider her slang.  “You mean as opposed to a $9.99 print from art.com or something?”
    “Don’t be a jackass.