Rogue

Chapter 9

Blake was in London, meeting with his investment counselors about three new companies he was planning to take over. He was also meeting with two architects, one to make changes in the London house, the other to completely remodel and refurbish the palace he had bought in Morocco. There were a total of six decorators involved in both projects, and it was exciting for him. He was having a ball. He was planning to be in London for a month, and take the children to Aspen after Christmas. He had invited Maxine to join them, but she had decided not to come, and said he needed time alone with the children, which seemed silly to him. They always had a good time when she came along.

Most of the time, she just overlapped for a day here and there when he loaned her his boat, or one of his houses. He was generous to a fault, and loved knowing that she was having a good time with their children. He often loaned his homes to friends as well. There was no way he could use all of them full time. And he couldn't understand why Maxine had made such a fuss about his letting Daphne use the

New York penthouse with her friends. She was old enough not to make a mess in the apartment, and there were people to clean it up if she did. He thought Maxine was being paranoid thinking that they would get into mischief there alone. He knew his daughter was a good girl, and how much trouble could they get into at thirteen? After five phone calls about it, he had finally given in to Maxine's wishes, but it seemed a shame to him. The New York penthouse stood empty most of the time. He was in London far more often, as it was more central to all the other places where he liked to spend his time. He was planning to go to Gstaad for a few days of skiing before he went back to New York, to warm up for Aspen. He hadn't skied since a quick trip to South America in May.

In his first few days back in London after seeing his children for Thanksgiving, Blake had been invited to a Rolling Stones concert. They were one of his favorite groups, and he and Mick Jagger were old friends. He had introduced Blake to a number of other players in the rock-star world, and several remarkable women. Blake's brief affair with one of the biggest female rock stars in the world had made headlines everywhere, until she spoiled everything and married someone else. That wasn't his game, and he was honest about it. He never pretended to anyone that he wanted to get married, or was even open to it. He had far too much money now. Marriage was much too dangerous for him, unless he married someone who had as much as he did, and those were never the women he went after. He liked them young, lively, and unencumbered. All he wanted to do was play. He didn't hurt anyone. And when it was over, they left with jewels, furs, cars, presents, and the best memories they ever had. And then he moved on to the next one, and started all over again. And when he got back to London, he was free at the moment. He had no one to take to the Rolling Stones concert, so he went by himself, and to a fabulous party at Kensington Palace afterward. Every royal, model, actress, socialite, aristocrat, and rock star was there. It was everything that Blake loved, and his world.

He had talked to half a dozen women that night, met some interesting men, and was thinking about leaving, when he ordered one last drink at the bar, and saw a pretty redhead smiling at him. She had a diamond in her nose, was wearing a ruby bindi and a sari, had spiky hair, and tattoos running down her arms, and she was staring unabashedly at him. She didn't look Indian, but the ruby bindi between her eyebrows confused him, and the sari she wore was the color of a summer sky, the same color as her eyes. He had never seen an Indian woman with tattoos before. Hers were flowers running up and down her arms, and there was another on her taut flat stomach, which the sari exposed. She was drinking champagne, and eating olives from a glass bowl on the bar.

“Hello,” he said simply, his dazzling blue eyes meeting hers, and her slow smile grew broader. She was the sexiest woman he had ever seen, and it was impossible to tell her age. She could have been anywhere from eighteen to thirty, and he didn't care how old she was. She was gorgeous. “Where are you from?” he asked her, expecting her to say Bombay or New Delhi, although the red hair was out of context too. She laughed at his question, showing perfect white teeth that went on forever. She was the most striking woman he'd ever seen.

“Knightsbridge,” she said, laughing at him. Her laughter was like bells in his ears, delicate and sweet.

“What about the bindi?”

“I just like them. I lived in Jaipur for two years. I loved the saris and the jewels.” Who didn't? And five minutes after he'd met her, Blake was crazy about her. “Have you been to India?” she asked him.

“Several times,” he said easily. “I went on an incredible safari, taking photographs of tigers last year, much better than anything I've seen in Kenya.” She raised an eyebrow then.

“I was born in Kenya. My family lived in Rhodesia before that. And then we came home. It's rather tedious here. I go back every chance I get.” She was British, and she had the accent and intonations of the upper classes, which made him wonder who she was, and who her parents were. It didn't usually interest him, but everything about this woman intrigued him, even her tattoos. “And you are?” she inquired. She was probably the only woman in the room who didn't know who he was, and he liked that about her too. It was refreshing. And he sensed correctly that they had been attracted to each other instantly. Powerfully so.

“Blake Williams.” He provided no further information, and she nodded and finished her champagne. He was drinking vodka, on the rocks. It was his drink of choice at events like this. Champagne gave him a headache the next day, vodka didn't.

“American,” she said matter-of-factly. “Married?” she asked with interest, which he found an odd question.

“No. Why?”

“I don't do married men. I don't even talk to them. I went out with a horrible Frenchman who was married and lied about it. Once burned, forever wise, or something like that. Americans are usually pretty good about that. The French aren't. They always have a wife and a mistress tucked away somewhere, and cheat on both. Do you cheat?” she asked him, as though it were a sport like golf or tennis, and he laughed.

“Not generally. No, actually, I don't think I ever have. I have no reason to, I'm not married, and if I want to sleep with someone else, I end it with the woman I'm with. That seems a lot simpler to me. I don't like drama or complications.”

“Neither do I. That's what I mean about Americans. They're very simple and straightforward. Europeans are far more complicated. They want everything to be difficult. My parents have been trying to get divorced for twelve years. They keep getting back together and splitting up again. It's very confusing for the rest of us. I've never been married myself, and don't want to be. It seems like a terrible mess to me.” She said it very simply, as though talking about the weather or a trip, and he was amused. She was a very funny young woman, very pretty, and what the Brits called “very fey.” She was like some sort of wood nymph or sprite in her sari and her bindi and tattoos. He noticed then that she was wearing an enormous emerald bracelet that got lost among her tattoos, and a huge ruby ring. Whoever she was, she had plenty of jewels.

“I'd have to agree with you about the mess people make. I'm actually very good friends with my ex-wife. We like each other even better than we did when we were married.” For him, it was true, and he was sure Maxine felt the same way about it too.

“Do you have kids?” she inquired, offering him some of her olives. He dropped two in his drink.

“Yes, I do, three. A girl and two boys. Thirteen, twelve, and six.”

“How sweet. I don't want children, but I think people are very brave to have them. It seems rather frightening to me. All that responsibility, they get sick, you have to make sure they're doing well in school, have good manners. It's even harder than training a horse or a dog, and I'm terrible at both. I had a dog once that did its business all over my house. I'm sure I'd be even worse with kids.” He laughed at the picture she painted, as Mick Jagger wandered by and said hello to her, as did several other people. Everyone seemed to know her except Blake, and he couldn't understand why he had never met her before. He spent a lot of time on the London scene.

He told her about the house in Marrakech then, visibly excited about it, and she agreed that it sounded like a fabulous project. She said that she had nearly studied architecture and decided not to, she could never do the math. She said she'd been terrible in school.

A number of his friends came up to him and said hello then, as did quite a few of hers, and the next thing he knew when he turned to look for her, she had disappeared. Blake was frustrated and disappointed. He had liked talking to her. She was eccentric, intelligent, outspoken, and different, and beautiful enough to catch his eye. He asked Mick Jagger about her later, and he laughed at Blake.

“You don't know her?” He seemed surprised. “That's Arabella. She's a viscountess. Her father is supposed to be the richest man in the House of Lords.”

“What does she do?” He assumed she did nothing, but he had gotten the sense from talking to her that she had some kind of job or career.

“She's a painter. She does portraits. She's very good. People pay her a fortune to do their portraits. She also does their horses and dogs. She's completely crazy, but she's actually very nice. She's sort of typically British eccentric. I think she was engaged to some very fancy Frenchman, a marquis or something. I don't know what happened, but she didn't marry him. She went out to India instead, had an affair with some very important Indian chap, and came home, with a hell of a lot of good-looking jewels. I can't believe you don't know her.

Maybe she was in India when you were around. She's a lot of fun,” he confirmed.

“Yes, she is,” Blake said, somewhat in awe of what Jagger had said about her. It all fit. “Do you know how I'd find her? I didn't get her number before she left.”

“Sure. Have your secretary call mine tomorrow. I've got her number. So does everyone else. Half of England has had their portrait done by her. You can always use that as an excuse.” Blake wasn't sure he needed one, but it was certainly a possibility. He left the party then, sorry she had left before him, and his secretary got him the number the next morning. It hadn't been difficult at all.

He sat looking at the piece of paper for a minute, and then called her himself. A woman answered, and he recognized the voice of the night before.

“Arabella?” he said, trying to sound confident, and feeling awkward for the first time in a long time. She was more like a whirlwind than a woman, and far more sophisticated than the girls he usually picked up.

“Yes, it is,” she said, in her clipped British way. And then she laughed before she even knew who it was. It was the same tinkling of fairy bells that he had heard the night before. She was magic.

“This is Blake Williams. I met you last night at the party at Kensington Palace, at the bar. You left before I had a chance to say goodbye.”

“You looked busy, so I slipped away. How nice of you to call.” She sounded sincere, and pleased to hear him.

“I actually wanted to say hello more than goodbye. Are you free for lunch?” He cut to the chase, and she laughed again.

“No, I'm not,” she said regretfully. “I'm doing a portrait, and my subject can only come in during lunch. The prime minister, his schedule is awfully tight. What about tomorrow?”

“I'd like that very much,” Blake said, feeling about twelve years old. She was twenty-nine and he felt like a child with her, even at forty-six. “How about Santa Lucia at one?” It had been Princess Di's favorite restaurant for lunch, and everyone else's ever since.

“Perfect. I'll be there,” she promised. “See you then.” And before he knew it, she was off the line. No chitchat, no further conversation. Just the bare bones necessary to make the appointment for lunch. He wondered if she'd show up in the bindi and the sari. All he knew was that he couldn't wait to see her. He hadn't been this excited about anyone in years.

Blake arrived at Santa Lucia promptly at one the next day, and stood at the bar waiting for her. Arabella walked in twenty minutes later, her short red hair sticking up straight, a miniskirt, high-heeled brown suede boots, and an enormous lynx coat. She looked like a character in a movie, and there was no sign of her bindi. She looked more like Milan or Paris, and her eyes were the electrifying blue he remembered. She beamed the moment she saw him, and gave him a warm hug.

“You're so nice to take me to lunch,” she said, as though that had never happened to her before, which was obviously not the case. She was very glamorous, and at the same time very unassuming, and Blake loved that about her. He felt like a puppy at her feet, which was rare for him, as the headwaiter took them to their table, and made as big a fuss over Arabella as he did over Blake.

The conversation flowed with ease over lunch. Blake asked her about her work, and he talked about his experience in the high-tech dot-com world, which she found fascinating. They chatted about art, architecture, sailing, horses, dogs, his kids. They exchanged thoughts about everything imaginable and left the restaurant at four o'clock. He said he'd love to see her work, and she invited him to the studio the next day, after her next session with Tony Blair. She said other than that, she had an easy week, and was of course leaving for the country on Friday. Everyone who was anyone in England went to the country on the weekend, to their homes or someone else's. When they left each other on the street, he could hardly wait to see her again. He was suddenly obsessed with her, and sent her flowers that afternoon, with a clever note. She called the minute they arrived. He had sent orchids and roses, with lily of the valley tucked in. He had used the best florist in London, and had sent everything exotic he could think of, which seemed fitting for her. Blake thought she was the most interesting woman he had ever met, and sexy beyond belief.

He went to her studio late the next morning, just after Tony Blair left, and was totally startled by how Arabella looked. She was a woman of many faces, exotic, glamorous, childlike, a waif, one moment a beauty queen, and the next an elf. She opened the door to her studio wearing paint-splattered skintight jeans, high-top red Converse sneakers, and a white T-shirt, with an enormous ruby bracelet on one arm, and she was wearing the bindi again. Everything about her was a little crazy, but utterly fascinating to him. She showed him several portraits in progress, and some old ones she had done for herself. There were some beautiful horse portraits, and he thought the one of the prime minister extremely good. She was as talented as Mick Jagger had said.

“They're fantastic,” he said to her, “absolutely wonderful, Arabella.” She opened a bottle of champagne, she said to celebrate his first visit to her studio, the first of many, she hoped, as she toasted him. He drank two glasses with her, in spite of his aversion to champagne. He would have drunk poison for her, and then he suggested they go back to his place. He wanted to show her his treasures now too. He had some very important art, and an absolutely spectacular house that he loved and was very proud of. They found a taxi easily, and half an hour later, they were wandering through his house, as she screamed with excitement over the art she saw. He opened another bottle of champagne for her, but he drank vodka this time. He turned on the sound system, showed her the theater he had had built, he showed her everything, and by nine o'clock they were in his enormous bed, making mad, passionate love to each other. He had never had an experience like that with any woman, even on drugs, which he had experimented with lightly at one point, and never liked. Arabella herself was like a drug to him, and he felt as though he had gone to the moon and back, as they lay in his enormous bathtub together later, and she slid on top of him, and began riding him again. He moaned in exquisite agony as he came in her, for the fourth time that night, and he heard the magical sound of her laughter, as the impossible wood sprite he had discovered at Kensington Palace drove him to the edge of sanity and back. He didn't know what this was with her, love or madness, but whatever it was, he never wanted it to end.