No. He’d perfectly described the lingerie Daria chose: gold silk, retro, the way it gleamed against her pale skin. While she appreciated the uptick in business thanks to increased social media chatter, she was in danger of becoming the third wheel in a series of tabloid-worthy sexual encounters orchestrated by one of Manhattan’s most notorious playboys. But neither could she tell him to stop, not with the heat of his palm fading from her shoulder, her skin tingling with his unhurried touch. “Are you going to see her again?”
He leaned his head back against one of the wrought iron supports in the railing, and looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes. “I don’t know. She’s in town all summer performing at Shakespeare in the Park. They signed her up long before she was nominated for the Oscar, let alone won. It’s going to be the hottest ticket in town.”
Simone suppressed a ripple of envy. Tickets to the Public Theater’s performances were free, given away to sponsors, and then first-come, first-serve at the Delacorte Theater, or at the Public Theater’s box office. People lined up as early as five a.m. for a chance at that evening’s tickets. Simone didn’t have time to sit on line for a mere chance.
“She’ll be wonderful,” she said, striving for equanimity and graciousness. “I’ve wanted to attend one of those performances.”
“I’ve been a couple times,” he said carelessly. “MacCarren sponsored the performance when I was a new associate. I used to take clients.”
“Do you like Shakespeare?”
He thought about this question far longer than she expected him to. Finally he said, “I liked the prestige of it all. I liked showing off the city on a summer night. I liked knowing I had access to something other people wanted. I never really thought about the play.”
“You’re honest,” she said. “Even when it doesn’t make you look good, you’re honest.”
“Only to a certain point. Only for you,” he said, looking her right in the eye.
Another truth that concealed more than it revealed. She knew he had secrets, and he knew she knew he had secrets. Ryan wasn’t what he seemed, but at least he wasn’t trying to hide that fact.
“Why are you listening to me?” he asked.
She gave his question the consideration it deserved, because she really shouldn’t be listening to these stories. “You pay attention, so on the surface, the stories are beautiful when I expect them to be sordid. I love beauty. But I shouldn’t. The story you just told me isn’t the truth. It’s not the one you want to tell me. I don’t trust you.”
“You really shouldn’t. I hate that about this,” he said, gesturing between them, “but you shouldn’t.”
In the hopes of catching a passing breeze, she lifted her hair away from her nape and studied him. “I’m not sure about that. You bring me women to dress, play the part of an amoral opportunist, but I don’t think your heart is in it, which is almost worse. If you believe your own fiction, no matter how twisted, you have hope. If you don’t . . . what’s left?”
His expression didn’t change, but the bottomless pain in his eyes nearly broke her heart. “You tell the truth,” he said finally. “Why? Almost no one does. We live in a world of half-truths and facades. Why tell the truth?”
She thought about the world of high fashion, the endless scheming and strategizing, the statistical anomaly of the model’s figure, the drama. Beauty was so difficult to pin down, and yet she’d devoted herself to calling it from fabric to enhance what was already inside a woman. Living a life of half-truths or outright lies obscured beauty, pure and simple. “After a while, it’s too exhausting to live in that world. That’s why I do what I do. Skin doesn’t lie. It tells the truth of smoking, sun worshipping, babies, injuries, laughter. The costumes we wear shouldn’t hide who we are, but rather help us shine. But when you get right down to the barest bones, lying is ugly, and I hate ugliness.”
The words came out harsher than she had intended. His eyes widened ever so slightly, but he didn’t look away, and his willingness to take what she threw at him shamed her. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I have no right to judge.”
“You told me to think carefully before I came back here. I did. You tell the truth. I need to hear it.”
She had no idea what internal demons he was facing down, but he wasn’t flinching from them. “Then I’m sorry for adding to your burdens by being unkind.”
“It’s all right. Extra weight is helpful right now,” he said, then worked his feet back into the boat shoes. He stood, then held out his hand to help her up.
She took it not palm to palm, like she was shaking his hand, but clasped his hand with her fingers curled around the edge of his hand. It was the grip of comrades, of a rescuer grabbing for someone stranded, an unconscious recognition of a partnership. He pulled, easily hoisting her upright, and momentum kept her going, right into his chest. They were pressed together along the length of their bodies, mouths mere inches apart. For a heady, impulsive moment she thought he might kiss her, and she would let him. Heat simmered between her legs, and the shock of contact only ignited it.
He gently urged her back a step. She relaxed her grip, and their hands separated. “Thanks for the beer,” she said, and smoothed her hand down her thigh.