“Prizes?” she asked Tony.
“Nothing important.”
“Both times he won best of the show,” Michael said.
“What shows were these?” Hilary asked.
“No big ones,” Tony said.
“He dreams about making a living as a painter,” Michael said, “but he never does anything about it.”
“Because it’s only a dream,” Tony said. “I’d be a fool if I seriously thought I could make it as a painter.”
“He never really tried,” Michael told Hilary.
“A painter doesn’t get a weekly paycheck,” Tony said. “Or health benefits. Or retirement checks.”
“But if you only sold two pieces a month for only half what they’re worth, you’d make more than you get as a cop,” Michael said.
“And if I sold nothing for a month or two months or six,” Tony said, “then who would pay the rent?”
To Hilary, Michael said, “His apartment’s crammed full of paintings, one stacked on the other. He’s sitting on a fortune, but he won’t do anything about it.”
“He exaggerates,” Tony told her.
“Ah, I give up!” Michael said. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him, Hilary.” As he walked away from their table, he said, “Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-three.” Tony said.
Later, in the Jeep, as he was driving her home, Hilary said, “Why don’t you at least take your work around to some galleries and see if they’ll handle it?”
“They won’t.”
“You could at least ask.”
“Hilary. I’m not really good enough.”
“That mural was excellent.”
“There’s a big difference between restaurant murals and fine art.”
“That mural was fine art.”
“Again, I’ve got to point out that you aren’t an expert.”
“I buy paintings for both pleasure and investment.”
“With the aid of a gallery director for the investment part?” he asked.
“That’s right. Wyant Stevens in Beverly Hills.”
“Then he’s the expert, not you.”
“Why don’t you show some of your work to him?”
“I can’t take rejection.”
“I’ll bet he won’t reject you.”
“Can we not talk about my painting?”
“Why?”
“I’m bored.”
“You’re difficult.”
“And bored,” he said.
“What shall we talk about?”
“Well, why don’t we talk about whether or not you’re going to invite me in for brandy.”
“Would you like to come in for brandy?”
“Cognac?”
“That’s what I have.”
“What label?”
“Remy Martin.”
“The best.” He grinned. “But, gee, I don’t know. It’s getting awfully late.”
“If you don’t come in,” she said, “I’ll just have to drink alone.” She was enjoying the silly game.
“Can’t let you drink alone,” he said.
“That’s one sign of alcoholism.”
“It certainly is.”
“If you don’t come in for a brandy with me, you’ll be starting me on the road to problem drinking and complete destruction.”
“I’d never forgive myself.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting side by side on the couch, in front of the fireplace, watching the flames and sipping Remy Martin.
Hilary felt slightly light-headed, not from the cognac but from being next to him–and from wondering if they were going to go to bed together. She had never slept with a man on the first date. She was usually wary, reluctant to commit herself to an affair until she had spent a couple of weeks–sometimes a couple of months–evaluating the man. More than once she had taken so long to make up her mind that she had lost men who might have made wonderful lovers and lasting friends. But in just one evening with Tony Clemenza, she felt at ease and perfectly safe with him. He was a damned attractive man. Tall. Dark. Rugged good looks. The inner authority and self-confidence of a cop. Yet gentle. Really surprisingly gentle. And sensitive. So much time had passed since she’d allowed herself to be touched and possessed, since she’d used and been used and shared. How could she have let so much time pass? She could easily imagine herself in his arms, naked beneath him, then atop him, and as those lovely images filled her mind, she realized that he was probably having the same sweet thoughts.
Then the telephone rang.
“Damn!” she said.
“Someone you don’t want to hear from?”
She turned and looked at the phone, which was a walnut box model that stood on a corner desk. It rang, rang.