A ruling passion : a novel (22 page)

"No. We'll look around and then get out." He saw the question in her eyes and gave a short laugh. "All right, ifs a torture chamber, but we might as well have a litde ftrn as long as we're here. I like to watch fools go scurrying after the newest fad, whispering, wiggling, worrying, watching out of the corners of their eyes to make sure nobody gets there ahead of them. Angling for clues to what they should spend their money on. Panting for possessions.^'' He dragged out the words contemptuously. "I thrive on gallery openings: they're like a Roman circus."

Sybille had no idea how he wanted her to respond. "It's like an opening shot on television; if you got an overhead shot—"

"Quentin!" someone cried through the din of voices, and a slender young woman with close-cropped hair and a beaded jacket came close. "Wonderftil, isn't he.> So earthy."

Enderby cast a glance at the eight-foot mass of marble beside him. "If you like entrails."

She pouted. "He's all the rage; he's rising."

"Sexually or artistically?" He guffawed, and a stocky bearded man with a monocle turned on him.

"If you don't understand him, you should shut up. Some of us like to appreciate art in an atmosphere of silent, almost mindless pleasure."

"Try the John," Enderby snorted.

"Shame on you," said a pencil-thin man, nostrils quivering in anger. "This is no place for scatology; this is a place where we worship art.''''

Enderby stared at him. Slowly, he knelt and made the sign of the cross.

Sybille laughed.

Someone groaned.

Enderby used his cane to push himself up, and lumbered off, shouldering his way through the crowd.

Voices followed them. "Ought to put the bastard away."

"Yes, but if he's right?"

"Don't be an ass. This stuff gets top prices. Fucking old fart..."

Enderby turned. "That's one I would have used," he said gleefiilly, then pushed farther into the cacophonous room. Sybille stayed close to him. She wanted to be identified with him; she saw his crudeness now as strength. "Idiot writes for some high-flying ass-dragging art magazine," Enderby said over his shoulder. "Doesn't know what he's talking about, but nobody who reads him knows anything, either. How about diis?"

He had stopped before a massive painting whose phosphorescent reds jumped and shimmied before their eyes. "The life spirit," someone near Sybille said reverendy.

"More like a windstorm in hell, don't you think?" countered an amused voice.

Sybille swung around. She knew that voice. "Valerie," she said tighdy across the intervening crowd.

Valerie looked up, shading her eyes against the bright lights. "Sybille! I can't believe it!" She pushed through the crowd, drawing attention. She was more beautiful than Sybille had remembered, her

tawny hair streaming in artful disarray, her hazel eyes bright with surprise. She wore a dress of burgundy silk with a long strand of pearls. "Isn't this amazing! I was just thinking about you the other day. You look wonderftil! What are you doing in New York?"

"I live here now. What about you?"

"So do I. We'll get together, shall we? We're not in the book; let me give you our number—"

"I have your parents' number."

"No, Kent's and mine; I'm married, Sybille. Are you?"

"I was."

A hand reached past Sybille, to Valerie. "Quentin Enderby"

"I'm sorry," Sybille said, flushing with embarrassment. "Valerie Ashbrook... no, I guess that's wrong. I don't know your married name. It's been so long and I haven't heard a thing about you."

Valerie shook Enderbys hand. "Valerie Shoreti^m. I've seen you at other openings."

"And heard my pronouncements, no doubt." His eyes were fixed on her. New York had many beauties; Valerie Shoreham was a great one. Surprising to find her popping up in Sybille's life.

"Do come to see me," Valerie said to Sybille. "You must. I've been wanting to talk to you for a long time. Here's my card; come this week. Come tomorrow, for drinks."

Sybille was having trouble breathing. Bitch. Tou must. Who the hell does she think she is? "All right," she said. Her voice didn't sound like hers. She looked at the engraved card and read the address aloud. "Isn't that somewhere near the Metropolitan Museum?"

"Across the street. You can't miss it. Five-thirty?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful. I'm so glad. You don't know how much it means to me. This is really so amazing. Who ever would have guessed... but then you always planned to come to New York. Are you in television?" Sybille nodded. "I want to hear all about it. So nice to meet you," she said to Enderby. "I'm looking forward to tomorrow," she said to Sybille. And she melted back into the crowd.

The lights seemed to dim when she left; the air no longer sparkled. Sybille let out her breath.

"You don't like her," Enderby said.

"Of course I do. We're friends. We've been friends all our lives." She looked up at him with that piercing look that made him realize he could not tell when she was lying and when she told the truth. He found that very exciting.

"We're going," he said. He took her arm and steered her through the room and out the door. Sybille reeled a little as the cold air struck her after the heat of the gallery, but Enderby had a firm hold on her arm and in a moment she was again in the mahogany and leather enclosure of his limousine. Quiet music came from the speakers, and the chauffeur had hors d'oeuvres and their drinks—sherry for Sybille, bourbon for Enderby—on the silver and ebony table in front of them.

"So," Enderby said, lifting his glass. "To art. Or what passes for it. What did you think of the show?"

"I don't know," she said; she was still thinking of Valerie. "I don't understand art."

"You don't have to. Do you like it?"

"I don't know. Some of it, I suppose."

"That painting your friend called a windstorm in hell?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"Neither did your friend. Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Neither am I. We'll skip dinner." He spoke into a small handset hanging beside him, and the chauffeur turned at the next corner. "They're all piss-ass frauds," he said. "Fools and fossilized fakes fawning over farcical fads. My father was an art and antique dealer; we never got along. He sold everything we had—paintings, furniture, sculptures. Our house was the showroom. It was all for sale. I learned not to get attached to anything because I knew it wouldn't be there long. He thought it was clever. Crude bastard. The best thing he did was die young and leave me his money so I could buy myself a television station. How did you and Valerie Shoreham get to be friends?"

She was silent.

"Sybille?"

She looked at him. "Our mothers knew each other. Quentin, I haven't told you this, but I want to be on camera."

"You're a producer."

"Yes, but it isn't what I want."

"A damn good producer. If s what I hired you for."

"I'll do it until World Watch' gets the ratings you want. Then I want to be an anchor or a host for a talk show... something like that."

"You've been here four weeks. Only a fool talks about a new job after four weeks. Give it four years and then I might listen."

"Four years? You're not serious."

"Try me."

She took a sharp breath, hating him. "I'm sorry. I know it's too soon

to talk about it. It just occurred to me that I'd tell you. We wouldn't do anything about it for a while, a long time, maybe, but I just thought... I'd tell you."

"Well, you have. What did all that have to do with Valerie Shore-ham.>"

"Nothing! Why would you— Never mind, I really don't want to talk about it. You were right; it's too soon even to bring it up."

"But it's up. And I'm curious. Mostly about the beauteous Valerie."

"There isn't anything to talk about," Sybille said. "We've known each other since we were babies, and we were at college together. We were very close for a few years—she's the kind who has to have someone to confide in and she liked to talk to me—but then we drifted apart. She went to Europe, and I was married and working. I haven't seen her for more than three years, and I'd forgotten about her until tonight. That's all there is to it. Why did you tell me about your father?"

"I always talk about my father to young women I plan to take to bed."

Sybille stared at him. She was very angry. She'd felt small and plain next to Valerie, and she'd been furious at the way Enderby had looked at her; she hated feeling tense and off balance with him; she despised him for brushing aside the idea of her being on camera. Her shoulders went back. "Nobody takes me to bed. I decide where I want to go and what I want to do. And I haven't made up my mind about you yet."

He laughed, a kind of Ho Ho that set Sybille's teeth on edge. "You made up your mind long ago and you know it."

"What about your mother.^" Sybille asked, anger making her reckless. "Do you only talk about her to women you plan to marry?"

Enderby reached out a long arm and pulled her to him, knocking her against the silver and ebony table. A glass rolled off onto the carpet at their feet. Sybille was half lying across his lap, his hand was beneath her head, gripping it, and his mouth was on hers.

Instinctively, she fought to get free. His lips were soft, almost spongy, and she recoiled from them. But he held her head with a strength that surprised her and when his tongue forced her mouth open she stopped struggling. He slid his hand beneath her jacket and grasped her breast, and then Sybille put her arms around him, remembering that this was what she had intended all along.

Enderb/s apartment was a few blocks north of Valerie's, its eighth-floor windows overlooking the reservoir, Central Park's wide and shin-

ing lake. When they arrived, Sybille went straight to the windows. This must be almost the view Valerie saw. She gazed out and felt Enderby come up behind her. "Pretty good," he said casually

"More than that," she replied. The scene had a grandeur that took her breath away. Central Park was a swath of black, surrounded by the brilliant lights of the city. A crescent moon was reflected in the quiet lake, as were hundreds of shimmering lights from die buildings across the park, like fireflies trapped in a dark mirror. Below Enderby's windows. Fifth Avenue stretched brighdy; automobile headlights and the yellow rooftop lights of taxis swooped down the street. No sounds penetrated the closed windows; the room was hushed and the city beyond it was like the picture on a television screen, with the sound muted. We're above everything, Sybille thought. Much better than pretty good; it's perfect.

Enderby turned her around, pulling her against him, and kissed her roughly. When he let her go, her mouth felt crushed. "Is there anything you want?" he asked.

To get out of here, she thought. "No," she said.

He turned and led the way, and she followed, studying the furnishings: dark, heavy, Teutonic. Elk and boar heads hung on the walls; a cheetah crouched on a huge boulder mounted on a wall in the bedroom; the draperies depicted hunting scenes.

"I used to hunt," Enderby said.

"Why did you stop?"

"Somebody talked me out of it."

Sybille was silent, looking at the huge bed, twice as big as any she had ever seen. It was as if Enderby wanted the option of not being within touching distance of whoever he took to it, in case his feelings changed during the night.

"A preacher," he went on. "I'm a sucker for preachers. They're my weakness. Fortunately, I don't meet many; I'd have damn few pleasures left if I did. Undress for me."

Slowly, standing a few inches from him, Sybille took off" her jacket and let it fall to the floor behind her. Enderby's hands hung at his sides and he watched as she stepped out of her shoes and took off" the rest of her clothes. "You're a pretty girl," he said. "Nicely made. I could use a litde help, here..." Sybille's quick fingers helped him pull off his clothes, and they lay on the velvet down comforter, its puffiness billowing around them.

"I'm not as quick as I used to be," he said. "It takes a litde while."

He lay back in the circle of light from an ander chandelier, and

Sybille curled up beside him, bending over to take him in her mouth. She moved her tongue along his babylike softness and sucked on him. He was silent. She began to feel desperate and raised her head.

"Go on," he said.

She slid her hands beneath him, taking him again into her mouth, and soon his breathing grew louder and Sybille felt him swell and grow hard. His hands were on her breasts and she took him deeper into her throat until, abruptly, he pulled away and swung over, on top of her. She was not ready and instinctively she tried to push him away, but his bulk pressed her down and then he was inside her. He hurt her, but she would never let him know that. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to what she knew she did well without thinking. She moved sensuously beneath him, her knees gripping his hips, her teeth taking small bites of the slack skin at his neck. She squeezed him tightly inside her and it was only a few minutes before Enderby gasped and groaned in the silent room, his body stiffened, and then he was still.

Sybille waited, wanting to push him off. "You're a pretty girl," he said again.

She opened her eyes. He had a half smile and it suddenly seemed to her that he looked like Chad right after a feeding. It made her feel better to think about that.

"And you're good," he added. "I knew you would be; I'm always right about that."

"I'm sure you are." Sybille lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. The only times it had ever been good, or almost good, was with Nick. He shouldn't have kicked her out; they'd been good together. But there was no sense even thinking about that; it was over. She had to look ahead. She had to think about marrying Quentin Enderby.

This time, when Iget married Fillet something out of it.

Chapter 9