He snorted, stirred, then turned over and slipped back down into dreamland.
Jesus. He was completely exhausted. I turned the phone back on.
"I'm sorry," I said. "He is completely passed out."
"Shake him!"
"I did. I even jumped on the bed and kind of yelled at him. He won't wake up."
In New York, I could hear Don pondering this as he felt the icy hand of termination creeping up on him. "Did you check to see if he's breathing?"
All right, forget the rudeness. No one treats me like an idiot. "Oh gosh, no," I said, "I'm just a dumb girl and I can't tell the difference between a living body and corpse. Asshole."
"Fine," he snapped. "You tell him I called the second he wakes up. This is an emergency, and he needs to be in New York as soon as possible. Wait, where is he, anyway?"
"You're his secretary," I said. "Didn't he tell you?"
I knew that would rankle him. "Tell me where he is!"
"Sheepfuckistan," I said, and hung up.
It was the wine. I swear.
Not knowing what else to do, I walked out of the bedroom and back to the living room, putting Malcolm's phone on top of his coat before pouring myself another glass of wine and glancing around. A TV sat against the wall. Bingo, I thought. I located the remote and settled down with my bottle of wine.
I was good and drunk by the time Malcolm stumbled out into the living room, wearing only a pair of silk pajama bottoms. His sex-messed hair and evening wood had me thinking dirty, drunken thoughts, and when he kissed me good evening I leaned into his lips and it felt like falling.
“I see you've located the wine,” he said. He took the bottle from my hand—now only a third full—and wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a glass for himself. “I thought we'd go out to dinner. Do you like seafood?”
“I love seafood,” I said. “Ljubav. Love. Love, love, love.”
He took a sip of wine and raised his eyebrows at me. “You speak Croatian?” he asked.
“Hell no,” I said, “I've just been watching Croatian music videos. You can figure out some words from pop songs, because pop songs are the same in every language. All about love and crying and hearts and stuff.” I gestured drunkenly at the television as it flashed a gorgeous, fresh-faced Slavic girl at me, her perfect voice caressing the words as they flowed out of her mouth. I loved it. I love everything when I drink wine. I even loved Malcolm Ward, although I wasn't in love with him. I loved him deeply, though, because he was a fellow traveler on this road of life and all that shit. I'm a soppy drunk.
“You're drunk,” Malcolm said.
“Yup,” I replied. “There wasn't any food in the apartment.”
“True.” He seemed amused. “I'm going to make a few calls and see who wants to give us a private dinner.”
Calls, I thought. There was something about calls that I was supposed to remember, wasn't there? Calls, calls, calls...
Oh, shit, I realized. Malcolm's horrible asshole secretary! He needed to call him back. And I'd answered the phone...
Oh dear. I shouldn't have done that, should I? Well, I was about to be found out, because he was going to turn on his phone and then he'd see all those missed calls and the answered one would be in the record and I'd better confess right now—#p#分页标题#e#
But Malcolm wasn't going for his cell phone. He was instead lifting a handset off the wall and dialing out. Oh my god, a land line! This really was the Old Town. I giggled to myself as Malcolm spoke to the person on the other end of the line, in French. Surprisingly.
After less than a minute's conversation he hung up. “You speak French?” I said.
“Mais oui.” He smiled. “But not as well as I speak German and Japanese. And I certainly don't speak Croatian. I never had the chance to learn. Luckily for me it seems everyone here is multilingual. Dominic knows French best, so I speak to him in French, and he, in turn, laughs at my French. But he will still make the most delectable meal you've ever tasted.”
“He will?” I was dubious. I've had some damn good food in the last year or two. And New York is lousy with hole-in-the-wall restaurants that would make a gourmand weep for joy—if you know where to find them.
“Indeed. We should get dressed.”
Getting dressed took a little longer than it normally does because I was too drunk to match my clothes up, especially because they were all new and I'd never seen any of them before. In the end, Malcolm dressed me, pouring my drunk ass into a corset and delicate stockings before wrapping me up in fine winter clothes and handing me my purse. His hands on me made me happy and warm, and by the soft kisses he planted on my skin I could tell he felt the same. Coming with him had been a good decision. I was sure of it.