Closer (8 page)

Shutting her eyes slowly, she relaxed in his arms, expecting their lips to meet.  But instead, like a cruel joke, he freed her and brusquely turned away from her with a smirk.

She glared at him, seeking out why she felt disappointed that he had released her.  “You’re a real asshole, Sven,” she finally replied, a hint of dejection creeping into her voice.  “I hope you realize that.”

He nodded and lifted up his suit coat from the bed.  “Now you sound more like my girlfriend.”

“An asshole.  Truly.”

“Come now,” he directed her, waving his coat like he was luring a bull to charge him.  “Help me put on this ridiculous Luxembourg suit coat so we can go get some drinks.”

Chapter Five

Within the elevator, they stood side-by-side in silence as they sped up endless floors to the top of the Watercross Tower. Inez stared at Sven’s reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevator cab.  Dressed in all black, he looked austere and unshakeable—his fitted high-collar suit coat accentuating his black eyepatch and the severe angles of his Dutch profile.  His hair was slicked back and glinted like gold under the elevator’s overhead lights.  He reminded her of a naval commander, mentally preparing himself for battle. 
Was he preparing for battle?
  They had hardly spoken during their drive there in the back of his Rolls Royce; instead, he encouraged James to speed through every yellow traffic light, as if the sensation of the car’s acceleration released his own raging thoughts. 

Inez had known him for less than six hours, but already she had learned that he was a man who was not accustomed to surrendering. Whatever professional and personal agenda he had for tonight’s meeting, it was obvious that he intended to obtain it at all costs.  As the elevator rose, she eyed his stern expression and tolerated his punishing silence in the elevator, realizing his appearance walked a fine line between couture runway model and merciless executioner. In comparison, she gazed at her own ensemble—beaded bolero jacket, emerald and diamond choker necklace, scarlet strapless cocktail dress, and Cinderella slingback heels.  No matter what fruitless protests Inez had made about her own wardrobe, Ebony had been right about one thing: she did look amazing standing next to Sven. 

Ping
.

The elevator chimed and the doors rolled open.  Without warning, Sven took up her hand into his own. 
Like his possession
, she thought, until he waited for her to guide them out of the elevator. 
Okay, maybe more like his equal
, she reluctantly corrected herself.  She led them into the seductive lounge, dimly lit by glowing red lanterns that reflected off the silver legs of the high-back black bar stools.

Red and black
.  A second point for Ebony.  Sven and Inez blended right in.

The maître d’ rushed into the reception area and greeted Sven with recognition.

“Good evening, sir.  The Van der Meer party?”

Sven nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“Right this way.”  As they were ushered toward a long private corridor, Inez halted them in their tracks.

“Look at that view!” she exclaimed, gazing out the lounge’s panoramic windows at the skyline, flawlessly twinkling like a tourist postcard. She involuntarily held her breath, almost certain she could see the curve of the earth.

“Just wait,” Sven replied. “Our table will have an even better view.”

He shook her hand, encouraging her to follow the maître d’ down the corridor, lined with velvet walls and a coffered ceiling, each panel of glass churning with glittering plasma.  The maître d’ nodded with a smile and allowed them to pass by into the private bar lounge.  Anticipation pricked her skin and fluttered within her heart.  Sven’s relentless clasp of her hand was measured and controlled, signaling he wanted her by his side for their entrance.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour.”  The boisterous voice from the man leaning against the bar ricocheted off the polished nickel table tops, announcing their entrance. 

Sven stopped them.  “How many guests are there?” he whispered.

“Three in total.”

“Two men?  One woman?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, observing the other man and woman enjoying their cocktails at a broad table closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows.  Their backs were towards them, but the table’s magenta lamp shades cast a devilish hue on their profiles.  The woman hardly glanced over her bare shoulder, as if the mere act of acknowledging Inez’s presence might strain a muscle in her slender swan neck. 

Sven nodded, confirming his blurry account with her more reliable vision. Like a reflex, he held out his hand to greet the tall, imposing man who approached them.

“And who is this stunning goddess you’ve brought with you tonight?” the man asked, pushing past Sven and sweeping into Inez’s personal space.  He was tall, tanned, and impeccably dressed in a trendy lavender shirt and metallic grey suit vest.

“Inez Sanchez…this is Eliot Watercross,” Sven replied, providing the formal introductions.  “His firm, Watercross Capital, built and financed The Spire, and about a half dozen other buildings in the city.  Including this one.”

Eliot lifted her hand and kissed it.  “Let’s give credit where credit is due.  The Spire was a joint venture with Van der Meer & Associates.  But it’s true that this building, Watercross Tower, is all my own.”

“Which is why you’re one of the most hated men in Chicago,” Inez said, watching his presumptuous lips slip off her hand with uncertainty.

“You’re the man who infamously lobbied City Hall for the rights to fill the Chicago River with dirt and gravel to build the foundation for this skyscraper.”

Eliot’s tiger green eyes seized on Inez.  “Beautiful and smart.  That’s a dangerous combination.  Where did you pick her up, Sven?  One of the architectural boat tours?”

His joke had a hint of mockery beneath it.  She forced a smile, glaring at the smug grin that spread across his tanned face. 

“Not since the nineteenth century, when the Chicago city bosses decided to reverse the flow of the river to send all the sewage waste downstream, has anyone attempted to alter the natural flow of the Chicago River,” Inez sassed back.

Her direct challenge seemed to intrigue him.  Eliot crunched down on the ice from his tumbler and rubbed his chin.

“Beautiful, smart, and well-equipped with a sharp tongue that she’ll happily use against you,” Sven said, placing his own kiss on her hand, like a subtle gesture to mark his territory.  “Best to tread carefully, Watercross.”

Inez shivered, disarmed by the warmth of Sven’s lips against her hand and the sincerity with which he delivered his compliments.

“Always,” Eliot agreed. “I’d offer to take your coat, but it looks like you might want to keep it.  It’s the sweeping vista that sends chills down your spine.  It makes you feel like you’re precariously suspended outside—seventy stories in mid-air.”

Throwing back the rest of his rum, Eliot shamelessly dropped his gaze down onto her cleavage. 

It was more than just the vista
, thought Inez, completely irked by Sven’s business partner.

“It’s probably the fishbowl walls,” Inez replied, attempting to force Eliot’s attention off her boobs. “You must be a Mies van der Rohe fan, like Sven.”

“Miss Sanchez, you’re such an architectural aficionado,” Watercross drawled. “Celeste…looks like you’ve got competition tonight.” 

Eliot called out to woman sitting at the dining table. 
Celeste
.  Inez stared at the woman, remembering Ebony’s hint about Sven’s ex-girlfriend. 

“Shall we?”  Eliot ushered Inez forward, but Sven kept her tethered by the hand.  She understood.  It was a new environment and she made a careful effort to seamlessly guide him to the table.  The man and the woman sat in high-back metallic chairs on the outer edge of the table, forcing Inez to take a seat along the cushioned bench on the opposite side of the table along the windows.  As she slipped into her place, she glanced behind her, conscious of how the curvature of the glass wall accentuated the illusion of dropping eighty stories through a void of darkness to her death.

“We’ve been waiting for you before we let the drinks flow freely.” The unfamiliar man said from across the table.

“Generous, but unnecessary,” Sven replied curtly. 

Inez stared at the man—a younger, blonder version of Sven. 
His brother
.  Then, she glanced over at Celeste, purring over his lap like a cat.  Inez immediately recognized her; she was the same brunette in the framed photograph buried within the drawer of his guest bathroom. 
The one that Sven had been embracing
.  Now, she wore a gold cocktail dress that shimmered every time she crossed and re-crossed her slender waxed legs.  Her French bob cut across her bony cheeks like arrows.

“You’re wrong, Hans,” Celeste said.  “Eliot never makes his guests wait to indulge in their vices.”
Her crystal blue eyes flicked onto Inez—inspecting her hair, dress, figure, and even emerald necklace—before glancing away and pretending Inez wasn’t in front of her at all. 

“Why pray in heaven with angels when you can party in hell with the Devil?” Eliot sneered with delight while refreshing Celeste’s wine glass with the bottle resting on the side bar. 

“I’m going to make that the lead quote in my next blog post,” Celeste exclaimed with melodramatic laughter.

“No, it should be the slogan on your next investment prospectus,” Hans chimed in. 

“Make a deal with the Devil,” Sven added.

“There’s a reason why I’m the only one with enough balls to build the tallest building in the city.” Eliot dug his hand into a glass nut tray on the side bar and popped almonds into his mouth with a crunch. “And it’s not because I’m a saint.”

The waiter scurried into the salon and approached Inez and Sven. “May I get you something to start with?”

“A gin on the rocks,” Sven said without a beat. “And she will have a French Martini.  Shaken.  With extra Chambord.”

Inez smiled at him.  He smiled in return.

“Sven,” Celeste cut in, her eyes glinting like ice. “You haven’t bothered to introduce us to your little friend?”

“Inez…” Sven conceded, as if it almost pained him. “This is Hans, my younger brother and business partner in our architectural firm.  And this is his fiancée, Celeste Cartwright.”

Inez stared at Celeste, then at Hans who kissed Celeste’s wrist like he was idolizing a queen.  They seemed perfectly at ease displaying their affection for each other in front of Sven.

“Well, you clearly know each other well since you already know her favorite drink,” Celeste remarked.  “I think it took you almost a year for you to remember mine.”

“No,” Sven replied dryly. “I knew it was Chardonnay, preferably Californian.  But it always gave you a headache, so it seemed best for you to drink something else.”

“Chardonnay gives you a headache?” Hans asked, like he had just entered the room. Inez noted that his boyish face and flaxen hair made him look like a college football star.

Celeste fingered the stem of her wine glass.  “Yes, dear.  It’s hard to remember everything about me, I know.  Sven has an unfair advantage because he’s known me longer.”

“Plus, he’s a genius with a photographic memory,” Hans replied, popping the final baby shrimp from the shared appetizer into his mouth with the miniature prawn fork.  “The rest of us are just mere mortals quaking in his presence.”

Inez looked at Hans, wondering how much truth was veiled beneath his sarcasm.  Then, she noticed Sven and Celeste, each gazing at the other, as if everyone else had disappeared.

“Which is exactly why Sven was the only architect able to engineer a modern-day vision of the tallest skyscraper in the country,” Eliot cut in, leaning against the rail of the side bar.  He shifted his tiger eyes out the windows at the unobstructed view of the shiny metallic skyscraper rising above every other building like a glinting needle. 

“Well, it is called The Spire for a reason,” Celeste added.

“Because MightyGarishThing.com was already taken?” Inez tossed back.  She wanted Sven to stop staring at Celeste; and it worked.   Instead, they both stared at her.

“Like most native Chicagoans, Inez hates The Spire,” Sven clarified.  “So if you’re trying to impress her, Watercross, you’re going to fail.  Inez is rarely impressed by anything.”

“It’s why you love me,” she sassed back, knowing Sven would simply ignore her.  But not Celeste.  Exactly as Inez wanted, Celeste’s vicious glare narrowed onto her. 

“Well, then…it seems that you were wrong, Eliot,” Celeste suddenly announced.  “Sven’s little friend isn’t much of an architectural aficionado after all because anyone who truly understands modern architecture knows that The Spire is a fearless feat of architectural and structural brilliance.”

“Really?  A fearless feat of architectural and structural brilliance?” Inez repeated and turned to Sven, desperately controlling the urge to openly flambé Sven’s ex-whatever and her clown smile. 

“Yes.” He smiled, clearly enjoying the fact that the two women at the table seemed to be catfighting over him.

“Hm.  I had no idea,” Inez mused with fake ignorance.  “Please enlighten me, Pookey.”

Sven held her gaze, accepting her challenge.  Then, he took up a cocktail napkin from the center of the table and twisted it like a spiraling coil before balancing it on the surface of the table. 

“The Spire is named after the four steel load-bearing beams, entwined in the shape of a corkscrew, narrowing in width as it runs vertically from its foundation to the very top floor.  Three million tons of steel and glass evenly distributed along its center spire, not bolstering its massive weight upwards, but allowing gravity to evenly distribute each pound of steel onto the concentric circles of the interior spire, pulling its full weight down, down, down…It’s the only reason the city agreed to build it in the first place—the cost to construct The Spire was made feasible by its simplistic solution to its load-bearing design.”