A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,33

had been genuinely sorry to hear he’d been shipped off to Africa, but now that I saw his work, I realised it might well have been the making of him. His paintings were enormous, reckless things, barely containing his passion within the boundaries of the canvas. He had taken Africa as his muse and subject and every piece depicted either landscape or dark faces. They were interesting faces, too, full of character and mystery, and the closer I looked the more I wanted to.

I stepped back and saw him watching me with an expectant expression.

“They’re rather good, aren’t they?”

“They’re brilliant and you know it. I’d buy the lot if I could,” I told him truthfully.

“I’d let you if I could,” he said with a smile. “There’s a fellow named Hillenbrank who means to open a gallery in Nairobi. He’s promised me a show when he gets it off the ground.”

It was a small thing, a gallery exhibition in a backwater like Nairobi, particularly for an artist who had shown in New York. But Kit was happy and I was the last person who would rain on that particular parade. Like most artists, he was prone to dark moods and sulking fits, and I was practiced at tap dancing around them.

I smiled widely and slipped my hand in his. “You deserve it, darling. They’re important.”

Important is the magic word with artists, the “open sesame” that causes them to drop their guard and let you inside. They all want to think that they are contributing something to humanity, bless them, and nothing fuels their creative fire like believing they will sign their names in the history books with daubs of oil paint. Still, I meant it. There was something truly moving about his art, a sureness to his technique that had not been there before and a newfound confidence in what he wanted to say. And I wanted to listen.

He fixed a wretched lunch we didn’t eat and made up for it with a sturdy batch of gin-and-tonics.

“The tonic water keeps malaria at bay,” he told me.

“Really?”

“No. It’s something the Brits made up to justify drinking enough gin to stagger a sailor. But it sounds good,” he added with an impish smile.

He reached for me then and I didn’t put up much of a fight. Some men want a lot of resistance; it makes them feel like conquering heroes. But others, like Kit, are content with a token refusal. I said no, but his hand was already inside my shirt, and I didn’t say it again. I had forgotten about his hands. They might have been leaving hands, but while they hung around, they were damned good at what they did. We tried a few old favourites and a couple of new things, and by the time we finished, we were both sticking to the sheets. Africa was hot and still that afternoon and I was happy to drowse with a gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“God, I had forgotten how good you are at that,” he said. “Why did we ever stop seeing each other?”

“I left for London to go to a wedding.”

“So? That shouldn’t have stopped us.”

“I was the bride.”

He laughed and reached for his own glass. His other hand was tucked behind his head, showing off his chest to excellent advantage. He was a brilliant poser, always settling into a position designed to accentuate the long, handsome lines of his body, as if an invisible life class hovered nearby, charcoal in hand, waiting to capture his likeness. He turned his face so it was in three-quarter profile.

“What happened to that husband?”

“Divorced. He’s my lawyer now. And there’s been another since him. A Russian prince who died on me before I could get my divorce.”

“Poor darling Delilah. Unlucky in love,” he murmured into my hair.

I got up then and went to the ancient gramophone by the window, wearing nothing but the black silk ribbon at my wrist. I sorted through the recordings before slipping one onto the machine. I wound it up and dropped the needle on “The Sheik of Araby.” I suddenly felt a little jangly and the music suited my mood.

“Tell me about this place,” I instructed him. “I want to hear about the neighbours and what you do for fun.”

“Well, you’ll be the belle of the ball if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said with a grin. He knew me too well. “The king and queen, appropriately enough, are Rex and Helen