Page 76 of Casanova LLC

“Talk? About?”

“Men.”

“Men? What about men?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

She laughed. “These old palazzos have quite the echo, yes, everything! How they work, what makes them tick, I need to know what you know. How you became so different.” I opened my mouth but she held up a hand. “I know you’re a three-day fantasy, but, for my future, I need to know what to look for in a man; and also what to look out for.”

I didn’t know how to handle her request. I’d never done this before. This was not part of the program. Of any program. Besides the fact that there was a part of me—a growing part of me—that didn’t enjoy contemplating her “future.”

“I mean, I can’t distill ten years of training and two hundred years of knowledge into one conversation?—”

“I just want the basics. The how and why of the way the male animal functions in the natural world. Simple.”

“Uhhh…” It came out like tires spinning in sand. I was hoping to find a way out of this, but I couldn’t. “Let’s…go downstairs, then.”

She smiled at me. She was eighty percent herself again, which meant I was eighty percent convinced I could turn this whole thing around by saying, “Or wouldn’t you like to have your three-day fantasy man make you come again?”

But she was already standing, fingering her robe. “Should I change?”

I slapped my knees—like an uncomfortable dad in some 80s movie—and stood, too. “No, no need.”

I pulled myself together, regaining control of all this. I walked over to my bed, where I’d discarded a robe earlier, and said, “I’ll dress to match.” With my back to her, I dropped the towel. It was gimmicky, probably, some adolescent tit-for-tat for her dropping the towel at the massage table yesterday. I took my time putting on the robe, belting it. I had taken back some control of the situation. I was sure I could feel her desire again.

I turned around, ready to see all of that reflected on her face.

But instead, I saw the back of her head.

She was looking at the freshly painted canvas.

Claire

“What’s this?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice heading away, toward the door. “Shall we?”

I reached out to touch it; I couldn’t help it. I pulled my hand back. “The paint is wet.” I spun to look at him. “When did you?—”

“Earlier.” His hand was on the doorknob. “It’s no big deal.”

“Yes, but. That no-big-deal is me. Isn’t it?”

Eventually, he nodded. Just once.

I turned back to it. “You’re painting again.”

He came over to me but didn’t speak. For a moment, I just felt his heat at my back. And then he exhaled. A significant sigh.

“It’s stunning.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?”

“And now you’re going to ask why.”

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