His eyes drift to his watch and then to the glittering crowd gathered at the Top of the Mark, a rooftop lounge one floor above his own penthouse suite at the Mark Hotel in San Francisco. "Red," he comments blandly. The color dominates everything: the too rouged cheeks of Chad's latest pop starlet; the eyes of the drunk and nearly drunk friends and associates cutting each other with sharp loud voices full of their own status and wealth; the exotic cloth draped over every surface, just like last year's party, to suggest a Moroccan theme as festive as a fifth wedding anniversary should be. Yet there is Whitney Russell-Harris, tightly cinched in her husband's Armani clad arm and five miles away, five degrees warmer than ice.
"Two of my artists have Grammy nominations this year. Two," Chad declares, sloshing his half finished martini. "That's everything you need to know. When you want in on the hottest production company on the West Coast, you know who to call."
"I have called, but your secretary says you're never in the office."
"Hard work pays the bills, Howard."
"Pretty well, from the looks of it," Howard replies, his eyes sweeping over Whitney. "Is that Valentino?"
"Custom," Chad says, smiling. "Only the best for my baby."
On cue, Whitney produces a thin smile as Chad squeezes her. She doesn't speak; she doesn't have to. She can't find her breath inside the corset tight couture that was borrowed for the night, just like the Harry Winston diamonds coiled around her neck like a dead snake.
"Give me your private number, Harris. Let's hook up some time next week."
When Chad releases her and pulls his PDA out of his pocket, Whitney quickly crosses behind him, touches his elbow. "I'll be back."
"Don't go far, honey," Chad replies absently. "I want you to meet Candace Pratt from Smoke magazine. You know she wants to do that profile on your charity work."
"Okay." Whitney turns and weaves through the crowd, the request left behind like a fallen dance card. Her card is always full; there are always connections to make, work to do at every dinner party she hosts, every birthday party, every wedding anniversary. She dances her life in red shoes, performance after performance.
Whitney slowly makes her way to the bar. And there he is, just like last year, standing still in a formal black tux at odds with the trendy suits swirling all around, exuding power rather than talking about it. She smiles as she approaches, just like last year, before stopping in front of him, clasping his hands, and brushing an air thin kiss over each of his cheeks. "Fox - thanks for coming."
"I wouldn't miss it," he replies, just like last year. "How are you, Whitney?"
"Good." Whitney moves in beside him and signals the bartender; she rests her elbow on the satin smooth walnut bar. "And how are you?"
"Tired, actually. I just flew in from New York three hours ago. Theresa sends her love, by the way."
Whitney lifts a brow. "That's why she couldn't make it? You have her working when she should be at my party?"
"I couldn't stop her from working if I tried," Fox replies dryly. "Whatever else she is, ambitious is at the top of the list. She'll be a senior executive within five years, I guarantee."
"No thanks to you, of course."
"Of course not." His eyes drift to her lips as she sips from her martini glass, and then to her eyes, over-bright beneath the starless skyline and dim lighting. "You look fantastic."
Whitney smirks. "I feel like a mannequin. I can't wait to get out of this dress." She draws a short breath into the confines of her dress when his eyes flicker, exhales when his eyes cool, just like last year. It was different before that; she couldn't turn left without his sable gaze brushing her skin. And then something changed, not absolutely but rather by degrees, the difference between having a fever and simply being hot. "You look great too, Fox, as always." She frowns slightly. He seems to be getting well while she herself has fallen ill. The morning sickness she experienced in her first year of marriage has taken up residence. Nausea has turned to loathing; her gut recoils from spoiled things that once seemed richer fare. "How long are you going to be in town?"
"Until tomorrow night. The San Francisco office is more like a summer house than a home; I never seem to get any work done on the West Coast." Fox flicks his wrist, barely glancing at his watch; whatever the hour, it's time to go. He's paid his tribute for this year. "I really should get back to my room. I have a few calls to make."
"Where are you staying?"
"Here at the Mark. Downstairs, actually." He sips the last of his cognac, places the empty glass on the bar, and closes his chilled fingers gently around her bare arm. He allows himself this one liberty just before he leaves, just when he's poised between regret and crossing the line. "It was good to see you, Whitney. Give my regards to Chad. I don't want to swoop in while he's working the room; I'll be shaking hands for another half hour."
Whitney chuckles. "I will." Another hand clasp, but this time she presses a single kiss to his cheek, heavy with lipstick and things unsaid. "We should touch base more often. I feel like I haven't talked to you in ages."
"You haven't." His expression is still beneath the imprint of her lips, but there is the flicker again, flourishing this time.
Whitney takes another breath, a sigh of relief. "That's my fault," she concedes lightly, her thumb brushing the back of his hand. "But it's never too late to catch up, right? Maybe tonight."
"Tonight?"
"After the party, there's an after party at a club, and then an after, after party at someone's house . . ." Whitney trails off, smiling slightly. "Maybe I'll stay for a while and we can talk, just you and me."
"I'd love to. I'm in penthouse B. It's private access, so call from the desk and . . ."
"I still have your number, Fox," she interrupts softly. "I'll just call you."
For the first time that night, he smiles. "I look forward to it."
Just like last year, Whitney watches him part the sea of admiring and envious eyes that flit around the Crane name like flies, his gait even, either oblivious or unconcerned. But something has changed, not absolutely but rather by degrees, the difference between simply being cold and being frozen. She has changed; she has woken up after five years, desperate for warmth.
Whitney's hands tremble on the clasp of her purse as she pulls out her lipstick, checks her reflection in the mirrored door of the private elevator slowly descending from the top floor. She paints her lips, presses them together, infusing color into her parched complexion. Beneath a hundred dollars worth of cosmetics, she is skeletal. "I need this," she whispers, her voice raw with starvation.
The elevator pings, the doors slide, and there he is, stripped down to slacks and a tailored dress shirt rolled up over his forearms. In his eyes, there is still just that flicker. But that will change; it has to. "Hi Fox."
"Hi." He shifts left as she enters and slips his key card into the unmarked slot in the wall. "I wondered if you were going to make it."
"You know how it is. I had to make my excuses to everyone, to Chad." Whitney feels the shift even before her eyes lift to his - the flicker becomes a slow smolder, apprehensive, aware. But not angry. She turns to him, brushes her loose hair from her shoulder. "I'm at home right now, officially." Not alarmed. She smiles.
"I see." Silence drapes over them, its thick hide pierced only by the soft whoosh of the elevator. A pin drop ping sounds when they reach the penthouse; the doors slide open. "After you," Fox says softly.
"Thank you." Whitney precedes him to the room, turns when she reaches the door, smiles again. "I'm glad you could make time for me tonight. It really means a lot to me."
"Of course." Fox inserts the key under the red light; there is a snick, a green light. But no yellow light, no yield sign. He exhales a deep breath as he pushes open the door and steps into the small foyer, relaxing into understanding. Pale yellow light from a chrome wall fixture darkens his shirt to butter cream, his hair to caramel, his eyes to chocolate. Rich fare. "I'm glad you took the time. Come in, please."
"Thank you." Whitney begins to re-orient herself right away: she abandons her heels next to the long lamp in the foyer, her purse on the small glass table running the length of the jacquard upholstered sofa. "Lovely room," she comments, grazing over the elegant details of the living area, its sedate spring colors blue hued in the inky light pouring in from the panoramic window. "Do you stay here often?"
"No. It was convenient, given the party. I've thought about keeping an apartment in town, but I'm rarely here." Fox shrugs as he moves to the bar. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Actually, I'd love some ice water," Whitney replies breezily, crossing to him. "I'm parched. I've been sipping champagne and cocktails all night."
Fox chuckles softly. "Yes. You never did much more than sip. Compared to you, I should have a standing reservation at Betty Ford."
Her eyes widen. "Why? Is everything alright?"
"Fine. I'm exaggerating," he assures, pressing a water glass into her hand. "Trying to be funny." He grins. "And how are things with you, Whitney? Really."
"Well, let's see: I'm a wife and a mother; Misha's great - she just had a birthday last month."
"Five years old," Fox murmurs.
"Going on twenty," Whitney drawls, rolling her eyes. "And Chad's great. So everything should be great. However . . ." She stops, her eyes drifting to the floor, her shoulders sagging. "I've been married five years, Fox, and it feels like five hundred."
Fox swallows thickly; he lowers his glass. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize things had turned for the worse."
She smiles thinly. "Well, how could you? We haven't really spoken in years."
"A year and five months," he corrects softly. "Not since you told me that you were leaving him and then changed your mind."
Her pupils dilate; she sighs. "You haven't forgiven me, have you?"
"I have," he replies through a clenched jaw, "but I haven't forgotten." The cognac that slips down his throat inflames the reopened wound rather than soothing it. "Is that why you came tonight, Whitney? Is that what you want to talk about?"
"Actually, Fox, I don't really want to talk at all." Whitney's fingers drift to his shirt front and then between the buttons binding the rich creamy fabric. He tenses at her touch; his abdomen spasms. "I want to spend the night with you."
Red light; green light. Yes or no. There has only ever been one question ricocheting through him like a bullet seeking a target. And whatever else has changed, five years have not diminished his desire for an answer. Fox's gaze locks on her eyes, but the answer is not there behind the shutters. Perhaps it is on her lips; his mouth closes over hers, just tasting, just asking. Perhaps it is in the line of poetry running along her neck and shoulder; his lips drift slowly over the verse, his breath on her skin as soft as vespers. Perhaps it is branded on her skin, behind the zipper that he draws down, beneath the black silk shantung that he crushes under foot as he draws closer to her. His manicured nails drag down her back, deciphering Braille, but not understanding it.
"Mmm," Fox murmurs almost inaudibly just before their mouths part with a soft moist snick. He runs his tongue over his slick lips, tasting sin and need, but not an answer. Perhaps it is there beneath the flutter of silk, beneath the soft sweet swell of flesh that his fingers graze as he cups her backside, in that radiant hot place just inches from his fingers. His grip tightens as he surges, coils, his skin tightening. Red light; green light. Go.
They drift to the plush carpeted floor, into silence and slow motion, until he finally drifts into her. "Mmmm." Even when he isn't kissing her, his lips press against her skin, tasting, seeking satisfaction. He can't get close enough, or deep enough, or slow enough to spread the moment over five years of waiting; even as he goes on and on, rising and falling, panting, staring at her, the moment draws thinner, tighter, until it snaps. He hears his name called out it round bell tones that ring and ring until his whole world screeches to a halt.
