Love under contract (3 page)

He arrived at the restaurant before she did. Zara was late – that was also her way. She didn’t want to wait for anyone – if, then it should be the other way around – except, of course, in her job. There she was punctual, but that was different.

Robert saw her coming and stood up. He had good manners, which one couldn’t say for all men. The waiter took her pink coat and Robert smiled; he liked the dress -- no, rather the woman in it -- Yves Saint Laurent, crepe with a ruffled hemline and at the cuff of the long, narrow sleeves, with a plunging neckline, of course – and all that in a warm, pale pink, with three-inch strappy heels. Her hair was pinned up, with a few stray wispy curls framing her face.

She extended her hand from a distance and he kissed it lightly. The guests at the next table watched them, recognizing both, but he and she had long accepted the fact that they would never be anonymous anywhere.

She sat down. Robert had already ordered Champagne and whispered. “I’ve heard from Walters that you’re very choosy as far as Champagne is concerned.” Zara smiled; he was really hot! “Not only regarding Champagne, as you may have heard.” He should be made aware right away that she didn’t go to bed with just anyone.

He grinned and unfolded his napkin. “I’ve taken the liberty of putting together the menu for you with the help of the chef.” A dominating macho guy, she thought, and was a little disappointed. Well, let’s see how well he does. Ducasse came to greet them both – Zara knew him from her mother’s last wedding, where he had been responsible for the food, and she knew his prices rivaled a very good lawyer’s.

Zara was actually not a big eater, but men usually directed their gaze on things other than if she had cleared her plate. Even Robert looked more into her eyes and at her neckline than at her plate, and Zara thought he wouldn’t notice that she ate hardly anything.

Zara couldn’t complain. Robert was charming and amusing, just as she had expected.  They went to a bar nearby after dinner, and Zara knew he was used to the fact that women usually went home with him on the first date. In this regard Zara would disappoint him.

It was already after midnight when she looked at her watch quite deliberately. “Senator, I believe it’s time for me . . .” “Oh, Zara . . .” He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “May I see you again?” She didn’t take her hand away. “Would you like to?” she replied coquettishly in return. He looked deep into her eyes. “Yes, you can’t believe how much . . .” Robert had really not expected that she would go home with him on the first evening; she had been quite distant.  She was the perfect example of a princess, he thought, and he had been careful not to become too familiar during the course of the evening, fearing that she would get up and leave.

And even the meal had apparently not appealed to her, since she had moved the food around the plate unenthusiastically. Perhaps she was used to something better, although she had greeted the chef joyfully. He had no idea what the two talked about, since his French amounted to no more than a single sentence about a topic which definitely didn’t come up.

Now, as they stood on the dark street and waited for a taxi, he could put his arm around her. She allowed him to do so and looked at him, just as he looked at her. She was beautiful, he noticed for the hundredth time this evening, and imagined how she would look naked, how it would be when she lay under him, as she moaned when he took her. He sighed; the mere thought of her body aroused him.

“Are you cold, Senator?” she asked, as she saw his strange look. Robert grinned. “No, not at all, you?” Zara was cold, the thin little dress didn’t keep her warm, but that’s the way it was – one must suffer for beauty’s sake. “The taxi is here.”

Zara was apartment-hunting again. The realtor had reported that a banker had bought the entire house that she was interested in, and that he had priority over someone who had just wanted to rent, and that the owner had actually wanted to get rid of the stone house.

During a lunch break, she found an acceptable flat that was also affordable, not far from the original apartment that she had loved and lost. Even though Zara earned a very good salary, she found the rental rates in New York outrageous.

She moved in on the weekend, and in the next few days, as she passed “her” stone house, she saw contractors working and sighed. The house was so beautiful: three floors, large terrace area within the center court; the apartment that she had wanted to rent also had a balcony,  a foyer and a hallway, natural stone floors, and it was full of light! It was also move-in ready -- there were only a few renovations to be made. The house reminded her of the south of France and now a banker was moving in. Perhaps she should transfer to another department, she thought; it would still be several years before she would become a partner in the legal division.

In the meantime, she and Robert had seen each other several times and she knew that the next time he would expect her to sleep with him. She was reluctant – actually he was not her type. He was too stiff, too conservative. After going out together now and then, she didn’t find him especially erotic, not at all that attractive, too smooth.

In the gossip columns, as she discovered on her way from the new apartment to the subway, she was already being described as the new Jackie O, and there were photos of the two of them again and again. She sighed and threw the newspaper in the next trash bin. She also didn’t want to deny that he had serious intentions, but she kept him at a distance, because actually she had someone else in her sights.

She passed by the house again, and noticed large moving vans in front with packed boxes and cartons bearing stickers that read “London.”  The banker apparently comes from London, she thought, and walked on toward the subway station.

In the train she leafed through the
Wall Street Journal
and came across an announcement that she read with considerable interest. Gregor Levy was the new CEO of LHM. That was intriguing; obviously, that’s why he was suddenly in New York.  Apparently the rumor that had been rampant throughout the city for months was correct. LHM was a conglomerate of various high-end fashion houses and the largest concern in the field.

Possibly he’s going on another shopping spree, she thought, and folded the newspaper. Her stop was next. She had to keep her eye on this, Zara decided, as she got off the subway train. This was a possible starting-point to do him in.

That morning Gregor looked out of the window of the only room that didn’t resemble a construction site, and saw Zara passing by in front of his house, buried in a newspaper, with a paper cup in her hand. What time was it actually? He glanced at his wristwatch: it was 7:30 a.m. He could hardly believe it and looked out again. She was headed to the subway station. With her hair down, her Burberry trenchcoat, and her beige briefcase, he hardly recognized her, but it was definitely Zara.

She had been at a campaign event with Robert yesterday. That rascal had roped her into it, and she was in no way at home before 2:00 a.m. He knew exactly what time it was because he had gone out to eat with Julia and then to a bar. As they walked by the hotel, some guests had dropped some Democrat stickers inadvertently. It was definitely after 2:00 a.m.

Gregor also knew that the partners in the firm where Zara worked demanded such a high level of performance that her long name wouldn’t be of any use. He wondered how old she actually was – twenty-five? – no, that was too young; she was, after all, a Harvard Law graduate, and had been working in New York for two years as a lawyer. She had to be at least twenty-eight.  A workman interrupted Gregor’s thoughts. He was standing in the doorway with some kind of component in his hand and wanted to know where it belonged.

Gregor sighed. Actually, everything was supposed to be finished already, but originally the owner of the house wanted to rent out the individual apartments, and now some renovations had to be done. The house was very beautiful and expensive, but he could afford it. He left the room and went down the great wooden staircase to the hall. In addition to the high ceilings, the stone and hardwood floors had most appealed to him.

The house was actually too large for him alone and reminded him of the fact that he didn’t enjoy being by himself. He thought of his older brother who already had four children, with a fifth on the way. Not that he wanted his brother’s way of life, but sometimes he had a longing – just a little – and he thought of Julia. Without a doubt, she was beautiful, but he couldn’t imagine spending his life with her. And besides, she wasn’t Jewish, and was therefore out of the question. His parents would never accept her, would they? In truth, he had never discussed it with his parents. Apparently his parents had come to terms with the thought that he would remain a bachelor.

Zara came back from jogging and, as always, wanted to stop for a cup of coffee in the little café around the corner from her apartment. She liked the café because it reminded her of her old life in Paris. As she entered, the owner recognized her immediately. “You’ll have your coffee in a moment, Mademoiselle!” Zara smiled, leaned on the brown counter and tightened the rubber band around her ponytail. An advantage of the new apartment was that she didn’t know anyone who lived in the neighborhood. She didn’t have to put on make-up; she could stand here, sweaty in her running-shorts, leafing through the newspaper while she waited for her coffee. “Here you are.” Without raising her head she reached for the coffee, and then looked up, in disbelief. No one whom she knew was supposed to be living here, she thought again! She had never expected Gregor Levy!

Gregor had developed a similar habit here in New York. After jogging, he headed to the café, drank his coffee at the counter, and leafed through the newspapers. The owner saw to it that he had both Israeli and German papers. He didn’t believe his eyes as he saw Zara in her red shorts. She didn’t look over twenty-five, more like eighteen, completely without make-up and with a messy ponytail, red cheeks from running, and buried in a French newspaper. They were both strangers in this city and that perhaps drew them to this café.

“Now really, Your Highness,” Gregor said, and Zara sighed. “There’s apparently no getting away from you anywhere in New York!” She took a sip of her black coffee.  “We’ve obviously chosen the same café,” Gregor said amiably, and put his newspaper down. Zara took a look; “
Frankfurter Allgemeine
,” she said.  He should realize that she had more than a title – an education, for example. Gregor looked at her, astonished. “Don’t tell me. You speak German.” Zara laughed, her eyes shining.  There was quite a bit he didn’t know.

She looked at him. “You speak French, why shouldn’t I be able to speak German?” she responded saucily, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “We apparently don’t only share a café but also a hobby,” she said and looked him over. He has well-developed legs and the rest of him is nothing to sneeze at, she had to admit. He was wearing a tight-fitting pair of running shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt through which his broad chest and his muscular arms were clearly evident.  There was good reason why he was once a well-paid top model, Zara thought.

He also hadn’t shaved and his short blond hair wasn’t combed; he apparently runs right after getting up, just as she does.  She found herself spontaneously smiling.

“What would you say if we declared this a neutral zone,” he suggested. He really didn’t want to have arguments here in the mornings, and he also didn’t want to have to look for another café. He studied her face; she had tiny freckles around her nose, which he had never seen before, probably because she covered them up with make-up. What a shame.

She gave him a side-long glance; actually she didn’t want to find another café either, particularly since there were French  newspapers available here and the coffee was good. No, she didn’t want that, and besides, she could watch him here and decide which weapons to choose to crush him.

The owner pushed a croissant in Gregor’s direction and said to him in Hebrew, “I forgot this; the princess always confuses me.” He grinned and jerked his head toward Zara. “Amos, get one of your raisin twists for Her Highness; she’s too skinny as she is.” Amos flashed his grin and brought Zara a plate. “At the request of the gentleman next to you.” Zara looked at Gregor in surprise. She was also surprised that he spoke Hebrew. She knew that he was Jewish, but she knew other Jews who didn’t know a single word of the language beyond their Bar Mitzvah lessons.

“What is this? Do you want to poison me?” she asked. She looked at the yellow-ish brown thing with the raisins and the sugar glaze on the plate in front of her, and figured at least 400 calories, if not more!

Gregor looked at her, amused. “So what do you think about the neutral zone?” he asked again. Zara sighed, and said, “Well, alright, but only for Amos’s sake, and because otherwise I would miss the coffee and his newspapers.” She had to hide her intentions, conceal her goals, and see what he liked.

“Then eat the raisin twist.” She picked up the pastry with her well-groomed fingers, and carefully took a little bite. Gregor laughed. It tasted good, Zara determined; yes, it really tasted good. Why did he do that, what did he have in mind? she wondered. Gregor crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And you’re still alive?” “Okay, it’s good, everything is fine.” “Only good?” he asked, as if he were offended.  “Okay, very good. Do you want to fatten me up?” She made a scornful face. Gregor suddenly had the desire to kiss this girl. He couldn’t explain it, but her big green eyes confused him, too. Naturally, he didn’t do it; his wish actually frightened him.

“So, are you going to be the next First Lady?” he asked, and watched as she finished eating the raisin twist. She swallowed the last bite. “Oh, you read the gossip columns,” she observed. “Sometimes.” “What would you like to know?” she asked, and took a sip from the mug. “What would I like to know?” he replied. He was the son of a rabbi and understood this kind of banter, old tradition, answering a question with a question. “Something that Robert doesn’t want to tell you?” “You’re not bad.” “I’m a lawyer!” she laughed. “Now, what would Robert not tell me?” he asked. This was interesting. She was quiet for a moment, and deliberated. Naturally Robert bragged about his women – and with his reputation, it was to be expected.  “How often he had slept with me!” This was the old Zara, and she probably shouldn’t have said that, it didn’t fit the aristocratic role that she was playing here in New York; but let’s see how he reacts. Gregor almost choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?” She astonished him, he didn’t expect that she would say something like that, here in a café.  She continued: “Now, I can add two and two. Robert is a ladies’ man, what does he tell a friend?” “That’s good; I thought your field was business law. You should consider switching to criminal law,” he suggested. “Sometimes there’s no difference between the two . . .” She looked down; these damn contact lenses are hurting again, she thought.