With or Without You (12 page)

‘Oh, yes.’ I wanted to say. ‘You can most definitely help me. You can help me obliterate any thoughts or emotions I still have left for my ex-boyfriend.’

‘How can I do that?’ he would ask.

‘Simple,’ I would tell him with a sexy half-smile stolen directly from Nora. ‘You can bend me over your beautiful messy desk and fuck the living daylights out of me. Touch me while you fuck me. Bring one hand between my legs and stroke my pussy for me, then pinch my clit
hard. I’ll cry out when I come, calling your name over and over, and that will take you to your own limits. People on other floors will hear us, and they’ll come running to see what the problem is. But there won’t be any problem. There will just be you and me, locked together, our clothes dishevelled, our bodies as one.’

Where in the hell had that come from? Had being part of a sexual sandwich with Nora and Dean turned me into a whole new person? Had seeing that threesome afterwards – and briefly a foursome once Nora had entered the party – done something to my brain?

Thank God, I had a mission. If I’d been without one, I would have stood there like a total moron, gazing at him the way a teenybopper would look at one of her idols in the flesh. Unable to think, or speak, or breathe. Yes, I’d worked with Anthony in the past, had been in his presence often enough to consider him a solid acquaintance if not an actual friend. But I rarely ever spoke to him one on one, and never with him looking at me like that.

With only a slight tremble to my voice, I told him what I wanted, handed him the papers, then waited for his answer. I forced myself to stare at him, and I stamped down on the urge to give myself over to another sexual fantasy. How easy it would be to lose myself in his eyes, daydreaming about what it might be like to be as sexually free spirited as Nora is.

‘Honestly, I’m not all that good at ancient Greek,’ Anthony said, still looking at me instead of the ancient pages. ‘Give me a few tablets of cuneiform and I’ll take you places you’ve never been, baby.’ He gave me an unexpectedly lounge lizard-like look, and I nearly giggled. Where was my self-confidence? Where was my poise? Standing in front of his desk, I felt like as nervous as an intern, useless and unsure of myself.

Still, I was on a mission – my lovely, trusted mission – and I forced myself to explain to him what I needed. ‘Serina told me you’re a whiz at Greek.’

Serina works in our ancient art department, dating objects. When we receive something from an archaeological dig, she studies the piece until she can place it in the correct time period. I knew that she was a friend of Anthony’s, and I had gone to her for help before walking down the hall and into this world of trains.

‘I studied it, sure,’ Anthony said, ‘but I never got higher than a solid C.’ He sounded as if he were teasing me, or lying to me, and I had no idea why.

‘I don’t have cuneiform,’ I told him matter-of-factly, thankfully sounding much more like myself and less like a fawning fan. ‘I don’t have hieroglyphics. I don’t have Sanskrit. I have this.’ I stared at Anthony, challenging him – Serina had told me that Anthony likes a challenge – and he stared right back at me through those sexy glasses in heavy tortoiseshell frames. Mmm, I liked the way he looked in those. At Nora’s insistence, I’d long ago traded my round frames for more chic European-style reading glasses. But on Anthony, the old-fashioned lenses made him look more appealing than ever.

‘You’re the only one here who can come close to translating this,’ I insisted. ‘And, besides –’ now, I realised why he was playing with me ‘– you just won some sort of award for a Greek translation. It was written up in the ARTSI in-house newspaper. And you majored in ancient literatures at Oxford right?’

Anthony nodded, looking slightly embarrassed. I turned my head to check out the various diplomas on the walls. A plethora of awards and medals fought for room on the bookshelves. Anthony Ginsburg is a top-rate academic – modest, perhaps – but brilliant.

While I took in my surroundings, I heard Anthony breathe in deeply and then exhale, almost longingly. I faced him again and gave him a curious look, and he quickly stared down at his cluttered desk, at the papers spread before him in the one clear section. With me watching him, forcing him to do something, he opened his top desk drawer, removed a pair of thin rubber gloves
and slid them on. Instantly, I was captivated by the movements of his hands, fingers interlaced evenly to secure the gloves before he gingerly lifted the first piece of paper from the sheath. He looked so intent as he worked that I almost felt as if I’d disappeared, vanished entirely from the scene. With his eyes so focused on the papers, I let myself fade into a brand-new fantasy. This was an unusual sort for me, but I didn’t fight the vision, didn’t stop myself, didn’t say no.

As I watched him work, I envisioned his gloved fingers on me, touching me as carefully as he touched the pages. I saw myself spread out on top of his desk, as if I were a piece of artwork, something valuable that needed classifying.

The desk was different in my daydream. It was clean, for one thing, and covered with a red leather padding. Anthony spread me out and began probing and examining me.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘A work of art.’

I easily imagined the feel of the chilled rubber against my skin, the sensation of his rubber-tipped fingers sliding into my willing open pussy. I was dripping wet, and he noticed. There would have been no way for him not to. He gave me a fierce look as he slid his fingers in ever deeper, and then he brought the evidence of my arousal in front of my eyes, waiting for me to acknowledge how turned on I was.

With my eyes lowered, I started to blush. Even in my fantasies, I’m shy.

‘So wet,’ he said, ‘you’re so fucking wet,’ bringing me closer to him as he spoke, pressing me up against the length of his still-clothed member. He was hard and ready, and I revelled in the sensation of impending pleasure. What would it take for him to fuck me? What would I have to do? ‘Do you see how wet you are?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you so wet, Eleanor?’

‘Because …’ I stammered, unwilling, unable to continue.

‘Because why?’

I was undone, my hair loose and falling in my face, my heart racing. Every uptight part of me vanished, and I was his to take, to mould, to do with as he desired, however he desired. I was like Nora for once. Someone willing to walk down an unknown road, or to chart a new path, discovering pleasure in untold ways.

Where had that fantasy come from? In all the years I lived with Byron, I’d never had a similar thought. In all the times I’ve been to a doctor, I’d never once dreamed up a fantasy like this. Now, in less than five minutes of standing before Anthony, I’d envisioned one of the dirtiest scenarios I could think of. Sure, I knew that in Nora’s world a doctor/patient concept would be positively G-rated on the scale of naughty thoughts. For me, however, this was unique.

Anthony remained focused on the papers. I looked at him, and continued to fantasise. It felt deviously decadent, having sexual thoughts about him while he was so close. I could kiss him if I wanted to. I could lean forwards and brush all the papers off his desk – the old ones and the new ones – littering the floor of his office with a mess of manuscripts. I could put myself in front of him and make him notice me.

I pictured myself wearing an outfit much more suitable to Masquerade Night at the Pink Fedora than for a day of work at ARTSI – something tight and white, short enough to show the tops of a pair of garters, complete with fishnets and clear high-heeled stripper shoes. Something Nora would have in the front of her closet for a Wednesday or Thursday, not for any special reason at all. I’d have my hair up and wear chandelier earrings, so long that they’d brush my collarbone. When we fucked, I’d leave on the earrings and the shoes. Nothing else. Anthony would like me this way. I knew it. He would
want me to leave on the shoes, to use them as we made love, to leave marks on the backs of his legs from where I dug in with those heels.

Christ, who did I think I was, having thoughts like this? What would Anthony say if he could read my mind the way he was reading the manuscript? What did I really want from him? Not for him to decipher this sheaf of ancient Greek papers, but to decipher me.

I felt a world-class blush work from my jaw up to bloom in my cheeks.

‘It looks like Greek,’ Anthony said, ‘but how did
you
know that’s what it was?’

Grateful that he was still looking at the pages instead of looking at me, I cleared my throat and explained, ‘The clay pot.’ I didn’t take offence at the question. There was no reason why I would have been able to tell it was Greek. It’s not my field. ‘I brought in several of the fragments to Serina this morning and she placed it for me. She says Athens, most likely, based on the types of designs. She couldn’t immediately give me a date, but she’s still working on it. Just from the few pieces I brought her, and from the quality of the workmanship, she thinks it’s about three hundred
BC
.’

Anthony whistled appreciatively and then began sliding each page into a separate clear plastic envelope and sealing the tops firmly. ‘Trying to protect it from the elements,’ he explained, although I knew what he was doing. ‘I think the pages are made of papyrus. That’s what it feels like, anyway. Must have been doing some trading with the Egyptians. But whatever it is, it’s older than old. Who are you going to give the manuscript to?’

He continued to house the pages in safe surroundings, but he looked up at me when I didn’t immediately answer. I stared back at him, totally disregarding his question and fixating instead on the colour of his eyes. Even through the thick glasses, they were hypnotising. Anthony has bottle-green eyes, and they seemed to gleam beneath the fluorescent lights. His eyes are a
different colour to Nora’s, darker and deeper, like still water in a lake. Nora’s change colour with her moods, turning a light blue, a pale grey, a soft minty green. Anthony’s didn’t look as if they would go any colour but darker. I wondered if I’d have the chance to experiment, to find out how they’d look when he was happy, how they’d look when he was intent and how they’d look when he was lost in the midst of a climax, with me astride him.

I could practically feel it, the way my body would fit on top of his. He’d look up at me, his glasses off, his eyes so dark they were almost black. He would reach one hand up and trace the outline of my lips, then slide two fingers into my mouth and let me suck on them.

Oh, Lord. I really was turning into Nora. A sex queen. Would I have a billboard out on Sunset of my own one day, like Nora in her pink fedora?

‘I mean, which museum?’ Anthony asked when I remained silent. I willed the dirty thoughts to leave my head. Maybe instead of asking him to be my private translator, I should have just gotten it over with and asked him to fuck me. Would he turn me down? Or would he tell me to lock the door, push me up against the back of it, slide one hand up under my skirt until the fabric rippled at the waist. ‘Will you try to keep them here?’ he asked next, prompting me.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, finally, my voice unbelievably steady in relation to what I was actually thinking about. ‘I want to know what the papers say first.’ I knew this wasn’t rational, knew that I sounded like a child, but I couldn’t help myself. It was true.

‘You can’t keep them for yourself,’ Anthony insisted, as if I were insane. ‘They belong in a museum. Or a library. There will probably be a fight for them between Greece and Los Angeles, if I know anything about how the museums work these days.’ He indicated a newspaper clipping posted on his bulletin board. ‘You’re following the fight for the art stolen by Nazis, aren’t you?
The descendants want it back. The European museums say that it’s been theirs for so long, they now own it. Does time really create ownership? If someone stole a car, but kept it hidden for twenty years, would the car then be owned by the thief or should it go back to the original purchaser?’

‘Then we won’t tell anyone right away,’ I said, my voice dipping into a conspiratorial tone, which wasn’t like me at all. ‘You do what you can with them. I’m going to cruise the Net to see if I can locate any other ancient Greek historians.’

‘I may have just turned forty, but I’m not all that ancient,’ Anthony said quickly, ‘except, I suppose, by LA standards.’

He was smiling at me now. I watched as he pushed a lock of wayward hair away from his glasses and, for an instant, I could see what he must have looked like as a kid. Then, with an impatient gesture, he took off the thick frames, set them on his desk, and ran one hand over the bridge of his nose. With glasses on, Anthony looks like what he is: a studious translator of ancient literature. With the glasses off and face tilted upwards towards me, the seriousness faded away. He looked a bit like Superman, or like Clark Kent, still in the ‘before’ role:
before
the crises started,
before
the glasses were tossed in a corner as he prepared to go off and save the world. I suddenly understood why Nora had called Anthony the James Bond of the museum.

They shouldn’t allow smart people to be so sexy, I thought. It simply isn’t fair.

Every time I looked into his eyes I forgot what I was about to say. It took me a few seconds to regain my composure, then I said, trying to joke with him, ‘You’re not ancient at all, just terribly knowledgeable.’ I found myself stroking Anthony’s ego without thinking, used to wheedling Byron in this same way, manoeuvring in a slightly underhanded fashion to get what I wanted. It didn’t seem to have much effect on Anthony. At least,
not until I added, ‘And if you can translate at least a page for me by dinner time, I’ll take you out to eat. You name the place.’

That got his attention, and he slid his glasses back on and made a dismissive gesture with his hand, one I had seen him use often with other museum workers who were bothering him.

The gesture meant that he had already started working and would like to be left in peace. I was quick to oblige. As I closed the door behind me, Anthony called out, ‘I’ll have something for you by five, Eleanor.’ A pause, then, ‘Don’t be late.’