The Liberation of Alice Love(52)
Author: Abby McDonald

Yes, she felt different.

The dress was bright red silk, another of Ella’s excellent selections. As Alice skipped lightly down the hotel steps and hailed a convenient taxi, she saw an adolescent boy in the street stop to blink at her, his ice cream, momentarily forgotten, dripping dangerously low. She laughed, blowing him an impulsive kiss, and slid into the car. “Via Veneto, Per Sempre,” she declared, naming a new bar she’d overheard two glossy-haired shoppers discuss. It was apparently the most stylish, exclusive spot in the city, and Alice felt it a crime to waste her new dress on anywhere less.

***

“Martini, per favore,” Alice decided, perusing the elegant script of the cocktail menu just a short while later. Not for tonight her usual halfhearted mixers or weak, fruity drinks. She wanted something with an edge, something that would burn going down. Snapping the menu shut, she slid it across the lacquered bar. The bartender caught it with a deft movement and nodded his head slightly.

Alice turned and made a slow sweep of the room. The designer shoppers hadn’t failed her: from the veined marble floor to the glitter of the dangling chandeliers, the space oozed luxury. Brown leather booths were set back along one wall, and in the far corner, a white-haired man was gliding his fingers along the keys of a grand piano, lending the night a jaunty soundtrack of classic Rat Pack tunes. After too many months of flashy London bars, with ear-splitting DJs and after-work happy hours, Alice watched the scene with blissful relief. Even the people seemed more sophisticated: clustered in small groups, casually clutching wineglasses and tiny evening bags, the women all immaculately polished and the men—well, the men…

Alice’s gaze lingered on a group in the corner. They were dressed in suits, sharp and effortless, the tabletop littered with martini glasses. Two women sashayed over, returning from somewhere, and the men immediately stood to help them shimmy back into the booth, exchanging flirtatious comments and teasing smiles. It was all so perfect, so effortless, that Alice half expected the name of an expensive liquor brand to descend and hover tantalizingly above their stylish heads.

One of the men looked up suddenly, catching her eye. Alice turned away out of habit, but curious, she forced herself to look back. He was still staring at her. She gave him a hesitant smile, growing bolder even as she felt his eyes sweep over her. He was blond, with hair a touch too long that fell in a tousled cut over the collar of his stiff white shirt and charcoal suit jacket. Rising from the booth, he began to walk toward her.

Alice felt a rush of anticipation, hot and unfamiliar. She turned back to the bar, so that when the blond man reached her side, she was coolly sipping her cocktail.

“Scusi.” Leaning slightly on the bar, the man smiled at her and began to speak.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know Italian.” She gave him a sideways glance. Up close, he had an angelic air to him, all blue eyes and cheekbones and lightly tanned skin, younger than her, perhaps, but not enough to matter.

“No? That’s a relief.” He switched into English, tinted with an unfamiliar accent. “My Italian is appalling,” he continued, smiling even wider. “I offend people here without even trying.”

“Really?” Alice arched an eyebrow, as if she were a Hitchcock blond. “Just think what scandal you could achieve if you really meant it.”

He laughed, while she glanced away and took another sip, feeling a new power spark in her veins. Not merely flirtation, but something edged with a challenge. Risk. She had never been the most beautiful woman in the room, and by no means was she that night, but it struck Alice with a curious certainty that in this dress, this perfume, this reckless impulse of hers, she might just be someone to be reckoned with.

Slowly, deliberately, Alice angled her body toward him. “I can’t quite place your accent,” she mused, carefully crossing her bare legs.

“Me either.” He grinned, edging just that smallest step closer to her. “Some French, some Spanish. My work takes me all over.”

“Which is?”

He gave a bashful sort of shrug that nonetheless had a practiced air: “Fashion, advertising. I’m Rafael.”

Alice shook his hand slowly. “Pleased to meet you.” She met his eyes in a steady gaze, her hand lingering in his for a moment longer than necessary. “I’m…Angelique.”

“Angelique.”

The name had left her lips unbidden, but as he repeated it, his accent almost caressing the consonants, Alice felt a sudden thrill. The brief impulse she’d pressed down weeks ago rose back up, stronger in the gleaming lamplight. This time, instead of unease, Alice saw only the possibilities unfold.

She could be anyone, anyone at all.

“So what brings you to Rome?” Rafael made a gesture to the bartender, and then turned back, fixing Alice with a deeply fascinated expression. It was easy to tell that his was a studied charm—effortless now, but no doubt accumulated from years of rehearsal—but Alice was almost glad. He was playing his part, just as she deciding on hers.

“The art,” she declared, as the lie began to take root in her mind. “I’m a collector, and I advise a few clients…” Alice gave a casual shrug that mirrored his own response. “This is only a brief trip: I came from London last night, and tomorrow I fly on to Miami.”

Rafael looked at her with interest, the kind her usual plain response of lawyer never received. “You were here to see an artist? Or acquire a classic?”

“Mmm.” Alice took another sip of her cocktail, buying time. She could see this Angelique take form, already vivid in her mind: a jet-setting woman who drifted between continents at a moment’s notice, armed only with red silk and flair.

“I deal in modern art, mainly,” she decided, giving Rafael a flash of smile. “I came to see a new work, by a friend actually, but, well…” She sighed. “It wasn’t what I’d hoped.”

“No?” The barman delivered Rafael a short, amber drink, and he tipped him generously from a silver billfold.

“No.” Alice straightened her posture a little. Angelique would never slouch. “His earlier paintings had such vibrancy, such life, but his latest series…They seem almost derivative.”

Rafael nodded. “I see that a lot with the companies I work with. In the beginning, it’s all innovation, you know? Then, as soon as they have the reputation, it all just gets flat and repetitive.”

“Exactly,” Alice agreed, exhilarated. He believed every word she said. Why would he not? She’d had no reason to doubt Ella’s casual untruths; she’d taken her at her word.