Rogue

“Blake Williams.” He provided no further information, and she nodded and finished her champagne. He was drinking vodka, on the rocks. It was his drink of choice at events like this. Champagne gave him a headache the next day, vodka didn't.

“American,” she said matter-of-factly. “Married?” she asked with interest, which he found an odd question.

“No. Why?”

“I don't do married men. I don't even talk to them. I went out with a horrible Frenchman who was married and lied about it. Once burned, forever wise, or something like that. Americans are usually pretty good about that. The French aren't. They always have a wife and a mistress tucked away somewhere, and cheat on both. Do you cheat?” she asked him, as though it were a sport like golf or tennis, and he laughed.

“Not generally. No, actually, I don't think I ever have. I have no reason to, I'm not married, and if I want to sleep with someone else, I end it with the woman I'm with. That seems a lot simpler to me. I don't like drama or complications.”

“Neither do I. That's what I mean about Americans. They're very simple and straightforward. Europeans are far more complicated. They want everything to be difficult. My parents have been trying to get divorced for twelve years. They keep getting back together and splitting up again. It's very confusing for the rest of us. I've never been married myself, and don't want to be. It seems like a terrible mess to me.” She said it very simply, as though talking about the weather or a trip, and he was amused. She was a very funny young woman, very pretty, and what the Brits called “very fey.” She was like some sort of wood nymph or sprite in her sari and her bindi and tattoos. He noticed then that she was wearing an enormous emerald bracelet that got lost among her tattoos, and a huge ruby ring. Whoever she was, she had plenty of jewels.

“I'd have to agree with you about the mess people make. I'm actually very good friends with my ex-wife. We like each other even better than we did when we were married.” For him, it was true, and he was sure Maxine felt the same way about it too.

“Do you have kids?” she inquired, offering him some of her olives. He dropped two in his drink.

“Yes, I do, three. A girl and two boys. Thirteen, twelve, and six.”

“How sweet. I don't want children, but I think people are very brave to have them. It seems rather frightening to me. All that responsibility, they get sick, you have to make sure they're doing well in school, have good manners. It's even harder than training a horse or a dog, and I'm terrible at both. I had a dog once that did its business all over my house. I'm sure I'd be even worse with kids.” He laughed at the picture she painted, as Mick Jagger wandered by and said hello to her, as did several other people. Everyone seemed to know her except Blake, and he couldn't understand why he had never met her before. He spent a lot of time on the London scene.

He told her about the house in Marrakech then, visibly excited about it, and she agreed that it sounded like a fabulous project. She said that she had nearly studied architecture and decided not to, she could never do the math. She said she'd been terrible in school.

A number of his friends came up to him and said hello then, as did quite a few of hers, and the next thing he knew when he turned to look for her, she had disappeared. Blake was frustrated and disappointed. He had liked talking to her. She was eccentric, intelligent, outspoken, and different, and beautiful enough to catch his eye. He asked Mick Jagger about her later, and he laughed at Blake.

“You don't know her?” He seemed surprised. “That's Arabella. She's a viscountess. Her father is supposed to be the richest man in the House of Lords.”

“What does she do?” He assumed she did nothing, but he had gotten the sense from talking to her that she had some kind of job or career.

“She's a painter. She does portraits. She's very good. People pay her a fortune to do their portraits. She also does their horses and dogs. She's completely crazy, but she's actually very nice. She's sort of typically British eccentric. I think she was engaged to some very fancy Frenchman, a marquis or something. I don't know what happened, but she didn't marry him. She went out to India instead, had an affair with some very important Indian chap, and came home, with a hell of a lot of good-looking jewels. I can't believe you don't know her. Maybe she was in India when you were around. She's a lot of fun,” he confirmed.

“Yes, she is,” Blake said, somewhat in awe of what Jagger had said about her. It all fit. “Do you know how I'd find her? I didn't get her number before she left.”