"Speeches?"
"All of it. The room. The people. The way you make them feel like they're choosing to give you what you want."
I sit down. "That's either a compliment or a warning."
"It's an observation."
"From a woman who makes a lot of those."
She holds my gaze for two seconds longer than conversation requires. Then she reaches for her wine glass, takes a sip, sets it down.
"I need some air," she says.
"There's a terrace on the fourth floor."
"I was thinking somewhere less public."
My pulse does something it hasn't done in years. It accelerates without a threat to justify the response.
"The elevators are past the bar," I say.
She stands. Picks up her clutch. Walks toward the bar without looking back to see if I'm following.
I follow.
We pass Michele, who clocks our movement with a glance. I give him a look that means stay. We round the corner past the restrooms, past the coat check, into the alcove where the service elevator sits beside the guest elevator. She presses the call button.
The guest elevator opens. Empty. Gold mirrors on three walls, a marble floor, a brass railing at waist height. We step inside. The doors close.
She presses four. The elevator moves.
I don't press four.
I press the stop button.
The elevator jolts. Settles. The hum of the motor dies. The silence is complete, sealed, a box of gold mirrors and marble with two people in it and nowhere to go.
She looks at me. Not surprised. Expectant. Like she's been waiting to see which one of us would break first.
"This is forward," she says.
"You said you wanted somewhere less public."
"I said less public. Not stalled between floors."
"Do you want me to start it again?"
She takes off her glasses. Folds them. Puts them in her clutch. Without them, her face is different. Open. Unarmored. Her eyes are larger, or they seem larger, dark and focused on mine with an intensity that wasn't visible behind the lenses.
"No," she says.
I close the distance in one step. My hands find her waist, the midnight blue fabric warm from her body, the curve of her hips beneath the silk. I press her against the wall between two mirrors. Her back hits the brass railing. She exhales. Short. Sharp.
I kiss her.
Hard. Not polite. Not the way you kiss a woman at a charity gala in a rented ballroom while a cardinal eats sfogliatella fifty feet away. I kiss her with the accumulated force of every dinner, every almost-smile, every half-second where she stood too close while pouring wine and didn't step back.
She kisses me back harder.
