"Roberts, Nora - Divine Evil(1)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

when it was pulled back with a rubber band, and her exceptional height, there
was an air of fragility about her that made Angie, at thirty only two years her
senior, feel maternal.
"Girl, when are you going to learn to sit down and eat a meal?"
Clare grinned and dug for more ice cream. "Now youТre worried about me, so I
guess IТm forgiven." She perched on a stool and tucked one booted foot under the
rung. "I really am sorry about lunch."
"You always are. What about writing notes to your-self?"
"I do write them, then I forget where IТve put them."
With her dripping spoon, she gestured around the huge, disordered space. The
sofa where Angie sat was one of the few pieces of furniture, though there was a
table under a pile of newspapers, magazines, and empty soft drink bottles.
Another stool was shoved into a corner and held a bust of black marble.
Paintings crowded the walls, and pieces of sculptureЧsome finished, some
abandonedЧsat, stood, or reclined as space allowed.
Up a clunky set of wrought-iron steps was the storeroom sheТd converted into a
bedroom. But the rest of the enormous space sheТd lived in for five years had
been taken over by her art.
For the first eighteen years of her life, Clare had struggled to live up to her
motherТs standards of neatness and order. It had taken her less than three weeks
on her own to accept that turmoil was her natural milieu.
She offered Angie a bland grin. "How am I supposed to find anything in this
mess?"
"Sometimes I wonder how you remember to get out of bed in the morning."
"YouТre just worried about the show." Clare set the half-eaten carton of ice
cream aside where, Angie thought, it would probably melt. Clare picked up a pack
of cigarettes and located a match. "Worrying about it is a lesson in futility.
TheyТre either going to like my stuff, or theyТre not."
"Right. Then why do you look like youТve gotten about four hoursФ sleep?Ф
"Five," Clare corrected, but she didnТt want to bring up the dream. "IТm tense,
but IТm not worried. Between you and your sexy husband, thereТs enough worrying
going on already."
"Jean-PaulТs a wreck," Angie admitted. Married to the gallery owner for two
years, she was powerfully attracted by his intelligence, his passion for art,
and his magnificent body. "This is the first major show in the new gallery. ItТs
not just your butt on the line."
"I know." ClareТs eyes clouded briefly as she thought of all the money and time
and hope the LeBeaus had invested in their new, much larger gallery. "IТm not
going to let you down."
Angie saw that despite her claims, Clare was as scared as the rest of them. "We
know that," she said, deliberately lightening the mood. "In fact, we expect to
be the gallery on the West Side after your show. In the meantime, IТm here to
remind you that youТve got a ten a.m. interview with New York magazine, and a
lunch interview tomorrow with the Times."
"Oh, Angie.Ф
"No escape from it this time." Angie uncrossed her shapely legs. "YouТll see the
New York writer in our penthouse. I shudder to think of holding an interview
here."
"You just want to keep an eye on me."
"There is that. Lunch at Le Cirque, one sharp."