Beautiful Stranger

suddenly my light mood vanished; I was ready for home, for a mindless viewing of Python and a few pints. It was fucking Tuesday and I wanted Sara.
    “Piss off,” I called over my shoulder.
    “Just one shot, Max. A shot and a comment on the rumor of you and Keira.”
    Fuck. This rubbish again? I’d met her once, a month ago at a concert. “Yes. I’m totally fucking Keira Knightley. You really think I’m the person you should ask for confirmation?”
    A cab screeched to the curb, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me as the back door flew open. A smooth, bare arm reached out, the hand frantically waving me in before Sara leaned forward, grinning. “Get in already!”
    It took several seconds for my brain to connect to my mouth, and my legs. “Shit. Yeah. Brilliant.”
    Ducking in the cab, I shoved my briefcase on the floor and looked over at her.
    “Hey, Max. You looked a little . . . stalked.”
    “You spotted that pretty well,” I said, eyeing her.
    She shrugged, giving me her strange, elusive smile.
    “Fucking paps,” I grumbled.
    Sara crossed her legs and gave me a tiny shrug. “Poor baby. Need a cuddle?”
    She had a fire in her eyes I hadn’t seen since the night at the club when she dragged me down the hall.
    You’re in trouble, mate.
    She wore a short red wrap dress and it had come undonea bit at the top. I understood the feeling. I gazed down at her left breast, the black lace of her bra peeking out.
    “Nice to see you,” I told her cleavage. “I’ve had a day. Can I bury my face in you?”
    “No sex in my cab!” the cabbie barked. “Where are we going now?”
    I looked to Sara for guidance but she only raised her eyebrows and smiled.
    “Up toward the park,” I muttered. “Not sure yet.”
    He shrugged, turning the wheel away from traffic and muttering something under his breath.
    “You look beautiful,” I told Sara, leaning to kiss her.
    “You always say that.”
    I shrugged, and licked her neck. Fuck. She tasted like sweet tea and oranges. “Come home with me.”
    She shook her head, laughing. “No. I have tickets to a show at eight.”
    “With whom?”
    “Myself,” she said, straightening and looking out the window. I reached for her hand, slipped my fingers between hers.
    “It’ll play another night. Which means you should come home with me and ride my cock instead.”
    Sara’s eyes widened as she glanced at the cabbie. He glared at us in the rearview but said nothing.
    “No,” she whispered, eyes searching mine. She tried to pull her hand out of mine, but I didn’t let her. “But can I ask you something?”
    With her hair tucked behind her ears and looking so small on the seat beside me, I felt a completely foreign panic: was this all wrong for her? In her bare, unguarded moments she looked so naïve.
    “Anything,” I told her.
    “I’ve been thinking about it. Why are you so famous around here? Yes, you’re gorgeous and successful. But New York breeds gorgeous and successful. Why do photographers stalk you on a random Tuesday?”
    Ah. I smiled, realizing that although she had looked me up online, she hadn’t looked very far back. “I thought you did your homework.”
    “I got bored after going through three pages of pictures of you in a tux with your arm around all of the women.”
    I laughed. “I assure you, that isn’t why they follow me.” Pausing, I wondered why I was talking about this now, after being so tight-lipped about it for so long.
    “I moved here a little over six years ago,” I began. She nodded, clearly familiar with that part. “And about a month after I arrived, I met a woman named Cecily Abel.”
    Her brow furrowed. “I know that name . . . Do I know who that is?”
    I shrugged. “You may know her, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t. She was very big on Broadway but, as is often the case in the New York theater world, her fame didn’t extend very far into middle America.”
    “What do you mean she ‘was’ big on Broadway?”
    I looked at her fingers woven between mine. “I believe Cecily—and her dramatic departure from the theater scene—is the reason I’m noticed at all. She left New York quite abruptly, after mailing a letter she wrote that was printed in the Post . It detailed all of her gripes with this city, including,” I quoted, “ ‘directors who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, whoring politicians, and investment hounds who didn’t know a good thing when they had it.’ ”
    “She