Chapter 11

"Can I get you something?" she asked, moving sinuously towards another sculpture. It was an exquisite array of fluted glass and crystal set against a backdrop of polished ebony. To his surprise, she picked up one of the glass objets d'art, removed the top, and poured a golden fluid into what looked like a giant laboratory beaker.

He realized that the array was actually a bar, so artistically designed that it looked more like a sculpture. All the liquor had been stored in specially crafted decanters, and the "glasses" were shaped in a variety of exotic, quasi-industrial shapes.

She returned, pressing the glass into his open palm. It was ice-cold.

"You look like a rye man to me," she said, in that same silky voice. As she moved, a backlight caught her contours, and he realized that beneath the futuristic designer gown, she wasn't wearing a stitch of underwear.

He tasted the sharp tang of Irish whisky on his palette. "It's excellent," he said.

She stood before the large marble work that had first attracted his attention. The centrepiece of the room. A larger-than-life-size nude male, prodigiously sculpted. It was a grotesque, oddly erotic tableau: the flesh-and-blood woman in her gown which revealed nothing yet revealed everything, poised before the Aryan-warriorlike stone male.

He realized he ought to apologize for having entered what was obviously her private office.

"I wasn't paying attention to the door signs," he said abruptly. "Just wanted to get in."

She placed a hand on the statue, not speaking.

"I'm Arif," he went on aimlessly. "Arif Merchant."

He waited for her to introduce herself, then realized she already had.

"Lena Kapoor?" he repeated belatedly. "I remember seeing your name in the papers. This is your place."

"AP's and mine."

Her voice was pitched lower than a whisper, yet he heard her perfectly. The room was acoustically designed, he realized. And soundproofed. That was why he couldn't even hear the music that had been playing outside in the foyer.

"AP. AP Singh. Yes, I remember." He raised the glass to sip again and found he had finished the drink. "You have quite a place here."

She released the statue and came to him. "Have you seen it all, Arif?"

"Well, not exactly. But whatever I have seen looks very impressive."

She took the glass from him and made it disappear -- setting it down somewhere on one of the many artistic surfaces -- and walked across the room toward him. She had superb muscle tone and perfect physical definition. She was as much a sculpture as one of her objets d'art.

"Why don't you let me show you around," she said in the same whisper-soft voice. "I'll give you the guided tour."

He felt he should protest, at least for politeness sake. That this was too sudden, too quick. That this woman, Lena, was too exotic for him. That he should excuse himself for having barged in here, thank her for the drink, and leave.