11 / 04 / 08 - Lisabeth, Stark
There is a restaurant very near the top of the Stark Industries Tower in Stark Plaza. It has wonderful views and wonderful food, but the really amazing part is, of course, the bar. All is glass and glitter, but the bar is a sweeping piece of wood, long and seamless. If there are joints, a master's hand has worked to smooth them, and even to align the grain of wood. If there are no joints, it certainly came from a very big tree.
Anyway.
It is a restaurant. It is very nice. And it becomes even more nice when Tony Stark deigns grace the room by appearing through a side door.
The room graces back by turning, if not quite in unision then surely in majority, to note his arrival. Eyes lift, heads tilt and murmur, silverware stills. And at the bar, one pretty young woman stills the wine glass halfway to her ruby-red lips and peers at him over its rim before taking a careful sip. Her lips curve upward in an intrigued smile.
Oh, look. The bar. Presentation immaculate in well-tailored suit and mathematically precise facial hair, Stark approaches. A slight gesture, hand turning at the wrist with a splay of his first two fingers, attracts attention and leads to a drink from the man behind the bar. Sign language, telepathy, or just a certain familiarity: the world will never know. He glances at Lisabeth sidelong, eyelashes sweeping low over his eyes as he steals a SUBTLE leer, and then looks for his drink.
Lisabeth is elegant in a simple black sheath, cut low enough to reveal a modest hint of cleavage and tailored to cling pleasingly to other curves. At the leer her brows lift slightly and her smile deepens as she turns and lowers her wine glass to the bar before her. A lift of her hand (nails red to match her lips) flutters at the bartender, requesting his attention as soon as he is done with the prodigous Tony Stark. Her glass is low.
Stark's drink does not take long. Simple, classic, and into his hand. The bartender attends next to Lisabeth as Stark turns slightly to face her. He introduces himself: "Tony Stark," he offers with the extension of his hand.
Lisabeth takes a few seconds to allow herself distraction Tony-wards (she must order a refill, after all), but when she does, it's with a bright smile and an amused glint in her grey eyes as she lowers her hand to his. "Do you ever make that introduction to any other response than 'I know?'" she wonders.
The press of Stark's hand is professionally polished in brief courtesy -- but a trifle warmer than that she might get if, say, she were not a she. "You might be surprised. It keeps me humble," he says. Humbly.
Lisabeth , tuned to such nuances, warms her smile an appropriate touch. "I have a hard time believing that," she allows with a brief laugh that turns it compliment. "Lisabeth Stuart. I must say, I hadn't imagined that dining here might allow me a glimpse of /the/ Tony Stark."
"Of course," Stark promptly allows, taking a shallow sip of his drink, "then there are the times when I get a 'the', and that ruins all the good work done by lack of recognition. My name is on the building." He has a very good deadpan. "I don't know if you noticed. They keep a good bar."
Lisabeth's deadpan seems to be somewhat more lacking, because she laughs despite herself and leans in slightly to acknowledge, "They do. And I had. I could leave off the 'the' if you like?" she queries, her British accent lilting sweet.
With perfect sincerity, Stark inclines his head to her; his posture opens as slightly as her lean. "I am sure my assistant would appreciate it."
"Oh? Does she" Lisabeth presumes "Object to your becoming a the? I'd almost think that more the concern of your publicist." A pause, and then she admits, "Who must be quite good as it is, I suppose."
"My publicist might be glad of it," Stark says, spreading his hand in an open gesture. "My assistant, however, has to deal with me far more often." He gives a minute shrug, letting silence paint a picture of the disastrously inflated ego Lisabeth's light words could produce. You never know.
Lisabeth grins briefly, a smile that for the barest of moments flashes into something broader and more amused before retreating demurely back to acceptable proportions. "I see. Well then. I shall stick to 'Mr. Stark,' shall I?"
"Probably safest." A smile winks in the narrowing corner of Stark's eyes, ever so briefly. "Ms. Stuart for you, or The Lisabeth Stuart?"
"I'm still working on the 'the'," Lisabeth allows with a tip of her head. "Not all of us are born genuises, after all." It's almost a tease! Perhaps the accent makes it difficult to tell.
Stark takes it as fact -- maybe. He has no accent to excuse the difficulty of telling when he is joking, and when he is not. "Ah, well. I try not to hold that against anyone. Hard work will take you as far."
"Much appreciated, Mr. Stark," Lisabeth assures. She shifts slightly on her barstool, adjusting to take up her returned wine glass and cross her legs one over the other in the opposite direction. "As far, yes. Just-- more slowly."
"Not always so bad." Stark rubs his thumb along the side of his glass, eyeballing the level of his drink before his gaze returns to hers in upward sweep. "Are you impatient or just ambitious? Or both? This is New York, after all."
"I don't mind biding my time," Lisabeth muses, tilting her head in consideration. A lock of dark hair falls against her bare neck, and she raises a distracted hand to tuck it back into place. Her lips curl in a reminding smile. "This may be New York, but I don't live here. London is a bit differently paced."
"Well." Stark opens his hands in a slight gesture, and then picks up his glass again for a long sip. "London's nice. Don't spend much time there. What brings you to New York?"
"Some work," Lisabeth answers. A pause, and then her lips curve upward as she dips her head for a drink and regards Stark through the veil of dark lashes. "Some pleasure."
"The usual, then." Stark's lips compress slightly with a pull of a maybe-smile. Finishing his drink, he scoots the glass back toward the other end of the bar. "Perhaps I will see you here again, Ms. Stuart."
"Perhaps," Lisabeth acknowledges, tipping her head to him with an /actual/ smile as he finishes his drink. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment, as if caught unwilling, moth to flame, and then she turns to gesture again for the bartender to settle her bill.
Stark does not gesture, nor does he settle. He just drinks, and goes. Thus fortified, he abandons Lisabeth at the bar to turn toward tables. His last word to her is, "Enjoy New York." So, that's pleasure. Onto business! His next companion is surely going to be much less charming and cheery than she is.
What a nice lady.