Page 2 of Art of Sin

Another shift in the flow of spectators and I finally see my client. To my immediate relief, he’s not naked or currently engaged in a sex act. Instead, he’s sitting in an uncrowded space along one wall. He’s alone, occupying most of a red-velvet love seat, his arms spread over the back. It’s clearly a move to inhibit people from approaching or sitting with him.

I’m not deterred in the least; I’m relieved I have a focus now, a purpose for being in this alternate reality. Striding directly to him, I drop into the narrow space between him and the armrest. He recoils, vibrating with affront.

“What the hell?” he seethes. “Did I ask you to sit?”

I pivot, knocking my legs against his. Mine are covered by fine, tailored black slacks, a stark contrast to the shredded denim that looks glued to his long legs.

“Look at me, Gideon. Do you know who I am?”

In the barely sufficient glow of a nearby sconce, he takes me in. There’s no recognition, not that I expected any. Huffing in agitation, he jerks his legs away from mine.

“I don’t give a fuck who you are,” he says evenly. “I specifically said I’m not participating tonight, so why don’t you fuck off.”

He thinks I’m offering entertainment courtesy of the club. That’s rich. I grind my molars, forcibly subduing the urge to grab him by the thick mess of copper strands on his head and drag him out of here.

“My name is Deirdre Moss. Ring any bells?”

He doesn’t look at me, his eyes on a woman with a man’s head under her skirt. “Nope. Why are you still sitting here?”

I smile even though it hurts. “This goes one of two ways. You come with me now, quietly and willingly, or tomorrow’s headline will read: Gideon Masters, Darling of the Los Angeles Art Community, Suspected of Fraud.”

Oh, I have his attention now, though I’m suddenly not certain I want it. The full impact of his deep brown gaze has a magnetism that makes you feel like a hand is pressed to your chest, like half the oxygen has been sucked from the room. He’s not even completely sober, a telltale glaze in his eyes and flush on his cheeks. I sincerely hope to never be in his crosshairs when he’s in full control of his faculties.

“I don’t take kindly to threats, Denise,” he says, the disinterested tone in polar contrast to the intensity in his eyes. “Who do you work for?”

I don’t like my name in his mouth, even if it’s the wrong one. But I have a job to do.

“Your father.”

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