Page 34 of Art of Sin

15profanity

Lucy Linn is beautiful,which isn’t surprising. What also isn’t surprising is that her beauty is a cracking shell over a desperate woman. I’m doubly glad for inviting Trent and Maggie to stay; I have a feeling I’ll need their buffer. Good sleep or not, I’m not confident I can handle this gracefully.

The ex-Mrs. Masters steps into my office, tall and rail-thin, a wisp of saffron-colored smoke in a silk pantsuit from her newest line. Her eyes are dark, nearly black, and impossible to read. Smooth, wrinkle-free face, perfectly straight and shiny black hair. Her perfume is light and spicy. All of these details present a woman to the world who is confident and comfortable with her fame and her feminine allure.

But like recognizes like, and I see right through her armor. From the way she’s staring at me—narrowed eyes and pursed lips—I know she’s trying to see through mine. She can’t. I’ve been at it a long time.

“Ms. Linn, welcome.” I stand and round my desk to shake her hand. Her grip is weak, her fingers cold. “Please, have a seat. These are my associates, Trent Adams and Maggie Zheng.”

She nods at them. “Nice to meet you.” Her voice is soft but carries an undercurrent of steel. She turns back to me, not making any movement toward the chair I presented.

I smile—bright and false. “How can I help you?”

Her eyelids flicker. “I’d like to discuss hiring you.”

Bullshit.

“I’m flattered by your interest, but I’m not currently taking on new clients.” I adjust my smile to demure appeal. “Perhaps I can refer a colleague?”

“No,” she snaps. “I don’t want anyone else.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Trent and Maggie exchange a glance.

I shrug. “Then I’m sorry to waste your time, but I can’t help you. And if I may be so bold, competition or not, Gemma Fitz is an excellent publicist. She’s also much more equipped to represent clients within the fashion industry.”

It’s my mild voice that cracks her. My utter lack of concern. I experience a moment’s guilt as the whites of her eyes redden with tears. Almost, I want to hug her. Tell Trent and Maggie to leave. Let her pour her heart out and reassure her that there are a million other men in the world, and he isn’t worth this.

But I don’t.

“Why are you here, Lucy?” I ask pointedly.

“He never painted me.”

It’s a whisper, so faint I almost don’t catch it. When the words catch up with me, I blink—my only concession to shock.

“I’m sorry?”

She swallows so hard I hear it, the creak of faltering self-control. “I want you to drop him as a client. I’m willing to offer you seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“No,” I say over my colleagues’ gasps.

“Ninety thousand.”

“No.”

Anger reddens her pale cheeks. “One hundred thousand.”

I sigh and walk behind my desk. My fingers find the hidden alarm button and push. “I’m not for sale, Ms. Linn. Security is on the way up. I suggest you leave before they get here.”

She snarls, the façade broken fully. “You’re nothing to him. A passing distraction.”

Hands curled into fists, she takes a step toward me. Trent stands. “Ms. Linn, it’s time to go. Trust me, you don’t want to take this any further. Think of your career.”

She glances at him. Her expression is a battlefield between reason and emotion. Reason wins—barely.

“Fine.” A long fingernail, red as blood, stabs in my direction. “You’re not half the woman you think you are. I know your type. Whore of the industry with little more than air in your head. He’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

“That’s enough!” barks Trent as he yanks open my door. “Last chance to leave on your own terms, or I’ll have paps waiting to photograph you being hauled out of the building by security.”

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