Page 12 of His Dark Desires

"Monsieur Vale arrived earlier." She gestures for me to follow.

Le Blanc lives up to its name. White orchids spill from crystal vases. Ivory tablecloths drape like liquid silk. Champagne bubbles sparkle in perfect crystal flutes. My lungs fill with what feels like a million-dollar breath, perfumed with subtle notes of vanilla and fresh flowers.

We pass the main dining room where diamonds wink and murmured conversations blend with the soft notes of a piano. My steps sink into plush carpeting as we climb a curved staircase to the private dining level.

The hostess's steps are soundless, practiced. Her posture remains perfect, like a ballet dancer. She leads me down a hallway lined with original artwork—I recognize a Rothko, my breath catching at the sight of it.

"Here we are." She opens a door to a private dining room.

Adrian rises from his seat, his presence filling the intimate space. I feel myself falter under his attention, just as potent as when we first met. I force myself to breathe. This is just dinner. Just business. But as I step into the room, I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking into something I'm not prepared for.

"Ms. Larkin."

Adrian's hand envelops mine. His palm radiates warmth through my skin, and I fight the urge to hold on longer than appropriate. His fingers are strong yet gentle.Artist's hands, I think, though I doubt he's ever held a paintbrush.

"Mr. Vale." I'm proud my voice stays steady. "Thank you for the invitation."

He guides me to my seat, his other hand hovering near the small of my back without quite touching. The chair slides soundlessly as he helps me in.

Adrian takes his seat, and a sommelier materializes at his subtle gesture.

"The Château Margaux, 1982," Adrian says, not even glancing at the wine list. The sommelier bows slightly and disappears. "I hope you enjoy red wine." Adrian's eyes catch mine, that stormy mix of gray and blue. "The '82 is exceptional."

"I usually buy whatever's on sale at the corner store," I blurt out. Heat creeps up my neck.

But Adrian's lips curve up. "Honesty. Refreshing." He leans back, loosening his tie just slightly. "Though I hope you'll let me expand your palate tonight."

The sommelier returns with the wine, performing the ritual gracefully. Adrian takes the first taste, nodding his approval. As my glass is filled, the deep ruby liquid catches the light like liquid garnets.

"To new beginnings," Adrian raises his glass.

I mirror his gesture, taking a small sip. The wine explodes across my tongue—complex layers of dark fruit and something earthy I can't name.

"It's amazing," I gush.

"Like your art." His eyes haven't left my face. "Your latest pieces show remarkable evolution. The way you layer color, it's almost architectural."

My fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass. How closely has he studied my work?

"I've been experimenting with new techniques."

"Tell me about your process."

I launch into an explanation of my latest series, hands moving as I describe the interplay of light and shadow. Adrian watches me intently, asking questions that reveal genuine understanding of artistic theory. His attention is absolute—like I'm the only person in the world worth listening to.

But beneath his polished surface, something else simmers. I catch it in the way his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass, in how his eyes follow my smallest movements. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

I take another sip of wine to wet my suddenly dry throat. Adrian mirrors the action, and I find myself watching his throat move as he swallows.

"You seem tense," he observes. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No, I—" I stop, searching for words that won't reveal too much. "This is all very new to me. The restaurant, the wine, discussing commissions with someone like…" I gesture vaguely at him.

"Someone like me?" His voice drops lower, and my skin prickles with awareness.

"Someone so..." I trail off, unable to find a word that encompasses everything Adrian Vale represents without sounding either sycophantic or terrified. "Someone powerful," I finish lamely, reaching for my wine glass.

Adrian's lips quirk. "Power is relative. Your art has its own kind of power. The way you capture emotion, that's what drew me to your work."

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