Page 12 of A Touch of Dark
My stomach churns, wrestling with the remains of overly sweet cake and non-alcoholic champagne. How I hate surprises. For the first time in years, Simon’s late. Either that or he’s settled on a new spot to leave my first gift of the night. Inside? I take my time fishing my keys from my pocket, but the door budges at the slightest touch, already opened a hairline crack.
I shove my hand into my pocket for my cell phone, but I can’t explain what makes me push the door open wider without calling 911. Yet.
The light switch lurks just beyond my reach, but I don’t flip it. I have a visitor, it seems, who prefers the darkness over the typical introduction: his scent gives him away. Spicy. Masculine. Wrong.
Daddy doesn’t smell like this.
Neither do the doormen or usual security guards.
Neither does Simon.
My new intruder’s cologne itches like pepper among an amalgam of different scents: shaving cream, rich liquor, and the faintest hint of sweat.
I should call the police, anything but call out, “Who are you?”
“Buenas noches.” The raspy baritone is the most alarming attribute of all. It reaches out to me from the living room, carrying a thick accent. “Do come in. Don’t mind the intrusion—and I wouldn’t call the police if I were you.” The warning comes as my thumb twitches against my phone’s touchscreen. “They tend to be so easy to corrupt.”
“There…there are armed guards downstairs,” I croak.
His answering laugh is a slap to the face. “Again,” he continues, “easily bought off, Ms. Thorne. Even your father’s reputation can only go so far. Come in. Have a seat. I merely want to talk. This shouldn’t take long.”
His mention of my father triggers a cold suspicion. Perhaps his warning wasn’t for nothing. I’m in the living room before I know it, rounding the leather chaise to find a man sitting on it. Alarmingly massive, he transforms the spacious room into a claustrophobic prison. Yellow lights from nearby buildings give vague definition to his frame: a strong jawline veiled by the shadow of long, black hair neatly tied back into a ponytail. The outline of a blindfold, worn even now, stands out in stark contrast to his skin.
I should have recognized him from his voice alone. The man from the gallery.
And suddenly so much makes sense.
“Are you… You’re Damien Villa,” I rasp. My stab in the dark lands more accurately than I’d like. Another bit of laughter is my reward, decidedly colder than before.
“Ah,perdóname,” he murmurs. “The innocent daughter of Judge Thorne turns out to be not so innocent after all. And I was inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt, Juliana.”
“What do you want?” I take a step back, aware of the fact that the door is still open behind me.
“To talk,” he says.
“Talk? You mean use me to threaten Heyworth Thorne? Go ahead. You can try. Then get the hell out.” My callous laugh rings hollow. I sound weak, not brave. Tired and pathetic. “I’m sick of you goddamn people wanting to hold him accountable for one goddamn mistake—”
“Ah,perdóname, but you misunderstand.” His voice contains the same qualities as lightning. Biting. Stinging. Raw. “My current visit has nothing to do with your father, Juliana. This is about an entirely personal matter.”
Personal?
“The painting you bought,” he continues before I can question. “I ask that you return it. That wasn’t meant for you.”
My painting. I crane my neck and spot the rough outline of my new possession. The morbid hues feed off what little light there is, creating a ghoulish effect: glowing, dead eyes staring directly into mine.
“I bought it,” I say. Though the reminder might be for myself more than him. I bought it. I own it. Mine.
“Oh, but that was a mistake,” Damien murmurs with chilling insistence. “On your part. It was never for sale, especially not to the likes of you. Return it to me and I shall overlook this…insult.”
“Insult?” I cross the room, observing the painting in all its gory, disturbing detail. The artist’s intentions elude me still—cloaked in layers of color and shades of mystery. “How could what I think insult you? Unless…you’re Sampson.” It’s not a question. In a way, I’m stating something I probably already knew.
A madman isn’t content to just let his show be displayed unseen. No. He must watch the people watching. He must gauge the full effect. Terror and disgust form the icing on his masterpiece, and he doesn’t feel complete without a taste of it.
“The painting belongs to me,” he says, evading the subject of his identity. “I’ll make the arrangements to have it returned—”
“No. It’s mine.” I look back at him to watch my words register. “You can’t have it.”
“Oh?” He stares ahead through the fabric of his blindfold, seemingly transfixed by the view beyond my windows. “Should I take something of yours, then, as retribution?”
