Page 13 of A Touch of Dark
My body jolts at the sound of his voice, reacting without permission. Daddy had a pit bull once. Danger was his name. Every now and again, while dozing peacefully by the fireplace, Danger would suddenly startle awake and bark at the shadows. Daddy would shout at him to quiet down, but the beast only settled when whatever unseen threat he’d sensed diminished.
My nerves feel like that now. Humming with awareness of an ominous presence my eyes refuse to register.
“Are you threatening me?” I manage to ask.
“Negotiating,” he retorts. “Despite whatever you think of me…I won’t have my art used as a pawn, if you please.”
“What I think?” Laughing, I shake my head. “I don’t even know you.”
“But I knowyou, and I know your family. Tell me: Did you enjoy strolling into my exhibition, aware of all eyes on you?”
He’s implying something, though I’m not sure what. Something obscene, I think. Cruel.
“I live here,” I point out. “Why shouldn’t I attend an event held in my fucking lobby? And why hate me?” I add before he can get a word in edgewise. “I am not my father.”
“Ah… But you think like him. So entitled to that which was never yours to claim.”
Few men could speak the way he does and pack quite the same punch. A criminal, Daddy said. Funny, because this man sounds like a judge, someone accustomed to handing down punishments for any perceived snub.
“I’ll return your money in full, of course.”
“Keep it.” Knowing that its supposed creator now sits behind me, I perceive the portrait from a different angle.
The woman’s slight, desperate pout makes more sense. Paired with the unmistakable attractiveness of Damien, her final fate feels all the more tragic.
“So is it true that you use these to launder money?” I sound so disappointed. Though what a stupid question. Of course the art is a gimmick. “Do you?”
Silence lingers between us, forcing me to come up with my own answers. I always did my research when it came to the people in my orbits. Clients. Friends. Possible dates. I learned the hard way that it’s better to suspect someone’s potential motives from the outset—not that it’s hard. The average person tends to fit into the same few categories like a book, easily judged within a few short minutes of conversation. Thriller. Boring contemporary. Paltry mystery. Tabloid.
Dangerous or not, Damien is no different from the egos and corporate giants I decipher for a living.
“How much do you pay them, your models?” I wonder, employing my usual trick of rapid-fire questioning. “Do you sleep with them? Do you photograph them first? How do you get them to look like that—”
“Do you think this is a game?”
Oh.I cross my arms to guard against his tone. So he doesn’t want to play. Fair enough. I’ll have to take a page from Daddy’s book and judge him off his cover alone.
My eyes narrow, seeking out what little detail I can in the dark. I expect to find him brooding—most artists are. Instead, he’s pensive. His voice betrays the impatience his body does not. He’s all smooth lines and lean muscle, reminding me of a predator benevolent enough to hiss in warning before pouncing for the kill.
“Not a game,” I concede. “As I said, the painting is mine. You can’t have it.”
“Oh?” That word again. So simple. So subtle. His voice is like music, containing more subtext in the underlying melody than the actual lyrics. “I would ask you to reconsider, Ms. Thorne.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“And perhaps I’llthinkabout returning something of yours.”
My throat goes dry as I process his tone. Then I remember.
Ice washes over me with an intensity I’ve never felt in my entire life. Not all those years ago in the forest. Not moments ago when I found an intruder in my home.
For the first time ever…I forgot. Simon. His game.
I forgot.
“W-was there something on my doorstep?” Even I can hear the tremor in my voice.
And like a shark sensing a single drop of blood, he cocks his head. “Sí. There was… A bit old for dolls, aren’t you?”
