by Meghan March
Oh my God. His words are like fuel on the fire raging inside me, and I can’t form a coherent response.
He lowers his head and skims his lips along my forehead to my ear. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
Unable to respond, I haul in a shaky breath.
“Meet me again. Tonight.”
My chin jerks up so I can meet his fierce gaze. “But—”
“Say yes, dammit, and I swear you won’t regret it.”
“I can’t.”
Those icy blue eyes snap with energy. “You can, and you want to.” He drops one arm and pulls something from his pocket.
A business card.
He presses it into my hand. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He backs away, holding my stare hostage until he turns to climb the stairs and return to the fundraiser. I’m still frozen in place when he disappears through the door.
What the hell is wrong with me? I didn’t even ask his name.
More than anything, I want to chase after him, but—Standish.
Shit. I shove the card into my bra and run.
When I reach my office, there’s no sign of the artist there, in the hallway or out in the parking lot. The valets confirm they haven’t seen a man matching his description.
Just freaking great.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Keira: Auction is starting. Where are you?
Crap.
I tap out a reply.
Temperance: On my way.
I rush to the elevator and ride it up to the top floor. When I step out, I hear the bidding frenzy in process for the first piece.
Standish is shit out of luck, and I’m not taking the blame.
Numbers roll off the auctioneer’s tongue like water off a duck’s back as I weave through the crowd to find my boss and explain why Gregor Standish’s sculpture isn’t on the auction block first.
When I glance up at the stage, I halt in mid-step.
Oh sweet Lord. This is not happening.
There’s a sculpture on the stage, but it’s not the melty yellow blob.
No.
It’s mine.
Chapter 8
Temperance
“Do I have twenty thousand?” the auctioneer asks, and paddles pop into the air as bids are called. It rises to thirty. Then forty. Then forty-five.
All the blood must have drained from my head, because I feel like I’m going to pass out. The bids slow and the auctioneer calls it.
“Sold . . . to bidder number thirty-seven for $50,000. Congratulations, sir. Next up, we have—”
My ears tune out the rest of what he’s saying as I search the crowd for number thirty-seven, but I don’t see the paddle anymore, or people congratulating the victorious bidder.
Who in the world would pay fifty thousand for my sculpture? This can’t be happening.
My stomach tumbles like it’s full of hopping bullfrogs, but I push forward through the crowd to find Keira. She’s standing off to the side of the stage, and her tall, dark, and handsome husband stands behind her.
When she sees me, her expression is pained.
Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Now I’m going to get fired.
“I don’t know what happened,” I whisper as soon as I get closer. “Standish called, and I was trying to track him down, and . . . I have no idea how that got up there.”
Instead of giving me a disapproving stare, Keira winces. “I am so, so sorry.”
“What?”
“It’s my fault. The auctioneer told me we were missing the first auction item, so I told the crew to get the last sculpture, whether Standish was here or not. They brought up the one from your office, and I didn’t realize their mistake until it was already onstage and the auctioneer launched into bidding. Maybe we can get it back? Explain the situation and cancel the bid?”
“Are you joking? If someone wants to pay fifty thousand dollars for that, do you really think I’m going to stop them? Especially when it goes to such a good cause?”
“Are you sure? I’ll pay to replace it for you. I swear.”
My head jerks back in shock, but before I can reply to Keira’s offer, a gorgeous woman with long black hair taps her on the shoulder.
“You’ve got to tell me who the artist was for that piece. I got outbid, but I know for a fact that was not a Gregor Standish.”
And here it comes. Because there’s no way anyone could mistake my reclaimed metal art for a Gregor Standish.
“There’s no way in hell I would’ve bid that high for one of his melted-crayon-looking things.”
Shock bubbles up inside me, and I’m speechless.
Keira glances from the woman to me. “You’ll have to ask Temperance. She coordinated the auction, and that piece was a last-minute swap that went out mislabeled. We’re going to inform the buyer and let him know about the mistake to see if he wants to cancel his bid.”
The woman extends a hand and I shake it automatically. “I’m Valentina Hendrix. I own Noble Art, and if the winner cancels his bid, I’ll match it. I want the piece and the artist’s name.”
Somehow, I keep my jaw from dropping at her declaration. Noble Art is one of the top galleries in the Quarter, and so prestigious and expensive, I’ve never done more than peer through the windows from the sidewalk.
“Temperance?” Keira prompts me when I don’t say anything in reply.
I find my tongue and ability to lie. “I believe the artist was anonymous. I don’t have a name to give you.”
One of Valentina’s perfect dark eyebrows goes up. “Anonymous. Hmm.” She surveys me with a look I can’t interpret. “I’ve heard that story before.”
Shit. She knows I’m lying. “Excuse me, but I need to go find the buyer and explain that there’s been a mistake.”
“Keep me posted, Temperance. My offer stands.”
Shell-shocked, I weave through the crowd again, mumbling excuse me over and over because I don’t know what else to say.
Tonight couldn’t have gone more differently than I expected if the entire building had disappeared into a sinkhole.
I slide around the side of the stage we set up for the auction and try to catch the attention of an auctioneer’s assistant who’s in charge of moving the items. He holds up a finger before carrying out the third piece.
When he returns, he steps off the stage as the auctioneer begins his spiel. “Can I help you?”
“Who bought the first piece? I need to speak with him or her.”
The guy shrugs. “It was a man, but I’m not sure who. We’ve got the payment table set up in the corner. Maybe you can catch him there.”
Duh. Why didn’t I think of that?
Probably because my brain is already fried tonight from too many curveballs.
“Thanks.”
I make my way to the opposite corner of the room where a table is set up for the payment of donations. The man sitting there glances up at me from a stack of paperwork.
“I need to speak to whomever bought the first piece before he pays.”
“Too late. Already got his payment.”
“His? What did he look like?”
The man blinks behind glasses as thick as Coke bottles. “Well, I can’t exactly say. It was a man.”
“Older than you? Younger? Gray hair? Purple?”
His expression turns disapproving. “I’m afraid I didn’t catalog his attributes, but I do have a check if that helps.”
He opens a folder and pulls it out. I snatch it out of his hand.
“Nunya Holdings LLC?”
“Yes, and he’s sending someone to pick up the item tomorrow morning. Said he couldn’t take it this evening.”
“Thank you.”
As I turn away from the table, my phone vibrates again and I look down.
Gregor Standish.
Oh good Lord. I wonder if he heard a sculpture that wasn’t his was auctioned in his place. He’s going to want my head on a platter.
I send the
call to voice mail.
He can wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 9
Temperance
Keira’s waiting in my office when I finish clearing out the restaurant after the event. We both look at the uncrated yellow monstrosity.
“Did Standish call you?” I ask.
She nods. “Only eight times. I sent them all to voice mail.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. In fact, it wouldn’t have happened if he’d shown up on time. If he gives us any kind of issue . . . well, you know that will go over like a lead balloon.”
“I can imagine,” I say wryly. If Standish were to look cross-eyed at Keira, I doubt he’d ever make another sculpture again. “It’s probably better if I deal with him. We wouldn’t want him going missing or anything.”
She laughs, but we both know it’s not that much of a joke. “Did you find the bidder?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly. But I have the name of his company. He’s supposed to arrange pickup tomorrow. I’ll find him and give him the option to take the real piece or to cancel the bid.”
“And if he doesn’t go for it?”
I look over my shoulder at the melted cactus. “Then Standish can come get his masterpiece and take it home.”
Keira laughs. “I swear, I’ll never understand modern art. Honestly, I think your sculpture was a hundred times cooler. Plus, it didn’t remind me of a mustard mishap.”
Warmth curls inside my belly at her words. I know she means “my sculpture” only because I owned it, but I still hold the compliment close.
“Thanks.”
“I’m really sorry I screwed that up. If you can find another, I’ll pay to replace it.”
My lips press hard together. “Not necessary.”
“I mean it. It’s the least I can do.”
“I don’t think there’s another, but I appreciate the offer.” Wanting to change the subject, I add, “I’ll let you know when I get in touch with the buyer and deal with Standish.”
She gives me a kind smile. “Just so you know, I’m interviewing for more help after this vacation. I know event planning isn’t your favorite thing, so I’m going to look for someone to handle it.”
A pit of worry forms in my belly. “Oh . . . Okay. I hope you don’t think I’m doing a crap job.”
“Definitely not. Don’t think that. I’m well aware that you’re buried beneath a thousand pounds of work right now, and I’ve relied on you because you’re like me—you keep pushing through, no matter what. You can only do it for so long before you burn out, and I don’t want that for you.”
“Oh, thank you. I appreciate that.”
“You can head out. I’ll handle the rest of this stuff tonight. You’ve worked your ass off on this event. Maybe go have some fun for once.”
“Are you sure?”
Keira nods. “Absolutely.”
“Okay, then. I won’t argue.” I grab my purse from my desk drawer, and the order I was given comes to life in my head as soon as Keira waves me off and I reach my car.
“Meet me again. Tonight.”
I unlock my Bronco and climb inside. For a fraction of a second, I consider turning away from town toward the winding country road that would bring me to the gate and the mansion.
But I turn right instead.
I make it through three lights before I whip my car around, pulling a U-turn in the middle of the road to the sound of blaring horns.
Chapter 10
Temperance
My anticipation climbs with every mile that passes—along with the feeling that I’m insane. But that doesn’t stop my body from humming with nervous, excited energy.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I know that better than I know my own name.
I don’t make reckless choices anymore. I’ve worked too hard to get my life exactly where I need it to be to take risks.
Yes, I searched for clubs like this months ago. My curiosity was piqued after I heard some of the Voodoo Kings football players discussing where they were headed after their Mardi Gras bash. Later that same week, I caught the tail end of a conversation between two ladies at lunch who mentioned a place where identities were hidden and fantasies were fair game.
Two instances in one week made it beyond tempting, but my search for a place people like that would frequent came up empty. Would I have ever worked up the nerve to go if I’d discovered Haven?
Highly doubtful.
The most likely outcome would have been me climbing in bed with a dirty book and a toy, and making myself come before falling asleep.
What happened the other night was a mistake, even if the stranger doesn’t believe that.
Girls like me can’t afford to be reckless. We don’t get that many chances, so screwing them up has harsher consequences.
So, what’s my excuse for tonight? Craziness? Curiosity? A little of both?
I decide it doesn’t matter as I give my name to whomever is at the other end of the speaker perched on a pole outside the gate. Now that I know what’s hiding behind it, the wrought iron seems even more decadent.
Someone spared no expense making sure the outside is just as perfect as the inside. The trees are perfectly trimmed and the moss seems almost artfully draped. The muted glow of the lights lining the drive adds to the enticing allure. Come, it says. Don’t hesitate. You’ll never find another place like this . . . and certainly not another man like him.
The voice in my head is interrupted by reality.
“Welcome back, madam,” the voice replies through the speaker as the gate swings open.
My foot stays planted on the brake, and I consider what the hell I’m doing for the thousandth time since I whipped that U-turn.
Turn around, I tell myself. Turn around and never look back. Forget this place and this man and go on with your safe little life.
My brother’s warning rings in my head about the kind of people who come here. Bad people. Does that make my stranger one of them? And even if he is . . . do I care?
I squeeze my eyes shut and another voice emerges, louder than the last.
You only get one life. Live the hell out of it. No regrets.
As the two options clash in my brain, the gates move again—this time to close and shut me out. Which would make my debate moot, because my choice is being stolen from me.
My hand, already on the gearshift, ready to throw my Bronco into reverse and retreat, is overridden by my gut. I punch the accelerator and my tires grab the pavement, rocketing me forward before the wrought-iron barrier can keep me from my destination.
Just one more time.
I’ll steal one more night and walk away. I can do that. Rafe will never know. No one will but the stranger and me.
My resolve strengthened, I inhale several long, deep breaths to steady myself as I slow the Bronco behind another car. A uniformed valet accepts the keys from a masked man climbing out of a white Mercedes, and a fraction of my nervous energy calms at the sight of another patron. At least for a moment, then another thought breaks through.
What if I see someone I recognize or who recognizes me? I need a mask, and it’s not something I carry around in my Bronco. Why didn’t I think ahead?
When the Mercedes pulls away, another masked man exits the front door and approaches my car. He’s wearing a similar uniform to the valets and the doormen I saw last time, but his mask is a different color. He rounds the hood, and my nerves spike when he opens my door.
“Madam, I was informed that you might be in need of an accessory.”
My mind, already halfway in the gutter by being in the proximity of the club, goes straight to the multitude of possible accessories to which he could be referring.
“Excuse me?” I ask, pulling away from the open door.
He regards me curiously as he pulls something silver from his inner breast pocket and holds it out. “Your mask, madam.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” What did you think he was going to offer
you, Temperance? Nipple clamps?
“If you’ll step out and present your card, I’ll help you tie the mask and show you inside.”
My card?
“Umm, one second.” I turn away from the window and pull the card out of my bra—because I’m classy like that—and offer it to him.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
I slide out of my Bronco and lean over to snag my purse and hook it over my shoulder. Taking the mask from him, I turn and give him my back. He deftly ties it on, and I adjust the positioning before facing him again.
“Please follow me, madam.”
His avoidance of using my name sends a clear signal that anonymity is prized here, which is perfectly okay with me. Preferable, actually.
With more confidence than I feel, I stride after the man, climbing the front steps. When the door opens, I’m once again transported to a different world.
Once inside, the thumping bass beat from the upper floor creates a slow, throbbing pulse that carries through the entire building, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to see the inside of the room where it comes from tonight.
“I’ll take care of her from here,” says a familiar voice, a voice I don’t want to hear here.
My gaze cuts to the woman standing just inside the foyer—my boss’s best friend, Magnolia Maison.
Lord above, what are the odds? I don’t answer my own question because, really, why shouldn’t I have expected to see the notorious madam in a sex club? I should almost have expected it, but I didn’t. And now . . . she could tell my boss. Great.
I drop my head and pretend to cough so I can cover the bottom half of my face in a last-ditch effort to conceal my identity and avoid what will certainly be an awkward conversation with Keira.
“Ain’t gonna work, chérie. We’ve got some talkin’ to do.” Magnolia crooks her finger. “Come on.”