Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One

by Halloran, L. M.

  14 decay

  I startle awake in the dark. Unfamiliar bed, unfamiliar room. A spike of panic coils the muscles of my legs. The door creaks, and ambient light reveals a hulking shape in the cavity.

  I don’t think, just react. Scrambling off the bed, I search wildly for a weapon. There’s nothing… nothing but a lamp on the nightstand. I grab its smooth neck, yanking the chord from the wall socket.

  “It’s okay.” The huge figure steps farther into the room. “I heard you cry out. It was a dream.”

  Gideon.

  Reality clears the cobwebs of another time and place. Another me.

  I sag against the wall, the lamp falling from nerveless fingers. It smashes on the floor, hunks of ceramic showering my feet and a blanket fallen from the bed. The darkness isn’t so dark anymore, my senses sharp from adrenaline, my eyes sucking street light from behind a curtain and from somewhere in the hallway behind Gideon.

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly.

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’m going to turn on the overhead light so I can clean up the lamp. Cover your eyes.”

  I don’t and wince when light floods the room from a fixture above the bed. Gideon, shirtless and in a pair of black boxers, approaches me cautiously. Like I’m rabid. An animal, just as he surmised.

  “I’m fine,” I snap. “Why didn’t you wake me up on the couch? Did you even make the coffee?”

  He blinks with sleepy-eyed surprise. “You were passed the fuck out. Comatose. I tried waking you up at least five times. You don’t sleep much, do you?”

  “Ugh,” I retort, and his lips twitch. “You carried me.”

  I’m not sure why I point out the obvious. Maybe because my mouth tastes like curry, my hair is knotted on my shoulders, my clothes are wrinkled horribly, and the bags under my eyes probably have their own zip code.

  And he’s mostly naked. Cut and hard like marble, a statue of male perfection from his muscled arms, broad flat chest, and narrow waist. He doesn’t have much hair, a smattering of gold dusting his chest, and a trail of darker—almost auburn—leading south beneath the band of his boxers.

  “You should really stop looking at me like that.”

  He’s closer now, expression tight and hard. I shuffle back, too discombobulated to care that he caught me ogling him.

  “What do you expect?” I retort waspishly. “You’re half-naked and half-hard. Humility doesn’t suit you, Gideon.”

  He doesn’t react to me throwing his words back at him, merely grabs a nearby waste bin and crouches to pick up the shards of the lamp.

  I sigh. “I’ll reimburse you for that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I clear my throat and edge toward the door. “What time is it?”

  “Three in the morning.” Glancing over his shoulder, he frowns. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re not driving home tonight.”

  “I’m fine—”

  “The hell you are.” He shoots to standing like his legs are springs. “You were screaming not five minutes ago.”

  I blanch. “No.”

  “Yes.” His lips thin. “That’s why you don’t sleep, isn’t it? Flashbacks, I’m assuming?”

  “I hate you.”

  The words slip out. Horrified, I cover my mouth with my hands. Gideon, however, is amused. Shocking. Shaking his head, he finishes collecting the pieces of lamp and rises with the waste bin.

  Passing me, he glances down at my frozen face. “Come on, Snowflake. I’ve got just the thing to help you sleep.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Relax, I’m not offering a fuck, just a joint.”

  He disappears into the hallway.

  I stare at a wall until my vision blurs. “Fuck it,” I tell the world and follow him.

  * * *

  I’ve already lied to three people this morning, citing car trouble as the cause of my lateness. The real cause is almost inconceivable—the best seven hours of sleep I’ve had in years. All thanks to Gideon Masters and his stash of high-quality marijuana.

  “You should put on some clothes.”

  His brows twitch in amusement, but he makes no move to acquiesce. Lounging in the same place on the couch that I last remember him in, the only differences are the miles of skin on display and the thick joint between his fingers.

  He releases a cloud of smoke. “The way I see it, you’re the one overdressed. Want to borrow a shirt?”

  “No, thank you,” I say, despite how uncomfortable I am in my bra and work clothes. “Are you going to pass that or what?”

  Glittering, half-mast eyes find mine. He passes the joint. As I bring it to my lips, he drops back, arms folded behind his head, and grins as I inhale.

  “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve met a woman who doesn’t give a shit who I am? Who doesn’t kowtow or angle for my bed?”

  Given that I’m holding my breath, I roll my eyes.

  He chuckles. “It’s rather nice. If I didn’t want to paint you so badly, I might convince you to marry me.”

  I choke on smoke, coughing until my eyes water.

  Gideon laughs and grabs the joint, his warm fingers grazing mine. Lingering a moment too long. Not nearly long enough.

  Sitting back on the couch, I close my eyes and surrender to the darkness. Warm and safe in my tree-root cocoon.

  Maggie’s voice yanks me into the present. “…and your dress for the gala will be delivered Thursday. Did you get the email from Phillips? You have a lunch date with Valerie Fischer tomorrow. She’s the—”

  “Head curator of The Voigt Museum of Contemporary Art, where Gideon has a hugely anticipated showing in two months,” I finish. “According to Phillips, she’s also the person I want to know in the art community, so I’d better make a good impression.”

  Maggie nods, brushing bangs from her eyes. “Okay, good. You sound a little hoarse. Are you feeling okay? Need some tea?”

  “I’m fine. Anything else?” I ask, my gaze on my computer screen.

  “I think that’s—”

  She’s interrupted by a knock on the door. Trent walks inside, followed by my secretary, Joan. The diminutive woman approaches my desk, wringing her hands at her waist.

  “Joan, what’s going on?” I ask carefully.

  “Yes, I’m so sorry, Ms. Moss, but there’s a woman in the lobby who insists on seeing you. She won’t take no for an answer, even though I’ve told her several times that you’re not taking new clients. I know not to bother you when you’re in a meeting, but—”

  “It’s okay, we were just wrapping up.” I glance a question at Trent, who clearly insisted she deliver the message.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not going to believe who it is. Lucy Linn.”

  “Gideon’s ex-wife?” gasps Maggie.

  I look at the ceiling. “Jesus fucking Christ.” At a small gasp from my morally upright secretary, I add, “Sorry, Joan.”

  She coughs lightly. “What should I do?”

  I drum my fingers on the desk. Resist the urge to pull my hair from its pins and run cackling down the hallway. I’m losing it.

  “Send her up.”

  Trent mutters, “Here we go.”

  Maggie grimaces. “This should be interesting.”

  I give them each hard looks. “I didn’t get where I am today by playing it safe. We’re going to hear what she has to say.”

  “Are you really considering taking her on?” asks Trent. “Wouldn’t it be a conflict of—”

  “Ms. Linn already has a publicist,” I interject. “I highly doubt she’s here to hire anyone.”

  “Then what does she want?” asks Maggie.

  Sometimes I feel so old, I wonder why I’m not sipping margaritas in Florida. Sighing, I answer the question as simply as I can.

  “She wants to meet me.”

  Size me up.

  Catalog my weaknesses.

  Ask me why.

  Becaus
e although it’s public knowledge that she was the one who fucked up her marriage—carrying on a year-long affair with a European model—Gideon Masters isn’t a man easy to walk away from.

  I barely know him, but I know that.

  15 profanity

  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.”

  I almost smile.

  “Goodbye, Ms. Linn,” I say flatly.

  She twirls in a cloud of silk and expensive perfume and strides from the room. Outside, clusters of voyeurs watch her rush toward the elevator, whispering amongst themselves in her wake. I wonder what rumors will be circulated by the end of the business day, and how far the poison will spread. Then I glimpse Skylar’s devious smile.

  Fuck.

  “Close the door, Trent.”

  * * *

  I don’t hear from Gideon Wednesday or Thursday. By Friday morning, I’m annoyed. Not even with him; we have no commitment outside our contract. My irritation stems from my inability to stop thinking about him.

  Yesterday’s lunch appointment with Valerie Fischer didn’t help. Though old enough to be Gideon’s mother, she’s clearly half in love with him. She spent the entirety of our meal talking about his absolute genius, his once-in-a-generation talent. When she mentioned her efforts to persuade him to paint her nude, I almost spat out my iced tea.

  No matter how many distractions I’ve embraced in the last forty-eight hours, I can’t stop obsessing over what he wants—to study me for the sake of art—and what I want with increasing urgency from him. My want wakes me up in the middle of the night, flushed and panting, my legs squeezed tightly together. The dreams are so vivid, so darkly erotic, that it takes me minutes to realize the sensations aren’t real. That it’s not his hands on my breasts and between my legs, but my own.

  I need to get laid. The basic human compulsion isn’t one that overwhelms me often, but I’m not a robot. Masturbation isn’t cutting it. I need heat and skin and clenching fingers. Connection, even if it’s just physical.

  Alone in my condo Friday evening, I write down a list of potential cures for my ridiculous attraction to Gideon, then eliminate each one.

  1.Get drunk and eat ice cream

  2.Go to Crossroads and find a casual fuck

  3.Buy a ten-inch dildo

  4.Get Finn’s phone number from Gideon

  I’m already half-drunk, there’s ice cream in the freezer with my name on it, my vibrator works just fine, and the only reason I’d ask Gideon for his friend’s number is to gauge his reaction. Because I’m clearly out of my goddamn mind. I start a new list called Affirmations.

  1.You are a strong, independent woman

  2.You are no man’s whore

  3.You are not obsessed with an arrogant artist

  4.You are better than this

  Compulsion—addiction—is something Nate has struggled with on and off since we were adolescents. Never me. Call it winning the genetic lottery, or having an alcoholic mother and a drug-dealer father, but I’ve always been able to put down what I pick up.

  The only time I’ve been physically addicted was when I smoked cigarettes during my late teens. But even then, once I decided to stop, I did. Sometimes I miss the ritual of smoking, especially the smooth metal and snap-click of my father’s Zippo. But I can take or leave the actual cancer-sticks.

  I don’t have an addictive bone in my body. I don’t obsess over men—or women—and I’ve never had a crush on someone in my life.

  Crushes are for girls who aren’t hungry and scared, and for women who crave external validation and emotional intimacy.

  I’m neither.

  There must be another explanation for the fact I can’t stop thinking about Gideon fucking Masters.

  16 degradation

  “Given your job title, Snowflake, I’m surprised you look so sour. Don’t you know there are cameras watching? Father does love fogging the lens. Click, click, happy family.”

  Strong hands guide my body around a dance floor stuffed with diamonds and tuxedos. Gideon holds me too close for a proper waltz—we’re being stared at. Given his nature, I have to wonder if it’s all an act. What is he trying to project? Why does he w
ant us here for his father to see?

  So much of him is a mystery. A formidable castle of identity built with lies as mortar. Perhaps that explains our odd, doomed chemistry. We are the same, just like he said.

  Wild animals.

  The lapels of his jacket continually graze my chest. My nipples ache, hypersensitized. Warm, minty breath puffs against the side of my face, and the copper-blond stubble he couldn’t be bothered to shave tickles my ear. He smells like dark forest nights, like indulgence and impulse and bad decisions. The most aggravating and stimulating detail of all? He’s not wearing any underwear, a fact repeatedly made known as we move across the dance floor and our hips brush.

  “Tut tut. Loosen up, mon bijou.”

  Grinning down at me, he gives my body a playful shake. Like he owns it. Like it’s a plaything for his amusement.

  I should be angry. Should storm away or set some boundaries or slap him. The me of just days ago would have. Or… I’d like to think she would have.

  But now? I’m shamefully, helplessly aroused. On a heated, primal level, I enjoy it when he calls me his treasure in French. And I’m equally affected when he calls me Snowflake, like I’m something he wants to melt. Delicate and complex. Transitory.

  The pet names, the familiarity in how he treats me—like we’re old lovers not near strangers—I love it.

  Bullshit, all of it, but damn, it’s intoxicating.

  And humiliating. Degrading. A middle finger to the years I’ve spent fighting for respect in a male-dominated industry. My hard work, my discipline, my pride and success… I don’t know how to reconcile the woman I created with the woman who feels this growing infatuation with a narcissistic, morally-suspect hedonist.

  Gideon’s fingers apply a burst of pressure on my back. I blink at him, processing the amusement—and wariness—in his eyes.

  “What are you thinking about with that dreadful look on your face?”

  I swallow. “I was thinking about your weird interest in me, and how it’s like the curiosity of a sociopathic child holding a magnifying glass in bright daylight over a trail of ants.”