Amanda buzzes me. “You have a call on the back line. It’s Crystal from Riptide.”
I cringe at the realization that I never called her back last night, and the wrath she must have received from Mark. I reach for the phone. “Put her through,” I say, rushing to the door to shut it before reclaiming my chair.
“Crystal,” I say, answering the line. “I’m so very sorry I didn’t call you last night.”
“You’re there. That’s what counts.”
“Did Mark give you a hard time about rehiring me?”
“Of course. It started with, ‘Ms. Smith—’ in that proper authoritative voice of his. And he tried to end it with, ‘I trust we will not have this conversation again.’”
“Tried?”
“I was with his mother. She was having a rare feisty moment and wanted to talk to him.”
I laugh. “Oh my. He must have loved that.”
“Actually, I think he loves anything resembling feisty in her these days.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I say and not for the first time I have the impression she knows more than Mark’s mother well. She knows him.
“How is he?” she asks softly, and something in her tone hints at far more than job duties.
“He’s keeping to himself,” I reply, “but I don’t think he’s doing that well at all.” I glance down at the messages on my desk, many from reporters. “Has he warned you about the media attention that could be coming in your direction?”
“I know about the Rebecca situation and the news reports this morning. I know it all, Sara. And I mean all of it. You can’t shock me. You can’t scare me. They can’t scare me. Mark can’t scare me.”
There’s some sort of loaded punch behind those words that resembles me with Chris too much for me to ignore. “Just . . . be careful, Crystal. Don’t—”
“Get emotionally attached? To Mark? I’m smarter than that. To his parents, too late. They’re my second family and I’m worried about them. His mother is pretty out of it with the chemo and radiation treatments, and Mark told his father what’s going on. He’s helping me shelter her, but he’s not emotionally equipped to handle much himself.”
“I’m wondering about Allure,” I start, daring to feel her out about Mark selling the gallery. “Is Mark—”
There’s a muffled knock in the background. “Hold on, Sara. Sorry.” I hear her open the door and murmur something that I can’t make out to someone. Several beats pass and she returns. “I’m afraid I have an auction with complications about to start, but I called for a reason. Newman Riley. Do you know him?”
“I know his work. He’s one of the artists on display here at Allure.”
“Not after today. He’s a bit of a diva and he’s on a tirade. He’s not pleased that the gallery is closed and that no one will return his calls. Apparently, I don’t count as someone since I’ve talked to him three times. What it comes down to is that he wanted to talk to Mark.”
“Did you tell him about Mark’s mother and Rebecca?”
“Yes. He doesn’t care. I think that’s why Mark doesn’t care, either. Bottom line, Newman is on a plane to San Francisco as we speak. He plans to remove his work from the gallery personally. I left Mark a message and texted him after he hung up with his mother, but I called because I had a gut feeling he wasn’t communicating with you. I didn’t want Newman to show up and surprise you.”
“Mark’s in the gallery, so he must be planning to deal with him when he arrives.”
She lowers her voice. “Between you and me, I’m not so sure he has a plan. His mother started crying while she was talking to him, and I’m pretty sure it upset him. She wanted him here for her chemo treatment, and I know he wanted to be here, too.”
I press my fingertips to my temple. “No wonder he’s locked in his office. I’ll handle it. Thank you, Crystal.”
“Thank you, Sara. Gotta run. Call me if you need me.”
The line goes dead and I sit there for a minute, digesting the way she has thanked me, like this is her family she’s protecting. She seems emotionally attached, which normally would be a good thing, but now . . . now I think of how emotional attachment has become dangerous. Amber is in rehab over Chris. Ricco is charged with a felony over his attachment to Rebecca. Ava is on trial for murder. Rebecca . . . is dead.
I want to see Crystal’s attachment to Mark and his family as good. Instead, I’m worried. And did she know Rebecca? Was she involved with Mark at the same time? Was she someone invited into their play? Does she know Ava? I feel horrible for suspecting her if she’s sincere, but I have to be cautious.
I dial Chris and he picks up almost immediately. “Miss me already?”
“I miss our bed with you and me in it, away from all of this,” I say. “Is this a bad time?”
“Never. What’s up, baby?”
I sigh. “I have a problem. Surprise.”
“Does his name start with an ‘M’?”
My lips twist wryly. “Yes.” I explain what Crystal told me about Riley. “I think I need to handle this, not Mark, but I don’t think he’ll see it that way. I’m hoping you know Riley and have some insight into his personality.”
“Yeah. I know Riley. He’s done some charity work with me. He tends to feel overlooked in the art community. The result isn’t always good. I wouldn’t put it past him to run his mouth to the press. I’m only a few blocks away. I’ll have the security guys on alert and I’ll talk to him. I know a few projects coming up that might persuade him to be tolerant.”
“Thank you, Chris.”
“Thank me later. In bed. Or out of bed. Be creative.”
I smile into the phone and respond with what has become our running joke, “I’ll use your imagination.”
“Even better.”
I’ve barely settled my cell phone back on my desk when Amanda buzzes me again. “Ryan is on the line and he says he’s outside to see Mark. They won’t let him in.”
“Did you tell Mark?”
“He won’t pick up his phone.”
“Now isn’t a good time.” And even if it was, I don’t think Mark would see Ryan. “He needs to call in advance.”
“He says Mark won’t take his calls.”
“Put Ryan on with me.”
“I, ah, he hung up.”
No, he didn’t. He called her cell phone, instead of contacting her through the security team outside. “If he calls back, put him through.”
“Yes. Okay. Thanks.”
With the odd dynamics of Mark and Ryan’s relationship on my mind, I flip open the journal and I write my own version of Ricco’s words. A fine line between friendship and hate. I underline the words.
Eleven
Riley shows up at lunchtime, and Jacob quickly detours him to Chris. I order pizza for everyone, including the security crew, who are nearly done with the fence around the parking lot. There’s relative quiet in the gallery, and I find myself once again jotting notes in my journal. I’ve compiled so much information that I decide I should hand it over to Blake tonight.
Flipping to the first entry I’d made on the plane, I pick a random line and begin to read.
He’d thought he’d beaten the need for the whip outside of the one day a year, but Dylan’s death proved him wrong.
That’s all I need to rip the page out and start tearing it into tiny pieces and I stuff them in my trash can. I will not let my words be a window into Chris’s secrets and I wonder now if Rebecca would feel the same if she were alive today.
The pizza arrives and we all decide to eat at our desks. With a slice on my plate, I start to take a bite, then change my mind and buzz Mark’s office.
He answers with, “Not now, Ms. McMillan.”
“But we ordered—”
“The definition of ‘not now’ is not now.”
I inhale and sit there. And sit there some more. Then I stand up. This man has intimidated me many times, but right now, his grief intimidates me more than the man. He’s fall
ing apart. Alone. Exactly what I did after losing my mother. Decision made, I round my desk and make my way down the hallway to his door. I knock and his reply is almost instant.
“Not now means not now, Ms. McMillan.”
Steeling myself, I turn the knob and enter his office. He personifies every intimidating man who has ever brought me to my knees, yet he is not those men. He is more, or different. He is something I cannot explain.
“Ms. McMillan—”
I snap at the formality of my name, and in a heartbeat I’m across the room, my hands planted on his desk. “Sara. My name is Sara.”
He just stares at me, offering not so much as a blink to show he’s human. Silence ticks between us, the air charged.
“Think about what you’re doing,” he warns, his tone a near slap, and I have to remind myself that the stony exterior he portrays is a façade. I’ve seen glimpses of the wounded man beneath, a man who’s bleeding from his soul and alone in his grief.
“I need instructions to deal with some problems.”
“Go home. Problems solved.”
I’m so over the edge of my comfort zone, I seem beyond fear. I round the desk, invading his space, and he rotates his chair to face me. His stare hits me like a blast of scorching flames. He is angry. Furious even, which is about as intimidating as it gets, but it’s also emotion. It’s success. It’s me tearing through that iron-solid control of his.
He leans back his chair, reclining casually into the leather, but he isn’t truly relaxed. “What are you doing, Ms. McMillan?”
“Trying to talk to you.”
“Unlike you, I’m not big on conversation.” The statement is punched with a blast of ice so cold, it could chill the entire state of Texas.
I don’t back down. “I know you’re hurting.”
The pain in his eyes is gone as quickly as it arrives. “Are you volunteering to help me fuck the hurt out of my system?” he challenges. “Because that’s what I do, Ms. McMillan. I fuck things out of my system.”
My fingers curl on the edge of the desk and my chin lifts in determination. “I don’t intimidate that easily.”
“It was a simple invitation. A good fuck shouldn’t intimidate anyone. If it does, someone is doing it wrong.”
The jab at Chris is almost my undoing, but that’s what he wants—and Chris’s words about people needing help when they least deserve it come back to me. “I want to help you, Mark. That’s why I’m at the gallery. That’s why I’m standing here and I’m not asking your permission to be your friend.”
“The façade of friendship is a dangerous one.”
“You said that about love,” I retort, reminding him of how he tried to “save” me when Chris was gone.
His fingers flex into the leather armrests. He doesn’t like that response. “Either get naked or get out.” His voice is low, seething with anger.
“Stop talking to me like that. Let’s get beyond that, for once. And you’re just angry with me anyway. I’m okay with that, Mark. At least you’re showing me emotion. At least you’re being real.”
“You mistake me for someone who has emotions, Ms. McMillan. I don’t.”
“Anger is emotion. Desire is an emotion. Lust and passion. Guess what? Also emotions.”
“Those are feelings.”
“Emotion is feeling.”
“Love. Hate. Sadness. Those are emotions. Fucking is about pleasure. The kind I’ve offered to show you.”
I refuse to let him see how he flusters me. “You feel sadness. I was in the office when that song made you choke up over Rebecca, and I was under that tree with you the night you learned she was gone.”
“A night you obviously don’t remember well, considering I told you to stay the fuck away from me. You don’t listen to instructions well.”
“I think that’s why you like me,” I accuse. “And I think that’s why you loved Rebecca.”
His lashes lower and this time he doesn’t try to hide his pain. Maybe he can’t. Maybe that’s how deep a nerve I’ve hit, but I don’t regret it. He’s about to drown in his own denial. I hope this is a breakthrough, a chance for him to heal.
My hope wavers when the full intensity of his gaze slams into me and he stands, towering over me, his hands coming down on my shoulders.
“Sara,” he says softly, shocking me with more than the use of my first name. “You remind me of her. Did you know that?”
My lips part in shock and confirmation. He hired me, even pursued me, because I was a version of the woman he missed and craved. He turns me toward the door and leans in, his warm breath brushing my cheek. “That’s not a good thing for either of us right now. Get out, Ms. McMillan.”
He drops his hands, but I can feel him behind me, too close. I’m not going to be a fool, waving a red flag in front of an angry bull. I quickly go to the door, then pause and turn. “Ryan is working his way into Amanda’s bed, if he isn’t there already. That seems like a serious problem to me.”
While his response is slow to arrive, it’s precise and sharp. “You would be correct.”
“What should I do?”
“Nothing. Let me handle it.”
That’s not the answer I want or will even entertain, so I don’t pretend I will. I turn and exit, leaving Mark alone . . . again.
• • •
Three hours later, Chris has saved the day with Riley and calls to let me know that he’s dropping him off at the airport. I’m relieved, and exhausted from explaining the gallery situation to clients over and over. The hard work has paid off, though. I have a list of twenty people interested in the grand reopening, and a client who wants to buy one of Chris’s paintings.
I’m about to dial another customer when Jacob appears in my doorway and charges toward me. “The police have a warrant. It’s legit and I can’t hold them at the door more than a few more minutes, if that. I’m going to warn Mark.”
“Oh no.” I stand up. “What should I do?”
“Prepare the staff and lead them to the front door,” he replies. “Law enforcement has it blocked off, so there are no media concerns. You won’t be allowed to take more than your coat and purse, and they’ll search it before you leave.”
“Did you call Chris?”
“Yes. He’s about thirty minutes away. The police can’t enter the building until certain precautions to protect the art have been taken, which won’t take long. I’m going to coordinate with Mark.”
As he rushes away, Ralph appears in my doorway. “What’s happening?”
“There’s a search warrant for the gallery.”
Amanda shoves under his arm. “What? They’re searching the gallery? Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so,” I confirm. The conversation I’d planned to have with them later clearly needs to happen now. “Tomorrow Ava has a bail adjustment hearing. Her counsel has threatened a media-created scandal if she doesn’t get a lower bond, and that will involve the gallery. Grab what you want to take home and then head to the front door, but I can’t promise they’ll let you leave with anything but a coat and purse.”
They just blink at me as if I’ve grown horns.
I wave them onward. “Go! Get your things.”
They disappear and I gather my coat and purse, then remember the journal. If I take it, I’ll bring attention to it. If I don’t, they might read it. Regretting my detailed notes now, I decide to leave it behind.
Exiting my office, I find Ralph and Amanda waiting by her desk. She casts me an apprehensive look. “Do we just walk out?”
I glance down the hallway to the right at Mark’s closed door, wondering if we should wait for him and Jacob, when the door to my left opens. Jerking around, I suck in a breath to find myself face-to-face with Detective Miller again.
“Ms. McMillan,” she greets. Her pink-stained lips purse.
“Detective Miller.” I motion to Ralph and Amanda. “Can the staff leave?”
She stares at them with such intensity, it would shake far
more confident, experienced people than Ralph and Amanda. I’ve lived all my life around people who glory in intimidating others, so her intent rings loud and clear to me.
“Can they leave?” I press again.
She finally tells them, “The men at the door will instruct you from here. You may leave.”
I want to tell her they aren’t under arrest, so they “may leave” no matter what, but I think better of it and zip my lips. She steps away from the exit and Amanda and Ralph waste no time departing. I’m now alone with a woman who would hang me out to dry in a heartbeat.
She steps toward me in her sleekly cut black pantsuit; like her makeup and hair, it’s a disguise for the predator I see in her eyes. Really, is she all that different from Ava?
She stops a few steps from me, crossing her arms. “I have to say, I didn’t expect you to be back here.”
“Why’s that?”
“You ran to Paris. I figured you’d stay underground.”
My defenses prickle, but my voice is thankfully steady. “I didn’t run anywhere. And I’m glad I took that week. Shaken by the attack, I wouldn’t have handled you attacking me nearly as well as I am now.”
“We’re just doing our jobs.”
“No. I did your jobs. I convinced people to start looking for Rebecca, but even with all the attention now, you haven’t found her or my friend Ella.”
“Ah, yes. Ella.”
“Yes. And I still want answers.” I broach a concern niggling at my mind. “Ella bought Rebecca’s storage unit. What if that put her in danger? What if that’s why she can’t be found? Two women are missing, and they have a connection.”
“You could be that connection.”
Her fast accusation hits me like a punch. “Are you serious? You’re turning this on me? No wonder you can’t find Rebecca or Ella.”
Our eyes lock and hold, the air around us turning downright icy, when I feel a hand between my shoulder blades. “Go outside, Ms. McMillan,” Mark commands.
“Yes,” Detective Miller agrees, her attention remaining on me. “I need some time alone with the ‘Master.’”
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