‘But it’s my art I want people to see. My art,’ she managed. She was near in tears now, standing half-naked in the hall of a very exclusive hotel, being reprimanded instead of welcomed.
He reached behind her and unhooked her bra, then ran his hands beneath the waistband to catch her breasts up in his palms and caress them roughly. She was shockingly aroused in spite of the humiliation. ‘You have to learn, as Stacie Emerson had to learn, that you are your art, you are your own emissary, and it’s you people will look at, at least as often as they do your sculpture. That’s an important lesson, Ms. Watson.’ Then he took her hand and led her across the threshold, closing the door behind them. ‘Now, get out of that rag, and your bra, and wait over there on the sofa until the bellboy brings up your clothes, then I can dress you properly.’
The words were barely out of his mouth before there was a soft knock on the door. He nodded to the sofa and went to answer. Ingrid did as she was told.
She sat with her heart racing and her arms folded protectively across her chest, knowing at any second the bellboy could crane his neck just right and see her sitting there on the sofa in nothing but her panties.
‘Ingrid, take your arms away from your breasts.’ She jumped at the sound of Mr. Jamison’s voice as he returned. ‘And sit up straight. Let me see you.’ He studied her just long enough to make her blush hard and long enough to make her squirm against the sofa. Then he sat down next to her, efficiently removed her panties, and pulled her onto his lap as though she was a child. Her balance was awkward until she slipped her arms around his neck, crushing her right breast against the buttons of his jacket, which he opened to better accommodate her.
‘I’m sorry to be so harsh with you, darling. But you have to learn.’ He shifted her forward slightly and lifted her bottom and, with a start, she realized he was undoing his fly. ‘Never mind,’ he was saying. ‘You’ve had a long flight, sweetheart. I know you’re tired and you need to relax a little. Shall I fuck you and help you relax?’ He fingered her open and she quivered at his touch, even as her cheeks burned with shame. ‘Goodness, it feels like that’s exactly what you need, darling; a good fuck to settle your nerves.’ His last word ended in a little grunt and he entered her surprisingly easily this time. She bit her lip and bore down with a little sigh as he began to shift and rock beneath her. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better after you’ve come.’
And he was right. She did.
It felt like déjà vu, waking up in the middle of the big bed, naked and alone. Ingrid’s stomach knotted and then relaxed as she heard his voice from the other room, talking business on the phone probably, even though it was still the middle of the night. But for all she knew, he could be talking with someone in China or Europe. That made her feel proud for a second, then her stomach growled. They had eaten smoked chicken salads last night in a very fine restaurant where everyone else was enjoying steak or seafood. But in the dress he’d bought for her, there wasn’t a lot of room for feasting. He said it was tight on purpose. He said someone who expected to be a star needed to constantly be reminded of her weight, needed to constantly be reminded that people were watching her. So she had picked at the salad and only eaten a bit of the passion fruit crème brûlée he had ordered for her.
Back in the room, the lovemaking had been rough and impersonal, though he had made sure she came – even came a lot. But just when she thought it was a sympathy fuck, just when she thought this was the point at which he told her she really wasn’t worthy, that he had lost interest in her, he snuggled her close and caressed her gently. He had told her what a jewel she was, what a find, and how excited he was to be able to help her reach her full potential. And she had slept, reassured. And now he was in the lounge on the phone. She shoved her way out of the bed and peeked out the window. It was dark, and it was raining. But she was wide awake. She found the robe hanging in the closet and pulled it on, recalling how unhappy he had been to have her in his shirt.
In the living room, he was pacing in front of the sofa, fully dressed, as though they had never made love at all. He didn’t even look slightly rumpled. He offered her a quick glance and pointed to the couch. She sat. And waited. He made no effort to hurry the call, a call that had something to do with some tract of land in Valderia. And was she mistaken, or did he say something about the presidency? The presidency of the country? Surely not. She might have actually dozed again before the brush of his cool lips across her ear woke her.
When her eyes fluttered open, he pulled her onto his lap and held her close, and she wrapped her arms round his neck, feeling strangely vulnerable, strangely near tears. At last he spoke. ‘You should be in bed, my darling, sleeping. I have a very busy day planned for you tomorrow. Now come.’ He lifted her into his arms as though she were a child and carried her back to the bed. Carefully, gently, he slipped the knot of the robe and eased it off her body, pausing to admire and caress her breasts until she couldn’t hold back a tetchy little moan. ‘Are you aroused, sweetheart? Is that it?’ He ran a hand down over her belly and in between her legs and, as her breath caught in a little shudder, he tut-tutted. ‘Goodness, you are a horny little slut, aren’t you? Do you want my cock? Is that what you want?’
She was way too embarrassed by his use of such filthy talk to say what she wanted, and even more embarrassed that he had found her so needy, when all she had really hoped for was a little conversation, a little sharing. But he was already opening his fly. He made no effort to take off any of his clothing. She lay there fully exposed as he pushed her legs apart. ‘Goodness, look at you, darling. All wet and begging for it. Who knew that a little girl from down on the farm could be such a dirty thing?’ Before she could protest, before the heat in her face could dissipate, he positioned her and climbed on top of her. Just a single grunt and a shove, and he was in, and the hard stretch with no foreplay took her breath away and burned up inside her, but only for a minute, only until she got used to the thickness of him again, the depth. The raw rub of his thrusting against her clit was startling and almost too much to take, but it gave way to a deep, rhythmic thrumming that made her slippery and tight and hornier than she would have imagined possible under the circumstances.
‘There now, that’s my girl.’ His voice seemed so relaxed in spite of the hard swell of him and the tight thrust. ‘Let me take care of you and then you can rest. Goodness, you’re so tight, you’ve got me about to come too.’ And then he thrust harder, and she was embarrassed to hear her growls and moans, sounds she wouldn’t have believed herself capable of making during sex. She clawed at the back of his crisp white shirt and bucked against his heavy penis. One last hard thrust and she came, gabbling and mewling like a hungry calf led to the teat, and she felt the tensing of his abdominal muscles as he ejaculated.
Long before she was ready, he pulled away and found a towel. ‘There, now, that feels better, doesn’t it? You can sleep now, darling.’ He wiped her clean and gave her breasts a fondling. ‘And in the morning, my PA will pick you up at nine o’clock sharp.’ He brushed a kiss across her lips before she could protest. ‘I have to work tomorrow, sweetheart, but Terri has a wonderful day planned for you, and I’ll see you in the evening.’
Short of fleeing the very expensive hair salon still clad in the black and gold tunic that shielded her clothes, there was nothing Ingrid Watson could do to keep from becoming a blond. He wanted it that way, the stylist explained in his smarmy French accent, and what Monsieur Jamison wanted, Monsieur Jamison got. But of course she would look much more elegant and sophisticated as a blond, he reassured her. She figured the man would lie out his backside for Monsieur Jamison. And yet who would know better than Terrance Jamison what would make her into the successful artist she wanted to become.
Of course he was right. She was the emissary for her art. She absolutely had to look her best. And, really, how could a farm girl from the middle of nowhere know much about being sophisticated? She had her own style, and it had suited her just f
ine. But Minnesota wasn’t New York City, was it? Her focus had always been on creating her art. She’d spent little time thinking about how to package it, how to sell it, and how to sell herself as a brand. Surely she should listen to Mr. Jamison, and really, it was just the color of her hair. What did it matter? Her father wouldn’t like it, but surely even he’d come around when he realized it was good for her career.
So she let Jean Pierre shampoo her and style her and make her into a blond. Then there was a trip to a local spa where she was plucked and waxed and slathered to within an inch of her life before she was dressed in a teal pencil skirt slit high up one side and a white silk blouse that showed way more cleavage than she was used to. That was after she was shoved into expensive panties that were so silky they felt like they might slide right off her butt and a bra that mounded her breasts up until they looked like they could tumble over the top of the blouse any minute. Though she struggled not to be self-conscious, she couldn’t say she didn’t like it. And Mr. Jamison had said she had lovely breasts. So if he wanted her to flaunt her boobs – well, she’d get used to it.
She was told that Mr. Jamison had furnished the clothing for her, but he had requested the spa not do her make-up. And yet, even with no make-up, she felt like a new woman. Standing in front of the mirror with her matching heels and bag, she had to admit her new look was a lot more sophisticated than the old Ingrid Watson. In fact, dressed as she was, with her blond hair and push-up bra, she looked a little like Stacie Emerson.
Now she thought about it, the hairstyle Jean Pierre had given her was almost identical to the one Stacie Emerson wore in some of the photos she’d seen. She could do worse than to emulate a women she admired so much, the women who’d given her the big break. But as the limo arrived to take her to the hotel, she couldn’t help wondering if maybe Mr. Jamison had planned it that way. Maybe he wanted her to look like Stacie. Maybe he and Stacie actually had been lovers, and maybe he still had a thing for her. She pushed the thought out of her head and tried to feel good about her new look. It had certainly worked for Stacie Emerson. With any luck, it would work the same magic for her.
At the hotel, she had the suite all to herself. She took a bottle of sparkling water from the bar and paced through the rooms, wondering what time Mr. Jamison would be back. She didn’t have long to wait before she heard the electronic lock click, and she turned to find him standing inside the door wearing the biggest smile she’d seen on his face since she first met him. ‘My darling Ingrid, you look enchanting! Stunning. Such a transformation. I’m bowled over, completely bowled over.’ Before he could do more than pull her hand to his lips and brush it with a kiss, there was a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be Hilda. She’ll do your make-up for the night, and then we’ll celebrate. We have so much to celebrate, my dear Ingrid. I’ve arranged for you to see a gallery that you might possibly like, and I –’ he offered a deferential smile ‘– well, I’ve just bought myself a president in Valderia. But never mind that. That’s nothing with which you need to trouble your thoughts. A private victory. But even I still have to celebrate these things, you know? Now go with Hilda. When she’s finished your make-up, I’ll dress you myself, and then you’ll be perfect. Just perfect.’
Dressed like she was queen of the world, Mr. Jamison had shown her the empty building on the Willamette River in a part of town that had been wonderfully renovated. The place had room for her studio and for the equipment she would need, none of which she could really afford, but he told her not to worry about that. It was spacious and full of light and high ceilings with a lovely wrought iron catwalk. And there was a luxurious space for her apartment. The gallery itself would extend, not only to the main exhibition room, but into what would become a huge sculpture garden overlooking the river. Well, that was his vision for it, and he was so enthusiastic she could almost see it in her own imagination, though having a gallery seemed a bit premature to her. But surely he knew what he was doing.
Afterward, the limo had taken them to a fabulous restaurant. The name now slipped her mind. By then she was already slightly tipsy from the champagne with which he had toasted their successes in the back of the limo on the way. She would ask him to remind her of the name tomorrow so she could tell her father and her friends back home all about it.
And then there had been sex. Wow, had there been sex! They’d barely got back to the limo after dinner before he was all over her, and it was so naughty to do it in the back seat that she came all over herself and all over him.
By the time she fell asleep, in the big bed in their suite, her lovely black dress had been thoroughly ruined, but he promised to buy her another one just like it if she wanted. He had promised to make all of her dreams come true, and as she drifted off to sleep, she couldn’t help thinking that her father wouldn’t approve. There’s no such thing as a free ride, he’d always said. Watch out for the hidden price tags. They’re the ones that come back to bite you in the backside. With that thought, she fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
‘I’m at the back door with pizza. I’m assuming you’re the one burning the midnight oil or else your gallery’s haunted, Ms. Emerson.’
Stacie gripped the BlackBerry tight to her ear, and she was sure the smile was about to split her face. She shouldn’t be so happy to hear his voice. She should tell him to go away, but she didn’t.
‘Harris, if the place were haunted, believe me, with the hours I keep, I’d know it. Pizza, did you say?’
‘Yep. Canadian bacon and mushroom. I believe that’s what Garrett said your favorite is. Now, are you gonna let me in, or do I have to eat it all by myself sitting on the sidewalk looking like a nutcase?’
‘Hang on.’ When Harris called, she was sitting in the control room Martin and his men had just finished so she pulled up the monitor for the back door. Sure enough, there he stood looking sexy and outdoorsy as usual. She’d been familiarizing herself with the new security monitors and link-ups. ‘I’ll buzz you in, then just wait in the foyer and I’ll be right down.’
She pushed the button and he immediately opened the door and stepped inside. She watched him for a second as he stood there taking in her domain – well, at least as much as he could see from the foyer. She’d had fantasies about proudly showing him around her gallery, fantasies about him being über-impressed. But those fantasies had never taken into account the risk he might be at if their relationship took a turn for the intimate. And still, she couldn’t fight down the butterflies of excitement that came from knowing he was waiting for her just downstairs.
As she joined him, he pulled her into a delicious sloppy kiss, carelessly balancing the pizza box on one forearm. His hair was damp from the rain. He looked as though he might have just come from the hide, photographing some fabulously elusive wildlife, and he smelled like the outdoors, which set off little tremors of excitement just below her navel.
‘You didn’t think I’d agree to an exhibition and not want to see where my work would be displayed, did you?’ The twinkle in his grey eyes made her giddy.
‘Of course not, and I’m ready for you. If you’d care to come this way, Mr. Walker, I’ll be your guide for the New World Gallery West deluxe tour package complete with an exclusive look at the pizza-eating facilities, which are upstairs off the mezzanine.’
She heard the catch of his breath as they made their way into the main exhibition hall. Even lit with only the security lighting and the moon coming in through the skylights, it was impressive. She smiled to herself. She really hoped he would like it.
‘Wow!’ he said. ‘You don’t do things by half, do you, Ms. Emerson?’
‘No, I do not, Mr. Walker.
‘And I see you’ve already got the monitors up for the film loop. You’re really speeding along.’
‘Have to. The exhibition will be here before you know it. Carla tells me she’s now got the footage and the interviews with both you and Kyle Waters. You see, things are coming together. You kno
w how time flies when you’re having fun.’
‘Oh, I do indeed,’ he said, following her upstairs to the mezzanine. ‘In fact, I’ve been getting more shots of the owls. This time with the BlackBerry turned off.’ He gave a shrug to indicate the rucksack on his back. ‘Brought the iPad in case you’d like to see them.’
‘Of course I would,’ she said, feeling extremely privileged that he had brought them to her first.
‘I thought about inviting you along for the shoot, but sadly there wouldn’t have been room for both of us on the tree branch. Besides I’m not sure I’d have been able to concentrate on the owls if you’d been up there with me.’
‘Well I, for one, am very happy that you’ve taken your safety into account this time. At least partially. I’m sure Dee would be very unhappy with you for being up in that tree instead of in the hide.’
‘And you’re not?’
The smile slipped a bit. ‘I understand the need to take risks to get what you want, Harris.’ Before he could respond, she led him into her office, which was now fully decorated and equipped. She had already broken it in properly by spending a couple of nights on the sofa.
‘Wow! Your facilities beat the hell out of mine. Well, at least the ones for Wilderness Vanguard.’ He set the pizza box down on the coffee table next to the sofa, dropped the backpack on the floor, and looked around. ‘In all fairness, though, I do most of my own work from home, so that’s a pretty great place to work, and even you have to admit my view’s better than yours.’
‘Not tonight it isn’t.’ She took his hand and guided him to stand in an area where she had had a small dormer and the accompanying alcove of space turned into a miniature sun room. At the moment, the nearly full moon looked as though it might fall through the glass from the strain of its own weight. Harris let out a low whistle and picked up an open sketchpad from the floor where it lay with several charcoal pencils. On the pad was a detailed drawing of the moon’s face – at least, as detailed as she could make it.
The Exhibition (An Executive Decision Trilogy) Page 17