“You’re not jealous of Asia, are you?”
“Not jealous … curious. I mean,” Bo sat down next to him, “and this is not a criticism, but I’ve seen her picture, heard you talk about her … why on earth would you cheat on her?”
Kit sighed. “The simple, awful answer is because the opportunity presented itself. Because I told myself it didn’t count as infidelity. I was an insensitive idiot.”
Bo nodded slowly. “And now? If the opportunity presented itself again?”
Suddenly he got why she was asking. He shook his head. “Bo … you are everything to me. Everything. I’m older; I’m wiser; and I’m committed to making us work, to us being a family; you, me, and Tiger.”
He could see she wasn’t convinced, and his chest hurt with the pain of it. “Guess I’ll have to prove it to you,” he said gruffly. Bo leaned her head on his shoulder.
“I want to trust you, Kit, I do. It might take some time, but I’ll be right there with you, trying to put other relationships, other hurts, other mistakes behind me, too. But I think, it’ll be worth it … don’t you?”
“You bet that sweet ass of yours, it will be,” he said fiercely, and took her face between his hands to kiss her, but she pulled away, grinning to soften the slight.
“One last question.”
“Go for it.”
She searched his eyes. “I have no doubt that you love me, Kit, but … are you still in love with Asia as well? It’s okay if you are.”
Kit sighed. “I don’t want to be. I don’t. But yeah, there’s a little part of me which still loves her in that way. I’ll get over it. You are the only one I want to be with, Bo; I swear to God.”
She nodded. “I believe you.”
Kit glanced at the clock. “Almost time. You knock ’em dead, beautiful.”
She kissed him, and then moaned. “My bloody lipstick!”
They both laughed and quickly, she re-applied her gloss and was out of the door.
A quarter hour later, Kit listened to the roar of the crowd as she went on stage and felt such rush of pride and love that it overwhelmed him.
She was his queen, and he was a slave to whatever she wanted or needed. He would do anything not to mess this up.
Grady wasn’t concentrating on this sale—not one bit. All he could think of were the last four days, the days filled with Asia, laughter, love, sex—a wonderful reconnection. It had been everything he’d hoped for, everything he’d dreamed about. Her soft skin against him, the bliss on her face as she reached orgasm, the way her lips moved against his. Afterward, they had talked like old friends, and it was if both of them felt as if an age-old torment had been extinguished.
Now she was flying back to Seattle for work, and he felt empty. He had thought the auction might distract him, but all he wanted to do was to get on a plane and go to her.
Way to act cool, he grinned to himself. He must have laughed out loud, as the elderly women next to him started and glared at him.
“Sorry,” he smiled broadly and winked at her, giving her the full-on Mallory charm. She simpered and waved his smile away. Back in the room, Mallory.
The next artwork was a beauty—a little known Italian painter, for sure, but one whose star was rising. Grady was confident he’d get it for a steal and started the bidding off. Two hundred thousand. He didn’t expect anyone to follow that, but once again, the price took off until Grady, exasperated, held his hands up in defeat. This went on all throughout the whole sale. Grady had had enough. Walking slowly around the auction room, he tried to see who was taking his legs out from under him.
He stopped when he saw her. Café Girl. Mysterious Broken Laptop Girl. She was facing away from him, her phone in her hand. As he watched, she tapped out a text every time a price was called. She was texting someone. Grady didn’t take his eyes off her, and as the gavel came down on another outrageous price, she gave a little smile and put the phone to her ear, talking so low into it, he had no hope of hearing what she had said.
At least he had a lead now, though, and when the auction was over (and he’d once again failed to secure a single painting), he followed her out into the street. She moved so quickly he didn’t have the time to call out, and after he’d scrambled after her for a few blocks, he lost her.
“Fuck it,” he breathed and turned down the nearest alleyway. The Café Girl hit him from behind like a wrecking ball, shoving him, face first, into a wall.
“What the hell?” he managed to shout, before she waved a blade in his face.
“Why are you following me, asshole?” For a small woman, she certainly had some strength about her. Grady, despite the threat to his person, had to grin and, clearly annoyed, she shoved his face hard against the brick of the building. He held up his hands.
“I’m not following you, you idiot, I was trying to catch up to you to ask you something. I was at the auction. I’m Grady Mallory.”
The knife disappeared, and she let him go. He turned—wait, he was wrong—the knife was still there, just not pointed at him. Well, that was progress. He smiled at her.
“Hi.”
She was as cute as he remembered, and clearly could take care of herself. She looked at him with suspicious eyes. “I know your name. What do you want?”
“To talk, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“About how you or someone you work with or for keeps outbidding me.”
She shrugged. “What of it?”
“I’d like to talk, is all. Can I buy you a coffee?”
He’d expected an outright ‘no’, so when she nodded, it took him aback. “Fine. I know a place.”
She led him through the back streets of Orleans, places even he didn’t know existed, until they reached a small, out-of-the-way bar. It was dark and atmospheric inside, low jazz playing on the sound system. She sat down in one of the booths and signaled to a waitress.
“Dewar’s, rocks,” she said, and Grady nodded.
“Make that two, thanks.” He looked back at her. She was making the most of the free nuts in baskets on the table. He guessed she must be mid-twenties, her clothes cheap but functional. Dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Army surplus, by the looks of it. She carried a messenger bag; he supposed it was convenient for her piece of crap laptop and assorted deadly weapons.
“Who are you?”
She shrugged. “No one. An art student. I like to see the pieces when they’re going up for sale.”
The drinks arrived, and he took a sip. “But there’s more to it, isn’t there? You’re bidding for someone—or feeding them information as the auction goes on.”
Her chin lifted. “How do you know I’m not buying them?”
He didn’t even bother to reply to that, and she sighed. “Look, Mr. Mallory ...”
“Grady.”
“Mister Mallory,” she said firmly, “I don’t mean any offense, but how is what I do any business of yours?”
“It isn’t,” he shot back honestly, and she looked taken back. “I'm just curious—or nosy, whichever suits you. I gotta say, I’m not used to being outbid.”
For the first time, she smiled, and Grady was struck by how lovely her face was when she grinned. “I guess that’s just tough luck, Mr. Mallory. A bit of competition never hurt.”
“Agreed,” he nodded. “So, who is it?”
She shook her head, still smiling. “I am not at liberty to disclose my associate.”
Grady gave up. “At least tell me about you. What’s your name?”
She hesitated for a second, and then relented. “Floriana Morgan.”
“American?”
She nodded. “Half. Half Italian, hence the Floriana. If it helps, just called me Flori.”
Grady stuck out his hand. “Well, then, hi, Flori. I’m Grady.”
She gave a sheepish grin as she shook his outstretched one. “Hi … sorry about the …” she mimicked a stabbing motion and mimicked the Psycho music. “Can’t be too careful.”
“That’s perfec
tly okay. You’re like an artist/ninja, then?”
She laughed. “Just an art student, I’m afraid. My attempts at art itself are somewhat amateur. My focus is on the history of art.”
“Grad student?”
She shook her head. “No, still an undergrad, sophomore. Had to defer my college place for a couple of years.”
“Are you based here?”
“Portland.”
“Maine or ...”
“Oregon.”
“Then we’re neighbors; my family is in Seattle,” Grady signaled for some refills, “Only seems right we should be friends. I don’t know if you know anything about what my family does, but—”
“Of course, I know,” she said gently. “You and your father have done so much for the art world.”
Grady’s mouth hitched up on one side. “So why are you helping the opposition, whoever they are?”
He softened the question with a smile, but Flori looked uncomfortable. “Mr. … Grady, I don’t want to … it was never my intention ...”
He put his hand over hers for a brief second. “Flori, don’t worry. You’re right, a little competition never hurt. Besides,” and he leaned back and sighed dramatically, “it was getting a little too easy, anyhoo.”
He laughed as she lobbed a peanut at him. “But seriously, Flori, if you need any help with anything … like that crappy laptop of yours?” He grinned when she looked askance at him, and a little scared.
“I’m not stalking you, I promise. I was just at the same restaurant as you the other night, when you were beating the crap out of it.”
“Ah,” she said. “Is that why you said hello to me that time?”
“It is.”
“Sorry I ignored you; I was freaked out by the bid on that Rothko.”
“Join the club. Half a billion.” He shook his head, his mind still blown.
“Is it worth that?” She looked genuinely interested.
“Rothko’s work has gone for big sums before, the most for about seventy-five million for Royal Red and Blue in 2012, but no painting by any artist has yet to reach that half billion. Some have come close—if you can call a difference of two hundred million close.” He smiled. “I was tempted, very tempted, I tell you. Rothko is my hero.”
She was looking at him with curiosity. “You’re not what I expected, Grady Mallory. Of course, I realize I know very few billionaires, so it’s hard to compare, but when I see the exploits of your brother, the actor, and your nephew ...”
Grady half smiled. “Don’t believe the crap you read about Skandar; he’s a good kid, and now that he’s with Hayley, he’s a different man. Settled, happy. Responsible. Kit, well, Kit is Kit.”
He had no idea why he was telling this stranger so much, but she was so easy to talk to. “What about you, family still alive?”
Her face lit up. “Yep. Working class girl, paid my own way through college, or rather, paying. My mom and dad are good people. They’re so happy I’m following my passion.”
Grady was impressed. “That’s great.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “I have to ask … how did you get hooked up with your associate? I’m only asking because actually it seems like a great idea of his or hers—you get the experience of seeing first-hand how the art market works; he or she gets to keep his anonymity. Hmm.”
Floriana nodded. “He contacted me—yes, it’s a he—through my art lecturer, asked if I wanted my education paid for, no questions asked. All I had to do was go to the auctions he wanted me to and help him bid most, to win the sale.”
And you’ve no idea why he chose you, apart from your obvious passion for it?”
“Honestly, I heard ‘paid college tuition’ and ‘unlimited travel expenses’ and that sealed the deal for me. It was bugging my dad that he couldn't pay for me, that I had to work twenty-hour days to pay for it. So I said yes.”
Grady chewed over this information then smiled at her. “You know, it’s been really good to talk about art with you. I don’t get to do that enough.”
“Ditto. Thanks for not being an asshole about the auctions.”
Grady held up his hands. “Hey, look, like you said, healthy competition. Flori, would you like to meet again, just for drinks and a chat? I’m in NOLA for another week or so.”
Flori grinned shyly. “Wow. Hanging out with a Mallory. I’ll get airs and graces.”
Grady laughed. “Money doesn’t make me classy, Flori, it’s just money. Here’s my card; give me a call. Where are you staying?”
She told him and gave him her cellphone number. “Thanks for the drinks.”
“You’re welcome. Can I walk you back to your hotel?”
“Actually, I want to sketch in the Quarter for a while, but raincheck?
“You’re on.”
Quilla was dying to get rid of Jakob so she could get the gossip from Asia about New Orleans. She was due to come over any minute, but Jakob was taking forever to change for a business dinner.
“You sure you don’t want to come? The place is supposed to have amazing food.”
She smiled and kissed him. “Asia’s already on her way, and we have an evening of girl talk and Chinese food planned.”
Finally, after kissing her thoroughly and wondering out loud if they had time for sex before he left, she got him out of the door. She had just grabbed some wine from the cooler when her phone rang. She was smiling when she answered it.
“Hello, Quilla.”
Gregor. Again, the sweating palms, the way her stomach dropped when she heard his voice. He hadn’t called for a couple of weeks, and there was a part of her that wanted to pretend he’d simply gotten tired of terrorizing her. Now, though, she rubbed a hand over eyes and pressed the ‘record’ button on the surveillance the FBI had installed. Every word that was said was sent to them, processed, and scoured for any clue. He never stayed on long enough for a trace, but the FBI had said to her, “Try and stay on as long as you can; get every bit of information from him. Anything could be the key. As long as you can stand it.”
Easy for the FBI man to say. It wasn’t his own brutal, horrific, bloody murder he was listening to being described in minute detail. Gregor would describe in sickening detail what he intended to do to her, and while Quilla had steeled herself for the worst, it always got to her. The nightmares were unimaginable, and on more than one occasion, she’d woken up screaming and having to be calmed down by a deeply concerned Jakob.
She was tired of it, tired of Gregor’s shit. “Hello, Gregor. Calling to give me an update on when and how you’re planning to kill me? How original. I tell you what. Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
She hung up the phone and cursed loudly. She grabbed a pillow from the couch and screamed into it. However much she pretended she was fine, she wasn’t. She was close to breaking.
She heard a knock at the door and went to open it, smoothing out her expression. She smiled when she saw Asia, but Asia, having spent a great deal of time with the other woman of late, wasn’t fooled for a second.
“He called, didn’t he?” She walked in and hugged Quilla fiercely. “That son-of-a-bitch.”
Quilla relaxed into Asia’s hug. “Doesn’t matter,” she muttered. “Come, let’s have a drink.”
Asia dumped her purse onto the couch and studied Quilla. “Enough is enough, Quills. This is abuse. The Feds can’t expect you to listen to his filth until you break.”
A sob escaped Quilla then, and Asia went to her. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“I’m okay, really,” Quilla said, brushing away her tears. “I’m just so angry all of the time. Please, Asia, please, please distract me. Tell me about New Orleans.”
Asia smiled. “New Orleans was great. Grady sends his love.”
Quilla, her tears drying, handed Asia a glass of wine and searched her face. “Asia Flynn … did you sleep with that man?”
Asia tried not to grin. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Quilla gasped. “Oh, my God, you did! Hallelujah, h
ang on; I have to call Ran …’
She pretended to go for her phone and Asia, laughing, swatted her away. Quilla nodded at the couch, her low mood lifting. “Food’s on its way, Flynn, so get on that couch and tell me everything.”
Skandar Mallory put his arm around his girlfriend and kissed her temple, as her older sister, Nan, read through the newspaper article. Joel, Skandar’s father, and Nan’s boyfriend, sat stone-faced beside her. The third one in three days. The paparazzi were obviously doing some sort of series on them, with all of their family secrets laid bare by Zinnia, their absent and errant mother.
“To be fair,” Nan said, her voice cracking with her anger, “All of this is bullshit. Practically every word.” She looked at her sister then Joel. “Someone must have given her a lot of money, because this is some classic Zinnia fantasy right here.”
“Well, Nan, we did ‘abandon her as soon as we found ourselves a couple of billionaires,' after all,” Hayley spat out. “God, I hate her.”
Nan’s shoulders slumped. “What you have to understand,” she spoke to Joel and Skandar now, her voice low and upset, “is that this is a woman who does not have the capacity for love. Or empathy. Our dad was such a good guy, but he totally enabled her, to our detriment. She would rant and scream at us for nothing, and he’d always excuse it as just one of her moods. But it was worse. It was prolonged, sustained abuse. She had serious mental health problems that she would not take responsibility for. We think it was Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”
“Everything revolved around her, everything. When she wasn't downright aggressive, she played the martyr card; she did so much for us, and we never did anything for her. In fact, all we did was cause trouble again and again—you know, things like wanting to participate in after-school activities, and getting straight As. Terrible things like actual parental support and occasionally getting sick and it being really inconvenient for her.” Hayley was spitting out the words; such was her anger. “If we didn’t have video proof of our births (and how much pain we caused her, of course, and how grateful we should be), I’d take a DNA test and prove that bitch had nothing to do with us.” She choked up on the final words and Skandar and Joel shared a look of concern.
Filthy Commitments: A Submissives’ Secrets Novel Page 38