The Hunt for Eros
An Erotic Adventure in Art
By Sam J.D. Hunt
Copyright © 2015 by Sam J.D. Hunt
All rights reserved. This work or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published in the United States of America
First Published, 2015
Cover design by Sam J.D. Hunt
Cover and other images © Shutterstock
http://sjdhunt.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Intended for mature 18+ readers only.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Contact Information
Also by Sam J.D. Hunt
Acknowledgements
Sample of Roulette: Love Is A Losing Game
Sample of DEEP: A Captive Tale
Sample of Branded by Lora Ann
Dedicated to the city of Cambridge, England.
Note to the reader: The Hunt for Eros is told from the point of view of an American, but is set in England and Scotland. You will notice a difference in language usage from the British characters in the novel—this is intentional. When documents and notes are placed in the story, they are portrayed using British spelling and grammar.
"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."
Michelangelo
Chapter One.
The phone would not stop ringing. I’d silenced it twice, and yet it kept vibrating on my nightstand. Finally, I glanced over at the too-bright display of the cable box. 3:15. No one ever calls me in the middle of the night. I am not the kind of girl you call in the middle of the night. The TV lit up the room with an other-worldly pale blue glow—I always sleep with the Weather Channel on; it keeps me company while at the same time ensuring that I don’t wake up to some terrifying horror movie or, even worse, an episode of CSI.
With my eyelids still glued shut, I swiped a chewed fingertip across my iPhone screen. When I finally pried my eyes open enough to tap the speaker icon, a heavy British accent poured out of the tiny device. The man speaking sounded like someone from Monty Python and I could only make out a word or two. “Miss! Are you there? Are you alright?”
John Cleese is calling me in the middle of the night to ask if I’m okay? As the dense fog of slumber lifted, I managed to squeak out an, “I’m here, I’m fine...?” The man on the other end of the line took an audible breath; the air whistling from his nose in a controlled gesture of patience. “Is that Jane Andrews on the line then?” he asked in a slow cadence, clearly meant to allow me to process his words and give a coherent answer.
“Yes, this is Jane Andrews. Who is this? It’s three in the morning!” On the other end, I heard a shift as if the caller were moving an old fashioned phone to his other ear. “Unfortunately, there’s a time difference between America and here. However, I do have an urgent matter to discuss. Your granduncle, Stuart Andrews? I regret to inform you that he has passed away.” I thought it sad that my uncle was dead, but I hadn’t seen Great Uncle Stuart in at least seven years. “That’s horrible, but…” I struggled to express more sorrow than that. “Miss, your uncle has left his estate to you.” That caught my attention; I sat up in bed, the sleep-haze flying off me at the mention of money. I was flat broke and about to be evicted from my tiny, shitty apartment. “His…his estate? How much is that worth?”
“Miss Andrews, the will is to be read in three days time. The late Mr. Andrews has hired this firm to settle his affairs. You will need to come to Cambridge as soon as possible.” The man on the other end of the line was very matter-of-fact, almost haughty. “Cambridge, Massachusetts?” I asked in clarification, my mind already calculating the driving time from my home in Toledo, Ohio. I had no idea that Uncle Stuart had settled there.
“Cambridge, England, I’m afraid. As soon as possible.”
“Um, well, okay. That sounds…” I struggled to find the right words to explain. I finally settled on honesty. “That sounds expensive.”
“Miss Andrews, your uncle has left funds for you to travel here and for your lodgings. It is imperative that you be here for the reading of the will in person, in three days time.” The mention of funds and a will from Uncle Stuart tore me from the drunken stupor of sleepiness. “Uh, yeah, I’ll be there. Was Uncle Stuart worth much money?” I sheepishly asked. After a heavy sigh, the man answered, “Miss, you will need to be present before I can discuss any details of your granduncle’s estate. If you will kindly give me your email address, I will send the necessary information for you to book your travel promptly.” As soon as I relayed the information, the man hung up without even a passing goodbye.
With no hope of returning to sleep, I got out of my warm bed and walked the few steps to my kitchen. My apartment was cold, even in mid-March. Toledo was still thawing from the last snowfall, the ground outside muddy and brown while the sky was still gray and murky every day. Electricity was expensive, so I kept my studio apartment chilly and wrapped up. My salary as a preschool teacher barely covered my rent, and little cash was left for luxuries. A nasty case of the flu the month prior, without health insurance, had left me not only two months behind on the rent but in debt.
As my old coffeemaker dripped out liquid gold, I fired up my small laptop to check my email. My parents died in a car crash three years ago, and I was an only child. Uncle Stuart was my father’s uncle, but I had no idea I was his only living relative. My father’s side of the family was English, but they’d immigrated to Ohio when he was just a child. Uncle Stuart was a larger-than-life personality; he traveled the world seeking rare treasure. Or, at least he said he did. When he’d come to visit us in Toledo, he’d regale us with his adventures, usually in far too much detail for my mother’s taste. She found my uncle an annoyance and well, frankly, she thought he was full of shit. He never had much money, but he always brought along little gifts for me. I adored him, and would count the days until he’d visit us again. Somehow while I was in my early teens our family had fallen out of touch with him, and other than a Christmas card or two, he was mostly a memory from my past. But now, once again, Uncle Stuart was spicing up my dreary life.
Coffee in hand and a large sweater wrapped around my hunched shoulders, I opened the email sent by the strange man on the phone, half wondering if the whole thing was a hoax. My coffee was black since I’d run out of my favorite flavored creamer. The email from the company looked legitimate, although I had no idea what a solici
tor’s office was. I filled out the form with my information, indicating that I owned a valid passport, and sent the information back so they could book my travel. Despite my trepidation, I was excited to see someplace new. In my short twenty-three years I’d never been anyplace more exotic than Cancun, a rare splurge to celebrate my graduation from college. I’d always dreamed of travel and adventure, and spent my free time pouring through romantic adventure novels—as many as I could possibly afford.
The following morning, after a few hours of restless sleep, I received my electronic ticket for a one-way economy class ticket from Cleveland to London’s Heathrow airport. My flight was that evening, and I hoped the preschool where I worked would give me the time off on such short notice. I was also given a voucher for transportation to a local hotel, someplace named Mrs. Carr’s B&B. The email explained that I would be paid a modest stipend for meals, and my return ticket would be provided once my business affairs in Cambridge were settled. Already running late for work, I took a quick cold shower and ran my fingers through my limp brown hair, wishing I had the funds for a professional haircut rather than the blunt cut I’d given myself last week. I slipped on a swash of eyeliner before running out the door.
That morning, as soon as the children finished singing the Good Morning Song and were playing at their centers, I slid down the hall into the director’s office. Ms. Hayes looked up at me with irritation over her computer monitor as I slid into the chair across from her.
“Ms. Hayes, I need to ask you about a—”
“Yes, Jane, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“Um, okay, I was just wondering…I’ve had a death in the family and…”
“This morning you were late again. Cindy from the Tiger’s Class had to cover for you. I’m afraid you’ve become way too unreliable and distracted to suit our purposes here at Tiny Tikes. We’re going to have to let you go.”
Holy shit, that bitch was firing me! I did have a problem with punctuality, but with the bills piling up, I needed my job.
“Ms. Hayes, I promise I’ll never be late again…it’s just…”
“Jane, what did you come in here to ask me?”
“Uh, I need some time off to go to—”
“Well, Jane, it seems you’ll have plenty of time off. I’ll send your final paycheck to the address on file. Please collect your things and exit the building.”
Chapter Two.
That evening, I was on the overnight flight to London. I was so exhausted by the time I arrived in England that I can barely remember the details, except that it was even darker and wetter there than in Ohio. After a struggle to obtain British Pounds to pay for my bus ride, I finally arrived in Cambridge early the following afternoon. Yet another bus took me to the outer limits of the picturesque city where my bed and breakfast was located. The strange man on the phone, my great-uncle’s attorney, said in the email that I had pre-paid lodgings at Mrs. Carr’s Bed & Breakfast. I’d pictured a quaint Victorian type place, but instead I walked the two blocks from the bus stop to a small house with a pebble path leading to the stained glass door.
Mrs. Carr was very round and in her early seventies possibly, smoked like a chimney, and had at least ten cats, but seemed nice enough. She led me to a small, detached cottage behind the main house and explained that breakfast was served in her kitchen from eight until ten each morning. The tiny cottage included a compact kitchenette and a cozy sitting area with a television and several books on Cambridge. The will was to be read the next morning, and all I wanted to do was sleep. My body was still on Ohio time.
The next morning, I slept through breakfast, finally jolting up after ten. It was still dark and gloomy, but my body sensed that I had slept for a very long time. I bathed quickly, although it took me at least ten minutes to figure out how to get hot water from the strange multi-knobbed power shower contraption. As I left for the bus stop, it was pouring rain and my coat, the only one I owned, wasn’t waterproof. By the time I arrived at the solicitor’s office I was soaked and very late.
The man handling Uncle Stuart’s estate, the one I’d spoken to on the phone, looked nothing like I’d imagined. He looked nothing like John Cleese, despite the fact that he sounded to me like he should be on Monty Python. Mr. Cooper, as he introduced himself, was a hefty, round man who wore suspenders and a polka-dotted bow tie. He smelled like nicotine, and his teeth were brown from his habit. There was only one other person in the office, a small woman with a legal pad that was introduced as his secretary and the witness to the proceedings. I crackled with anticipation—I just knew I was about to inherit money, something I desperately needed.
“Miss Andrews, the last will and testament of Stuart Andrews is slightly untraditional. I’ve known him for ten years now, and will endeavor to administer his estate as to his wishes. Now, he required that you be here, in person, for the reading of the will and has provided a modest travel budget to that end. Your airfare has been paid, including your return flight, which has not yet been booked. You will have two weeks of paid lodgings as well as thirty pounds per day for food. Other than those modest provisions, no additional cash is contained in the estate.” The no additional cash part had me crestfallen. Why the fuck had Uncle Stuart dragged me here if there was no damn money?
“Miss Andrews, your uncle left this photo of a work of art, and instructions on how you are to locate it. This letter,” Mr. Cooper said as he looked down his reading glasses at me, “contains the instructions for locating the work of art that you, as his sole heir, are to inherit.” I looked at the letter handed to me. It was rambling and cryptic, but in essence instructed me to find a hidden work of art, as depicted in an attached photograph, and attain it by following a series of clues; clues, Uncle Stuart said, that only I would be able to follow. I flipped to the attached image, a photo of some cheesy angel statue lying down with the word Eros handwritten at the bottom. I had no idea how to find this item, and there was nothing else in the documents to point me in any direction.
“There are no other assets?” I asked incredulously.
“No, Miss, I’m afraid Mister Andrews was in some degree of debt when he passed.” Well, at least we had that in common.
“A house? Could this item be in his home?”
“I’m afraid not. He’d sold all of his residences to pay his quite large debts. I don’t recognize either this work of art or the room it’s photographed in. Honestly, I was hoping you might shed some light onto this mystery…” I had no idea; I was completely lost and confused with no clue where to go next.
“Do you know where I should even start…?”
Mr. Cooper threw up his hands in exasperation and tossed the pen in his hand down. “I can’t imagine Stuart would go through this much trouble if it weren’t important. Ben Hunt at the Fitzwilliam Museum on Trumpington Street is probably where I’d start. He’s the foremost authority on art in the city. Tell Ben I sent you,” he said as he jotted down some information on the back of his business card. “Good luck, Miss Andrews.” I spent another twenty minutes signing paperwork before being handed my modest living expenses stipend and a photocopy of the picture of the mysterious statue. Wisely not trusting me with the original, Mr. Cooper locked it in his desk drawer. As I exited the office, I wandered for a few blocks, deciding whether I should just cut my losses and go home or take a chance and search for this missing art piece. True to my nature, I chose the adventure I’d always craved. I’d give it two weeks until my allowance from Uncle Stuart ran out—Toledo and my search for a new job could wait until then. Clueless, I decided I’d start with this museum art guy and go from there.
It was still pouring cold rain outside when I entered the warm lobby of the Fitzwilliam Museum. My drenched Converse sneakers were dripping on the slick, polished stone floors and my hair was soaked underneath the inadequate hood of my cheap coat. At the information desk, I pulled out the envelope with the image of the supposed treasure I was to find. A severe looking older woman with dark black h
air sat looking down at me from her perch behind the elevated desk. “Can I help, Miss?” she asked in a tone that made me feel as if she’d rather do anything in the world other than actually assist me.
“Uh, yeah, I need to speak with Ben Hunt about an art matter.”
“An art matter, Miss?”
“Yes, I was left a work of art in an estate and need to ask if Ben Hunt can—”
“Mister Hunt is one of the most prominent staff members we have here at the museum, and he certainly does not see visitors unannounced. I’m afraid you will need to make an appointment to see him, if he’ll see you at all. Unfortunately, his assistant is on holiday until next Tuesday.”
“But…but if he is here, I’ll only take a minute of his time, I just need to show him this…” I held up the photo of the statue.
“I’ll see that he gets it.”
“Oh, okay, here’s my number…oh wait, I don’t have international cell service…here, let me write down where I’m staying.” I wrote my name and the name of the B&B on the back of the photo and handed it to her. She begrudgingly took it as if it might soil her hands to touch it.
“If I could just talk to him for a minute—”
“We’ll see you next Tuesday, Miss.” She turned away from me and returned to the important task of filing her nails. I was clearly getting no closer to talking to Mister Hunt through this evil witch. “I think I’ll check out the museum…” I muttered as I wandered away. Next Tuesday…not only did I get her rude implication, but I didn’t have until next Tuesday. I needed to get this resolved before the travel funds left to me by my uncle’s estate ran out, especially with the exorbitant prices of things here. At least the museum entry was free. I wandered past the Renaissance paintings and several sculptures before my stomach protested with a loud growl. I hadn’t eaten in a long time, and I regretted not making better use of the free breakfast at Mrs. Carr’s that morning. As I surveyed the offerings at the museum’s small cafe, I realized that everything on the menu was pricey. I knew I couldn’t waste the modest food funds I’d been given on expensive meals. I’d have to hit a grocery store on the way back to the B&B.
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