Undressing Mercy

by Deanna Lee

  Undressing Mercy

  Undressing Mercy

  DEANNA LEE

  APHRODISIA

  APHRODISIA BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For my husband, who is the most patient man on Earth. For my mother, who gave me a typewriter when I told her I wanted to write and never said it was an impossible dream.

  For my sister, who read my work, even when it was bad, and asked for more.

  For my best friend Amy, who is a constant source of support and inspiration.

  My thanks to my agent, Jess, who found me and helped me make my dream come true.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  I ’d been seeing Dr. Lesley Price for about eight months; she knew more about me than anyone else on earth, and I resented that. She knew what kept me up at night, and what it took to push the world away. It was her knowledge of me that would help me heal, and for that reason alone I tried to keep my resentment to myself. There are those that say therapy is a relieving experience. It’s always left me tied up and out of sorts.

  “You’re close to your goal.”

  I nodded, pulled one leg underneath me, and tried to find a spot on the beige wall behind her head to focus on. “Yes, close.”

  “And the nightmares?”

  “None since March.” I sighed and finally met Lesley’s gaze. “Okay, fine, there have been a few.” I frowned and shook my head. “I should’ve gotten a male therapist.”

  “You find it easy to lie to a man?”

  I chuckled. “What woman doesn’t? Come on, how many times have you told a man that size doesn’t matter?”

  Lesley pursed her lips briefly and then shook her head, brown curls bouncing around as she did. “Okay. But we’re off track.”

  “You started it.” I crossed my arms over my breasts. “I’m still not sleeping through the night, and the only reason I’m not checking the doors and windows is because I force myself not to. So when I can’t sleep, I lie there and worry about not getting up to check the fucking windows and doors.”

  “He’s not in Boston.”

  “No, he isn’t.” I looked around the room, taking in the elegant leather furniture before snuggling into the recliner that I was in. The leather furniture should’ve made the room seem formal, yet it was soothing and comfortable. Odd. I’d never imagined I would be comfortable in a therapist’s office.

  “How’s your sex life?” She cut right to the chase with that one. But I supposed I deserved it.

  “Absent of a cock, small or otherwise.” Shrugging, I looked down at my hands. “I just can’t find a man that I can get sexually interested in.”

  “You mean you can’t find a man you can dominate in bed, so you don’t bother.”

  I shrugged and then nearly giggled as I imagined myself in a black leather outfit, with whip in hand. “Well, that image has appeal.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Mercy.” I glanced up and met her stare. Her face was as serious as her tone had been.

  “Fine, weak men turn me off. Strong men…” I sucked in a breath.

  “Scare you.”

  “No, I’ve told you before, I don’t fear men or sex. I fear Jeff King, and I’m afraid of him in a way I never thought I was capable of.”

  “How do you feel about that fear?”

  I stood and walked away from the recliner. “Why don’t you have a couch?”

  Lesley laughed. She had a good strong laugh, and I found her amusement comforting. “It’s rather old fashioned. I prefer the recliner.”

  I glanced toward the sleek leather recliner that I’d just left. “I’m not afraid of sex.”

  “I believe that you believe that.”

  I hate psychobabble. Frowning, I looked out the window. “When did you get the new Jag? It’s good to see that my money is going to such a good cause.”

  “Last month.” She cleared her throat. “Take a seat, Mercy.”

  I walked back over to the chair and sat down. “I have a big meeting this afternoon.”

  “Yes, you mentioned it earlier. Will this meeting further your career with the gallery?”

  “I believe so. The Board of Directors will be hard pressed to find a reason not to renew my contract next year.”

  “It’s important to you.”

  “Success is important to everyone.” I drew in a deep breath; my tone had been hard and angry. My next words sounded more like me. “I’ve never met anyone who enjoyed failure.”

  “Is your boss still a source of stress for you?”

  “He’s frustrated, I can see that. I understand that he doesn’t want to lose his place at the gallery. It doesn’t matter who’s sitting in my place, come August he’ll be gone anyway.”

  “You’re enjoying watching him squirm.”

  I flinched and then grimaced. “He uses power to manipulate women.”

  “His lack of respect for women makes you want to punish him.”

  Hell, yes, I did want to punish him. “Perhaps.”

  “Do you view him as someone like the man that raped you?”

  “No. He’s nothing like Jeff King. Milton Storey is a small-minded man who has no ability to adapt. He’s used social standing and the connections he gained through his marriage to keep his position at Holman. It’s no longer enough, and now he’s grasping trying to stay on top.”

  “Are there any men in your life that you trust, Mercy?”

  “I trust Martin.”

  “Yes.” Lesley sighed. “But Martin Colwell is in New York. He’s in your past. You know that.”

  “Okay, fine. I’m not much on trust these days.” I looked up, and she was writing on a legal pad. I hated when she did that, because I was never sure if she was writing a grocery list or creating a psychological profile that would put me in an institution. The timer ending the session dinged gently. I bolted out of the chair. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Mercy.”

  I sat down and clenched my teeth. “Okay.”

  Lesley reached out, plucked the timer off the desk, and then dropped it in a desk drawer. “Your work stresses aside, it is important to your continued progress that you address your personal issues.”

  “I’m here because I want to address my personal issues.”

  “Yes.” She nodded and inclined her head. “Yet you back away when we come close to making progress.”

  “I try.”

  “I want you to think about sex, Mercy. Think about sex and its place in your life. Write down what a normal sex life would be to you. Tell me what you enjoyed about sex before you were raped. Did you like it rough?”

  I flushed in anger and shame. “How could I possibly want or even think about wanting violent sex?”

  “Rough sex is a far cry from rape.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lust can make people want things that are normal when they take place between consenting adults.”

  “Perhaps.” I didn’t want to discuss this. I stood. “I need to go.”

  “Do your homework.”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  Walking into the art gallery twenty minutes later, I felt a little of my past lift away. The work I had done with Holman Gallery had fulfilled me in a way that I had never known before. My world was just fine without a man.

  On the gallery’s top floor, I found my assistant, Jane Tilwell, hovering near my office door. She was wearing an Armani pantsuit that displayed a slim, athletic figure many women would have cheerful
ly killed for. She’d cut her honey-brown hair, and I liked the short, spiky do. It gave her a modern and slick edge. Something that jibed, I suppose, with the image she was trying to project. Jane was one of my favorite people.

  When I had joined Holman Gallery, I’d realized immediately that Jane Tilwell was being wasted in her current position and that she should be made Assistant Director. That was a situation I had hopes of resolving when I became Director. She offered me that quick and easy smile of hers.

  “What’s up?” I asked, pausing in front of her and peeking into my office.

  “Mr. Storey wants to meet with you before the Montgomery contract discussion.” She handed me the folder that held the contract for Shamus Montgomery.

  “Where is he?” I asked and glanced at my watch. Frankly, the last thing I wanted to do was chat with Milton Storey once again about the Montgomery contract.

  “Mr. Storey is already in the conference room.” She jerked her head toward our large conference room, which was on the opposite side of the building from where we stood.

  I looked her over and shook my head. “I hate how good you look in that suit.”

  “I got it on sale.” She smiled the smug smile of a woman who’d saved a lot of money.

  “You bought an Armani suit on sale and didn’t call me?” I glared at her briefly. “That could be grounds for dismissal.”

  Jane laughed as I went into my office, shoved my purse into a desk drawer, and picked up my handheld. The important meeting, with Shamus Montgomery himself, was my last one of the day; it was funny how that didn’t do anything to put me in a good mood. My office in the art gallery was the second largest on the third floor, and something of a fishbowl. The wall facing out into the bull pen was made entirely of glass. The architect who had designed the building had favored glass, metal, and modern design. I hated him. I would’ve given my best Gucci purse for a real wall.

  The rest of the room was painted off-white, and the furniture blended right in. At first glance, visitors might think the furniture grew right up out of the carpet. I found it unsettling. The bull pen was no different, with lots of glass and steel popping up out of the metal-gray carpet like a garden of metal.

  I picked up the file folder that held the Montgomery contract, and a pen. Putting off a confrontation with Milton wouldn’t make the meeting or the day go any faster. The men and women working in the bull pen grew quiet as I left my office and walked through the area. There were people in the gallery that supported me, and there were those who didn’t. Milton Storey had been the director of the gallery for nearly fifteen years, and the Board’s decision to bring me in had ruffled a few feathers among the staff. I knew that in August, when I became Director, I would probably have a few positions to fill.

  When I entered the conference room, Milton Storey was talking on his cell phone. I sat down several chairs away from him and dropped the folder on the table in front of me. I’d only been at the gallery six months. I’d spent that six months rearranging and reorganizing the gallery to suit me. Milton had taken most of the changes in silence, yet he’d grown adept at picking his battles.

  He ended his call abruptly and turned to me. His face appeared calm, but his eyes betrayed his irritation, and a fear I wanted to ignore but couldn’t. Milton Storey was being forced out of a job he loved. He finally spoke. “This contract with Montgomery is a mistake.”

  “James Brooks wants this contract with Shamus Montgomery. In fact, he made it clear that he has a significant amount of personal interest in this contract succeeding.” So much so, that he’d made it clear that losing the Montgomery account could be bad for me. “I realize that he isn’t an artist that you would’ve pursued, but we both know the Board has plans for this gallery that you are unwilling to even consider.”

  “You don’t have my job yet.” His face was flushed with anger, but it was the coldness of his eyes that startled me.

  I replied, “What do you hate the most about me? My gender, my age, or that the Board no longer chooses to believe that you know what is best for this gallery?”

  “I don’t like you, Ms. Rothell. Your age and gender have nothing to do with it,” he snapped and then sat back in his chair. It was the first time I could ever remember him actually admitting that he resented me specifically.

  “I was brought to Holman Gallery to do this type of project.”

  “All you’re doing is tearing down a gallery I’ve spent years building. You’ve brought in a series of vulgar and profane works that will alienate our clientele.”

  “Our revenue has doubled in the six months that I’ve been handling the collections.”

  “Money earned through thinly disguised pornography.”

  “If you have a problem with the way things are being done around here, talk to the Board.”

  I watched his face redden with anger, but he said nothing else. Achieving my failure and dismissal had been number one on his to-do list since the day I’d replaced the young and frankly ill-equipped woman he’d had in the Assistant Director’s position.

  I wasn’t worried about his plotting. I knew what the Board of Directors wanted, and I was providing it in spades. The door opened, and we were both forced to put smiles on our faces as Jane showed Shamus Montgomery in.

  I’d spent three days preparing for my first meeting with Shamus Montgomery. Yet as I set eyes on the man for the first time, I knew I hadn’t prepared nearly enough. My grandmother once told me that men are like wine. Some are bitter and hard to swallow, and others lie on your tongue with a full-bodied sweetness that can make your toes curl.

  I wondered what he would taste like.

  Shamus Montgomery, known for his passionate and erotic sculptures, was one solid and sexy reminder of my empty bed—and he was stripping me bare with his gaze. I returned his brazen inspection with one of my own.

  Dark brown skin. Eyes so dark they were nearly black. And a strong and chiseled face any model would love. His hair was shaved close to his head in a style that most black men seemed to prefer. A soft slant to the corner of his eyes reminded me that he had a Chinese grandmother.

  I knew a lot about Shamus Montgomery as an artist. However, the need to know more about him as a man surfaced within seconds of seeing him for the first time. There was no mistaking the lust stirring in my body. My physical reaction surprised me. It had been a long time since a man had stirred my sexual interest.

  I stood up from my chair and offered him my hand. I sucked in a small breath as my fingers disappeared in his. Warm, calloused, and strong were the first things I thought about his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Montgomery. Holman is honored to be the first choice for your next show.”

  There, two whole sentences. I pulled my fingers from his and fought an overwhelming urge to crawl across the conference table and into his lap. I sat down.

  I used the time it took Milton to greet Shamus to regain control. My thoughts had been scattered to the four winds by pure, unadulterated lust.

  “I’m here because of you, Ms. Rothell. Your reputation precedes you.”

  Heat swept over up my face, and that pissed me off. Blushing was not part of the smart, modern-woman image I’d spent more than two years redeveloping. Therapy, self-defense classes, and determination had helped me carve out a place in the world where I felt safe and in control.

  Settling back in my seat, I watched Shamus Montgomery pull out the chair directly in front of me. He was tall, at least six feet three inches, and had the grace of a big hunting cat. He sat down in the chair and focused on me as if I were the only person in the room. It was the sort of attention that I had enjoyed from men in the past, but felt uncomfortable with now. God, the man was breathtaking.

  I waited until he was settled before speaking. “I understand you have twenty-two pieces ready for the show.”

  “Yes, but there are always twenty-three. It’s what my audience will expect.” He inclined his head and fixed his gaze on my face. “I need the right woman for the fin
al piece.”

  “The gallery will help you find a willing model.” I pulled out the contract and set it in front of me. The right woman. I fought a frown. Had I just promised to find this gorgeous and amazing man the right woman?

  “I’ve chosen a model.”

  He’s already found the right woman, I thought. Lucky girl. As soon as I found out who she was I figured I’d hate her guts. “Good. I’ve made the changes to the contract that your lawyer insisted on and have included the changes that you had previously agreed to. However, I must admit your breach-of-trust stipulation was a hard sell to the Board.”

  “I don’t like sharing my work with people I can’t trust. If exhibiting at Holman Gallery proves to be a pleasurable experience for me, I’ll have no need to withdraw my work from your skillful hands.” He paused, looked over my face carefully, and then asked softly, “Aren’t you interested in knowing who’ll pose for me?”

  I forced myself to meet his gaze, taking in those dark brown eyes and thick, dark lashes. There was humor in his eyes and in the curve of his firm lips. Again, the desire to know what he tasted like surfaced. I let my gaze slide over the strong, angular features of his face. The man looked like a fallen angel. A profoundly naughty fallen angel.

  Smiling back, I looked pointedly at the contract before speaking. “The gallery will secure the model you require for your last piece.” I pushed the contract across the table with a pen.

  Milton Storey grunted when Shamus picked up the pen and signed both copies with bold, deliberate strokes. He pushed the contract back across the table at me, but didn’t lift his fingers when I reached for it. “I’ll see you at six P.M.”

  I looked up and met his gaze, ignoring Milton’s intake of breath at the statement.

  My mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the model for my last project, Ms. Rothell.” He stood as I signed the contracts. “You do know where my studio is?”