by M. S. Parker
"Indianapolis." I felt her assessing me from under her lashes. "You'd just sold them to the owner of the gallery. Her brother was my art teacher."
I remembered that, I realized with a start. They were the first pieces I'd ever sold, and I made the connection through one of the nurses who helped look after my father those last few years. I'd wanted to celebrate, but there hadn't been anyone I could think of to call or tell who would actually care. It was the same night I found Gilded Cage.
Fate and destiny weren't words I generally used, but I couldn't deny how serendipitous it felt that the same three paintings that had brought me to my friends and to a world where my preferences were considered normal, had also connected me with a woman I couldn't help but want to get to know.
"If you were a junior then, it would make you..." I let the question trail off and hoped she wouldn't be offended that I was fishing for her age. I originally thought she was probably still in college, but now I was putting her a bit older than that.
"Twenty-five." She grinned, causing those unique eyes to almost sparkle. "Though I've heard it's not polite to ask a lady her age."
Her grin was contagious, and I found myself smiling back.
"So, my paintings made you decide to become an art critic? I'm trying to decide if that's a good or bad thing."
"Good." She laughed, a sweet, husky sound that rolled over me with the sort of sensuality I couldn't ignore. "I'd always liked art, but when I saw them...they spoke to something in me. The way you worked varying textures into the different colors so that the contrasts were more than between the various shades. They made me want to add touch to sight, to give blue a specific feel against my fingertips."
As she talked, a feeling uncoiled in my chest, something I couldn't identify at first, but then realized was...love. I'd been painting for release, for an outlet, and because I had a show I needed new work for, but it had been a long time since I'd painted simply for the joy of it. And that was what I wanted to do now. I wanted to go back to my canvases and paint because before, even when it had been an outlet for me, I once loved it. Somewhere along the way, I lost that. Listening to Savannah talk about the different pieces I'd created and how they made her feel brought that desire back again.
For the first time in months, maybe longer, I thought that I might be able to paint again. It might not yield anything worth a gallery, but it would set me on the road back to where I wanted to be.
For a number of reasons, I was suddenly very glad that Savannah's editor had sent her my way.
Seven
Savannah
I hadn't planned on discussing my personal experience with his art. I hadn't planned on discussing anything of a personal nature, actually, and certainly not on my end of things. This was supposed to be about him, about his show, but he completely disarmed me. He was nothing like I expected. I hadn't read anything negative about him, so it hadn't been like I'd walked in the door thinking he was this playboy partier or anything like that. His past wasn't well-known, and I hadn't tried to dig into it because this was supposed to be about his art.
I told myself this was why I was so enthusiastically describing the way his work made me feel, how I saw it. It had nothing to do with the need to tell the person who'd opened my eyes to the world in a new way just what he'd done for me.
It wasn't until I finally stopped talking that I realized I'd been going on for nearly five solid minutes while he just sat there and listened. Not for the first time today, my face was red.
"Thank you." His tone was sincere, his eyes kind.
And yet, under that kindness was a heat that spoke to me in a different way.
A way I wanted to ignore, even as I wanted to embrace it.
"Sorry about that." I gave him a rueful smile. "When I got the assignment, I told myself I wouldn't do that."
He smiled, leaning toward me. "It's been a long time since I've seen someone be that passionate about art – any art – let alone mine. Most of the people I talk to have all sorts of pretentious words they like to use, but not a single one of them mean anything."
A moment settled between us, and I knew it could turn so many different ways. Awkward as we realized we'd gone a step too far toward personal. Romantic as we gave in to the connection I knew was between us. Or I could make sure things went the way they were supposed to go. The way they should have gone from the beginning.
"Art is important to me." I hoped my smile was more professional than it felt. "And I believe that yours is exceptional."
"I thought an art critic wasn't supposed to come in with any biases." He sounded like he was teasing, but I could tell we were back on solid ground.
I laughed. "If college taught me anything, it's that no one goes into any sort of review or critique without any biases."
He leaned back in his chair, everything about his body language more relaxed than it had been. "Where do you want to start?"
"Can you tell me a bit about the show that's coming up?" I set down a small notepad on the table. "Like why you chose this particular event."
"It's a great charity." There wasn't a trace of deceit or self-satisfaction in his voice. "Clean drinking water is more important than most people realize, and if I can help raise money by talking to a reporter and donating some art, I'm glad to help."
"There doesn't seem to be much in the way of details of what's going to be shown."
A shadow seemed to settle over him, and he shrugged, but I could still see something negative lingering there.
"We haven't really decided on a theme," he said finally. "A way to present the work. There's nothing really...clear about it."
I nodded, knowing it wouldn't do any good to push at the moment. "Okay. Let's shift away from your work then. You don't really do many interviews, and the ones you have done don't really talk much about your art."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Most reporters are more interested in my bank balance and my family connections than they are in art."
"Well, I'm not most reporters." I hoped he didn't paint me with the same brush as my peers – pun intended. "If you want to talk about how your bank balance and your family connections affect your art, you're more than welcome to, but otherwise, I'm not planning on writing anything about either of those subjects."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if he was studying me. "So you want to know about my influences? Want me to say how I studied the greats like da Vinci and van Gogh? Or maybe one of those new controversial artists who like to smear shit on things that everyone thinks are important and call it making a statement?"
His questions weren't angry, but I caught a definite edge to them, as if they were a test rather than rhetorical. I wasn't sure what he was waiting to hear, but I gave him the truth.
"I've never been one of those people who thinks that the popularity of a particular artist or subject is what makes it quality. Most of the ones who use sensationalism to sell their work don't actually have any talent." I tapped my pen on the notebook. "But I also don't think that, just because something is popular, it isn't any good either. I judge purely on the art itself."
He nodded as if I'd said something right. "All right then, let's talk artistic influences."
The next thing I knew, almost two hours had passed. Jace answered all of my questions, but it had been more than an interview. Even though we kept our conversation completely professional, there had been an undercurrent I couldn't deny.
When his phone rang, a part of me was actually relieved. I admired him as an artist, and I wanted to write my best work so that others could see how amazing he was as much as I did for my own benefit. I didn't want to do anything that could screw it up.
I gave him a brief wave as I stood, silently letting him know that I would see myself out. He nodded and smiled, then turned his back on me, stepping out of the kitchen. I felt a mild pang of jealousy as I wondered if he was talking to his girlfriend. He hadn't said anything about his romantic life, but all that meant was that he was go
od at keeping things quiet.
I put my notebook back into my purse, then figured the least I could do since he bought me dinner would be to clean up a bit. I tossed the empty cartons and bottles into the trash, then opened the fridge to put the leftovers away. As I closed it and turned away, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something fall. I picked it up and realized it was a matchbook, the sort that some hotels and clubs still passed out for advertising.
It was plain and black, with two words written in fancy script.
Gilded Cage.
I'd never heard of it, and I had no reason to think that I'd be interested in whatever club or hotel this matchbook was from, but I still slipped it in my pocket. If it was a club, maybe it was worth checking out. Everett would probably be game, even if it was a straight club. If it was a gay one, that might be what I needed too: to find out that Jace was gay. That would make it a whole lot easier to just admire his looks and not keep thinking about what it would be like to feel his hands all over my body, his mouth moving down...
Shit.
I needed to go home and get a cold shower. Now.
"What do you mean you didn't see the paintings for the show?"
I tried not to flinch as spittle flew from my boss's lips and showered the top of his desk. I wasn't the kind of person who judged others by how they looked, but when a person's actions made them into a pervert, it did tend to influence how I saw their appearance. Thinning brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and an extra hundred fifty pounds on a six-foot frame – none of those things would've screamed please keep your hands off me, but the lecherous look in those dark eyes of his...yeah, those made me do everything in my power to keep at least one piece of furniture between Abel Updike and myself.
"I got backstory today," I said, keeping my voice even. "I'll speak to Mr. Randall in a day or two about a private showing so I can get an impression of the paintings on their own, then I'll attend the show to see how they look in the space."
Abel rolled his eyes and leaned back. The chair creaked in protest, and I waited to see if, this time, it would give up the ghost. "When I did my doctorate thesis..."
I tuned him out. I wasn't trying to be rude, I'd just heard this speech before. At least a dozen times before. He'd talk about how he did his doctorate thesis on artists in the French Renaissance, neglecting to mention that the online school where he'd gotten his Ph.D. had since gone belly up. Once he explained the topic in the most possible condescending tone possible, he'd continue on for another quarter of an hour or so about how he'd write all of the copy if he could, but he was so busy that it wasn't possible and blah, blah, blah.
I let him go through it all again while I mentally went through the contents of my closet. When I got home last night, I texted my friends about Gilded Cage, but none of them had ever heard of it, and even if they had, they wouldn't have been able to go with me until the weekend.
It was a club. I might have focused on being an art critic, but I knew how to investigate. I didn't know what type of club it was, but I managed to find an address. Now, I was thinking I might take a trip tonight just as something to do to get my mind off of how much I wished I could tell Abel exactly what I thought of him.
And if I happened to see a handsome artist there, I might feel obligated to have a dance or two with him.
Purely out of politeness, of course.
Eight
Savannah
Not knowing what sort of club Gilded Cage was, I'd gone with the ever classic little black dress. It was an off-the-shoulder slinky number I usually wore without a bra. I'd forgone jewelry and kept the makeup and hair simple, but had chosen a pair of heels that added nearly five inches to my height and made my legs look amazing.
I'd suspected that the club was a private one, but as I watched from across the street, I began to think that it wasn't merely private, but elite, the sort of place where one needed a sponsor of some kind to be granted access. Fortunately for me, I had the name of someone I believed was a member. I just hoped using it wouldn't prove to be as stupid as I expected it would be.
I smiled up at the man who blocked my entrance and resisted the urge to press my hands against my skirt to dry my palms. When it came to getting into restricted places, confidence could go a long way. "I'm meeting Jace Randall here."
His eyes moved over me, but not in a sexual way, more like if he was trying to see if I matched the sort of woman Jace would normally bring to something like this. He nodded once. "Is he bringing your mask?"
Shit. I hadn't considered that it might be a place that required masks. What had I gotten myself into?
"We have extras inside," he continued. "In case anyone forgot that tonight was a masquerade."
I pushed the sudden influx of nerves away. "Thank you. Jace must have forgotten. Busy with his upcoming show."
I kept the smile as I walked past him, my eyes widening as I stepped closer to the tables with masks, not just simple ones, but ones elaborate enough to cover most of my face and prevent Jace from recognizing me if he showed up. While a part of me wanted to see him here, another part didn't want him to know that I'd stolen the matches with the sole purpose of finding Gilded Cage. He might think I was stalking him.
When I reached the section of the table with masks that would best fit me, I selected a one made of gold filigree and red lace. It arched over my eyebrows, then cut down on both sides to curve along my cheeks before moving back up to meet just across the bridge of my nose. It left my eyes revealed, and framed my mouth, but covered the rest of my facial features.
Perfect.
I donned the mask, checked in the mirror to make sure my hair was still good and that my face was hidden, then crossed over to the far door. As I stepped inside, the first thing that hit me was the beauty. The room was simple but elegant, all the lines and curves designed for sensuality and a natural sort of beauty. The second thing that hit me was the music. It was deep and throbbing, but not pulse-pounding club music I expected. Perhaps it was because I'd come on a theme night, but it didn't seem to have the right beat for energetic movement. No, it was the kind of music that made people want to writhe against each other, the sort of decadence that confirmed my opinion that this wasn't an ordinary elite club.
And that was when my brain finally registered the people.
Some of the women wore dresses similar to mine, sexy but nothing overtly revealing. Many of the men were in suits and tuxes. Others, however, both male and female alike, wore a whole lot less. Still, it wasn't until I saw a statuesque blonde wearing a dress made of what looked like loosely linked gold chainmail, holding a leash connected to a dark, voluptuous beauty wearing only a pair of silver studs in her nipples and what appeared to be a silver chastity belt, that it truly registered.
Shit.
This was an S&M club.
Okay, so not exactly what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't entirely shocking once I wrapped my head around it. A lot of people in the arts tended to have more liberal views toward sex, and even among the general populous, sex clubs of all kinds had been working toward more widespread acceptance over the past few years.
Even as I thought those things, I knew none of it would have made a difference to the curiosity that kept me observing rather than quickly excusing myself. I was self-aware enough to know that it wasn't simply a dispassionate interest either. From articles I'd read, I already had the inkling that this might be the type of lifestyle I'd find interesting, but it wasn't until now that I'd felt a true pull toward this world I didn't quite understand.
I was still standing on the fringes of the crowd when I felt someone watching me. It wasn't the sort of prickling feeling that came with unwanted attention, but rather a sort of heated knowing, a mental caress. I scanned the crowd, skipping over the costumes and accessories as I searched for the eyes that were on me.
He was standing only a few yards away, leaning against the bar as he sipped a drink and stared. The dim lighting made it impossible to see a specific color for h
is dark eyes, but nothing could have disguised the intensity in his gaze. He wore all black, including the mask that began just above his eyebrows and descended over his cheekbones to cover almost his entire face. His was cut so that the sides framed his nose and mouth while highlighting his strong, clean-shaven jaw. It didn't matter that I couldn't really see what he looked like. The compulsion I felt as I started to walk toward him had less to do with physical appearance and more to do with the sheer power I felt radiating out from him. I might not have experience in this lifestyle, but even I knew immediately that he was what they called a Dominant. He couldn't have been anything else.
He let me take half a dozen steps in his direction before he pushed away from the bar and started toward me. His long-sleeved shirt and pants were flawlessly tailored to show off the strength of his body without hindering his movements, and I wondered if he'd had those clothes made exclusively for this place, or if he wore them elsewhere.
I wasn't the only one affected by him. People parted in front of him, half of them dipping their heads as if they couldn't bear to look directly his way. I knew it was some submissive trait, but the effect was a little disconcerting. When he stopped less than a foot in front of me, he didn't say a word, but rather simply looked down at me, as if waiting to see what I would do next.
"Hi."
That wouldn't make an impression. The only thing worse would have been if I'd asked him if he came here often.
I felt a strong and sudden longing for my friends, but it vanished almost as quickly as it came. As much as their support would have been appreciated, I wasn't going to deny that I was actually a little glad they weren't here to caution me away from the things I really hoped this man would ask me to do.
He held out a hand. "Dance?"