by Moriah Jovan
She was unreasonably glad she had something to give back to this man who had given her what she thought she would never have.
“Giz? Earth to Giselle.” Sebastian snapped his fingers in her face to get her attention. “Keep your mind off his cock for more than three seconds, would you?” Bryce slid her a glance and chuckled, but Giselle sighed. “Did you hear me say this woman owns Morning in Bed?”
Giselle sputtered and she sat up to take a long drink, unable to speak for a moment. “Are you serious?”
Sebastian shrugged. “I haven’t seen it and it’s off the books, so I can only assume she was telling me the truth. Nobody in her situation would just spin that out of thin air because it’s a waste of time.”
“Okay, stop.” Bryce leaned over the documents, one elbow on the table, his hand rubbing his forehead. “I’m lost. Start at the beginning. Who’s Ford and why are these paintings that valuable?”
Giselle touched his arm and he looked at her with lust in his expression, his thoughts clearly split between business and sex—with her. She smiled softly, but explained anyway. “Ford is an artist. This lady,” she said, tapping the papers, “owns nine extremely valuable paintings and selling them would cure over half of her ills.”
Bryce looked suitably impressed, but Sebastian said, “The one she doesn’t have on the books is worth about four of the others put together.”
“Why?”
“Ford is a recluse,” said Giselle. “No one knows who he is or anything about him. The people who do know aren’t talking. Part of the value of his paintings is exactly that—that no one knows who he is. The work itself is just sublime. People don’t just like his work, they have orgasms over it. People who don’t like his work still like his work. It’s a fascinating phenomenon.”
“Morning in Bed is rumored to be a self-portrait,” Sebastian continued. “It supposedly has clues painted into it that would help someone figure out Ford’s identity. It was bought anonymously immediately upon its release by a private brokerage, it’s never hung anywhere but at its premiere, and nobody knows who owns it—except us, now.”
He got up and pulled a coffee table book out from a stack on the buffet. He looked through it until he found the right page and swung it around to show Bryce. “That’s it,” he said, pointing to it.
Giselle knew every nuance of that painting.
Morning sunlight streamed through an unseen window on a bed clothed only in white sheets, and occupied by a man. A nude man, whose body was the essence of masculine perfection and beauty. He lay on his stomach on the edge of the bed, his head propped on his right arm and turned toward a pillow beside him. His left arm, possessed of a hamlike fist, stretched out across the bed to crumple nearly half of the pillow in his grasp. One leg was crooked, thrown wide and tangling in the rumpled sheets, the other a straight line from his muscular buttocks to his toes. His scrotum lay nestled between his legs. And while the abused pillow and most of the man’s body were bathed in the new sun, his face lay in shadow—no features, no hair, no anything that would make him recognizable to anyone.
Bryce studied it for a moment before saying, slowly, “I don’t know how this can be called a self portrait.”
“Its only real value,” Giselle said, “is that Ford has never exhibited a man and as far as anybody knows, he’s never painted one other than this. Because of that, everyone assumes that it’s him.”
“That makes this the closest thing to proving who Ford is?”
“Exactly,” Sebastian agreed. “Whoever owns this painting is arguably the most powerful person in the contemporary art world, other than the people who actually do know who he is.”
“Taight, you speculate in art. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a gag to see how many self-important people will swallow the rumors and drive its price through the roof. Is it Ford or isn’t it? Does it have clues painted in it or doesn’t it? Can Ford be found or can’t he? The painting itself has no more value than any other Ford painting except that it’s a rare subject for him. You could reasonably expect to pay twice as much as any other Ford painting. It’s the rumors that give it four times that value.”
“Would you buy it?”
“If I were strictly speculating, absolutely not and certainly not at that price. I don’t think Ford can keep his identity a secret much longer and the value of that painting will either skyrocket or plummet depending on who he turns out to be. If he’s somebody famous for something else, up it goes. If he’s a nobody, it falls to about twice the level of the other Fords, where it really should be. But it doesn’t matter. Any way you cut it, the return on investment is too low for me to bother with it. His other work won’t change in value much one way or another because the art is what it is.”
“Also,” Giselle added, “people are getting a little blasé about his anonymity and restless with his work. Yes, it’s divine, but he’s been a one-trick pony for too long. Tonight’s the opening of something new.”
“So that’s where we’re going tonight? To see this artist’s work?”
She swallowed and shifted. “Yes.” She shot Sebastian a hateful glare and he smirked anew. That bastard was enjoying this, especially the fact that he’d successfully piqued Bryce’s curiosity.
Bryce closed the book and set it aside, looking down at the documents again, flipping through the pages until he stopped at the inventory. “And this—woman—has the most valuable one.”
“She says she does.”
“Or she has a forgery.”
Sebastian shrugged. “It’s very possible. I’d have to see it first and have it appraised.”
“I can’t imagine she’d give it up,” Giselle pointed out.
“She doesn’t want to, which is why it isn’t on her books. I told her I’d think about it.”
Giselle stared at him hard and long, confused by that. “That’s not your style,” she said slowly. “There’s something else going on here you’re not saying.”
Bryce’s head snapped up then to stare at Sebastian. “I know why,” he said with a smirk. “Got your face between her legs?” Giselle laughed at Sebastian’s immediate scowl. “What’s the trust for? What’s going in it?”
“I’m going to fund it. I want at least a few of those paintings, but I don’t want her to know. The trust will buy the paintings once they go on the block.”
Giselle shot him a look. “You can’t be speculating on Fords.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Really,” Giselle said, tilting her head and watching him carefully. For once, Sebastian squirmed. Giselle’s mouth dropped open and she gasped. “You’re in love with her. You wouldn’t do that for a woman you just want to fuck.”
“Okay, so what? Mind your own business, Giselle.”
“Hey, you’re the one who told Knox to open my door and you knew very good and well Bryce was here, so you have no room to talk.”
“You didn’t lock it.”
“I forgot.”
“Bullshit. You’d’ve been ecstatic if I’d thrown you a deflowering party this morning.”
“All right, children,” Bryce interrupted, amusement heavy in his voice. “When I get in the office on Monday, I’ll start the process.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said, and leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers behind his head. “So, Kenard. What made you chuck a lifetime of being the perfect example of Latter-day Saint priesthood to fuck a virgin renegade intellectual with a taste for rough sex the first chance you got?”
Giselle rolled her eyes, but Bryce only smirked and looked straight at her. “A virgin renegade intellectual with a taste for rough sex.”
Sebastian laughed. “I knew I’d like you, Kenard. Welcome to the pack.”
* * * * *
28: DIRTY WHITE BOY
They walked into the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art & Design fashionably late after having gone to Bryce’s home so he could change into semiformal wear.
They had watched e
ach other as they dressed, Bryce in a black suit and Giselle in a pale yellow silk evening gown, the sleeveless top randomly studded with pearls. He chose a pale yellow tie, which made her smile. “Where’s the Glock?” he murmured low. She had begun to appreciate that his voice deepened and hoarsened when he was aroused.
“Here,” she said, putting the gun, in its holster, in his big hand. She propped her foot on his bed, her skirt pulled up to show him that she wore nothing underneath it but white lace garters and stockings. He grinned as he wrapped the wide band around her thigh and tightened it. “Harder,” she whispered, watching him, waiting.
“How hard do you want it?” he muttered as he ripped open his fly and backed her up against the wall. He bunched her skirt up around her waist, lifted her, and plunged into her. She smiled and sighed as she wrapped her legs around him.
They mingled a bit before making the rounds of the exhibit. The new painting to be unveiled hung from long cables attached to the ceiling. A jazz band played standards, the smoky alto reminiscent of Diana Krall.
“Well, we’re attracting a lot of attention tonight,” Giselle murmured.
“I guess it’s now been confirmed I’m fucking Sebastian Taight’s lover,” he returned wryly and she laughed. The corners of her eyes wrinkled in merriment and her ice blue eyes, now having darkened to steel gray, twinkled. He’d received a welcome boost to his ego on the information that everyone in the city found it amazing and scandalous that he’d seduced a beautiful woman away from Sebastian Taight—two equally rich men and she’d chosen the ugly one. Oh, yes, that was shocking.
“Kevin!” Giselle called and waved at the Jackson County prosecutor and his wife. Oblivious to the fact that the people around them vied for an introduction to Giselle, she pulled Bryce through the crowd as the other couple battled to meet them in the middle.
“Well, hello, Miss Cox,” he murmured once they’d shaken hands. Introductions of Bryce and Jill Oakley were made, though Kevin and Bryce did know each other in passing. “Nice to see you again when you haven’t been cleaning up after me or running through the courthouse. Knox tells me you’re the one to blame for my sudden career change.”
“No good deed goes unpunished and I’m always willing to take out your trash—but don’t act like you hadn’t already thought about it. Your boredom can be heard loud and clear all the way from Twelfth Street to Rockhill Road and back. Have you spoken with Justice McKinley yet?”
“Oh, yes. She’s, uh, interesting.”
“Mmmm, but more importantly, she’s getting very influential.”
Bryce remained silent while they chatted for another few minutes, listening to her, what she had to say, how she said it.
She just gave your IQ a blow job and she’s not even here.
That feeling of deep contentment pulsed through his chest.
One gun in each hand. No hesitation. No remorse.
The sex was as incredible as he’d ever hoped, wanted, craved for so many years with a smart, dangerous woman he could throw at a bed and fuck.
The prosecutor and his wife broke away a little sooner than Bryce would have liked. He found the whole process fascinating—and that Giselle had gotten the political ball rolling made him unaccountably proud of her. Then he started. Did he have any right to be proud of her?
I’m in love with you.
She’d demanded he not leave her once they’d crossed over into sin, but now he wanted more than that from her. And given their shared cultural identity, he didn’t have to wonder if she’d want the same.
Bryce and Giselle were approached in an ever-increasing stream of people eager to learn the identity of the woman who’d made the society grapevines as Cinderella, Sebastian Taight’s lover—until she’d very conspicuously abandoned him and invited Bryce Kenard deep into the bowels of the gallery with a look. Her sprint’n’slide back through the gallery in a serious state of deshabille, Kenard hot on her heels, had only set the gossip mill running overtime.
Everyone wanted to know her name and provenance, but no one had dared ask Bryce once he’d put his fist in Taight’s face and Taight was unapproachable under any circumstances. Likely no one had known to ask Fen and Fen Hilliard wasn’t one to volunteer information.
“Giselle Cox,” Bryce said over and over again to people he knew, and tonight, it seemed he knew everybody. “Taight and Hilliard’s cousin. Trudy’s niece.”
While that came out of left field for everyone, it was no less jaw-dropping. Bryce had no idea how his credibility would stand up under the scrutiny of his association with Knox either as best friend or relative, but he refused to dodge it. After all these years, Knox deserved whatever support Bryce could offer him.
The only other jaw-dropping part about it—to which Giselle was oblivious and of which Bryce was most acutely aware—was the unvoiced question of why Giselle had chosen the ugly one. On the other hand . . .
“ . . . seen the way she looks at Kenard? She’s head over heels.”
“I noticed that. Nothing mercenary about her. Very sweet, especially after what he’s been through.”
That tidbit he’d heard on his way to the restroom. It made him smile, made warmth spread through him. He still didn’t know exactly what she saw in him either, but here, tonight, with her, he felt normal again, like the man he’d been before the fire.
Fen and Trudy made their appearance to a cacophony of society clamoring for information. Bryce exchanged amused glances with Giselle when the Hilliards were good-naturedly called to account for hiding their relationship to Cinderella. When Trudy shot her a hateful look across the room, Giselle chuckled and blew her a kiss.
“I hate that bitch,” Giselle murmured. “It doesn’t matter what Fen does to me, I’ll give him a mulligan almost every time. Trudy . . . no.”
Puzzled, Bryce said, “Why?”
Giselle’s mouth tightened. “Trudy,” she said finally, “is not a nice person. I was an adult before I realized how much Fen protected me and Knox from her, how much Fen went behind her back to support Knox.”
“Then why is he with her?”
“I think he’s possessed.”
Bryce laughed at her wry tone. “Apparently that works both ways, since he slapped you for calling her a whore.”
“Yeah, and look how that turned out.”
Fen sported the bandage over his nose with the pride of a warrior freshly off the battlefield. “Giselle, Kenard,” he said expansively as he shook Bryce’s hand and hugged Giselle. Trudy made it a point to ignore Giselle and thus Bryce; she would have wandered off, but Fen kept her at his side. “Well, Giselle, I must give you credit for being a fast worker. You only came to see me yesterday.” Trudy started and shot a look at her husband, but Bryce just chuckled. “I told you he wouldn’t hold your little, ah, masquerade-that-wasn’t against you.”
“So you did and no, he didn’t. But for all you know, this could be our first date.”
“Not with that bright neon glow of the newly fucked you’ve got.”
Giselle laughed. “I daresay you’d have been disappointed in me had I come alone.”
“True, true. Are you armed?” Giselle tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Of course you are! Does that mean you’re still sulking?”
Bryce bit back a laugh.
“Do I act like I’m sulking?”
“Now that you mention it, no. Glad to see you’ve returned to your usual humor, my girl.” He gestured to Bryce with his champagne glass. “So who’s plowing whose field now?”
“My field was virgin yesterday.”
“And then it was plowed last night. By a squatter. Hypocrite much? How are you going to explain this to your mother?”
“Oh, she’ll be thrilled I finally stopped sleeping with Knox,” Giselle returned dryly and Fen released a genuine belly laugh.
Bryce thought it best not to get in the middle of this conversation, no matter how bizarre. Giselle had had years of practice at handling him and while Bryce definitely didn�
�t like being referred to as a squatter, it was true.
He would rectify that as soon as possible.
“So what happened to your nose?” she asked innocently.
Fen waved a hand. “I happened to be behind a door my assistant came slamming through.”
“That’s terrible. Is it broken?”
“Yes. But I’m not going to have it reset. I decided that a broken nose lends character to a face. I was simply too perfect as a senatorial candidate before. So in retrospect, I believe it’ll be a good thing. I should thank my assistant and give her a raise.”
Both Bryce and Giselle burst out laughing.
“So, Kenard, I’m guessing you’re not on board with my campaign?”
“Yeah, you’re not going to get any money from me,” Bryce murmured with a sigh of false regret. “If you’d asked me in December, I could have told you then.”
“Ah, but then you wouldn’t have met my charming niece, would you?”
Bryce inclined his head. “That’s true, but now I have even fewer reasons to donate. Fire. Bullets. Ponds. Insulin. You know how it is.”
His eyebrows rose. “I see the children haven’t wasted any time brainwashing you. And you believe their cockamamie story?”
“Didn’t Knox tell you? He and I were roommates in college. I have a long history of being able to see your hands pulling the strings.”
“Ah,” he said, betraying no shock except for the sudden, though infinitesimal, tension in his body. “You’ll believe what you want, I suppose.”
“In any case, I’m flattered to be considered worthy of inclusion into such august company.”
“Well, knowing my nephews, I’m sure you’ll take the alpha position in no time.” They moved on after that, leaving Bryce still chuckling.
“He cracks me up,” Giselle said.
“That was the most fucked-up conversation I ever heard,” Bryce muttered, “all things considered.”
“I’m easily entertained.”
“Apparently. Does he always just casually discuss what he’s done?”
“He’ll allude to it. He knows we can’t prove it and calling him out publicly would get us a lot of bad publicity we don’t want and wouldn’t be able to overcome.”