by Lara Adrian
“No,” I reply. “I, ah, took a car today.” Limousine, actually, but I see no reason to mention that I have a billionaire boyfriend who insisted his driver take me to the studio.
“I’m Matt, by the way. You must be Avery.” When I nod, he tilts his head in the direction of the live model he’s painting—and quite expertly, at that. “This sexy beast is Travis.”
I smile, trying not to gape at the nude, blond male who’s mostly got his back to me, his muscular body twisted just enough to bring out the definition and the beauty of his masculine form. He greets me without breaking his pose. “Hey, Avery.”
“Hello, Travis. Hi, Matt.”
Lita points to the empty easel behind Matt’s workspace. “That’s your spot. Feel free to use the tables and the cloths and anything else you find over there.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Matt pivots to look at me. “I used to split costs on chemicals with the other artist who worked here before you. If you want to go in halves with me on anything, just so you know, I’d be cool with that.”
I nod, grateful for his warm welcome. “All right. That sounds good.”
He and Lita both go back to their work while I unpack my things and try to get comfortable with the new work setting. Once my paints and brushes are arranged the way I like them, I retrieve my portfolio and unzip the protective sleeve that holds my most recent work in progress.
The canvas is only partially painted. Just the initial strokes on a piece I was experimenting with before I ended up moving in with Nick. I haven’t worked on it since. Now, as I take it out and set it on the easel, I can’t resist tracing my fingers over the lines. The memory of what inspired it tugs my mouth into a small, private smile.
“You into religious symbolism?” I glance up and find Lita staring at me from across the room. “Angels and demons, that kind of stuff?”
“What? Oh. No, this is something else.” I look at the abstract image that’s not quite realized on the canvas yet. Just the suggestion of sky and water and a large white wing with falling feathers, their tips singed and blackened with soot. “It’s Icarus.”
“Cool,” Lita says, turning back to her own work.
This piece isn’t anything like the other paintings I’ve done. My early work was comprised of cityscapes, architectural painting, even some portraiture—none of it particularly good. Nick was right when he said my work was inhibited, throttled before it had a chance to become something real on the canvas.
But this piece is different. It is my first step away from realism and toward the abstract, inspired by my getaway to the Florida Keys a couple of months ago on Nick’s sailboat, the Icarus.
Even though my vision for this piece is far from finished, I like what I see.
I like the freedom it conveys. I like the passion this painting stirs in me when I look at it and think about everything Nick and I shared on that boat.
I mix some paint and prepare to get reacquainted with my canvas, but don’t know where to start. I’m afraid I’ll mess it up.
Just like I’m afraid of messing things up with Nick.
When I sigh and set my brush down for the fourth or fifth time without touching the canvas, Matt slowly pivots on his stool to face me. “How long has it been?”
“Since I painted?” I shrug. “A few weeks. But before then, it had been even longer.”
He nods soberly, looking both innocent and wise. “My boyfriend died a year and a half ago. It was eight months before I picked up a paintbrush again. Took another three before I remembered how to move paint around on a canvas.”
“God,” I murmur, sympathy tight in my throat. “I’m so sorry, Matt.”
His expression softens, then he gives me a faint shrug. “The point is, you show up at the canvas. And then you start again.”
He motions for me to get up and follow him to the back corner of the studio. Leaning up against the wall is a stack of used canvases in assorted sizes. Whatever had been painted on them is now covered with a thick coat of primer. “This is my recycle pile. If you want to warm up on something else, help yourself to any of these.”
“Thank you.”
I select a rectangular one of medium size and bring it back to my easel, switching out Icarus for this fresh canvas. I have no idea what I should paint, so I tell myself to mix some new colors without any expectation and simply see where it takes me.
With the heavy bass and slow, sensual tempo of the song pouring out of the speakers across the room, my thoughts drift back to Nick. No surprise, considering how shamelessly he had me screaming in pleasure this morning. For the past two weeks, we’ve begun every day with an orgasm—or three—and today was no exception. My sex is still tender from having him inside me, and each little shift I make on my stool creates a delicious friction that is equal parts pleasure and pain.
A shiver of arousal rushes through me, making me think of the other night with Nick. Of thin leather tails and blue velvet skies.
Swept up in the memories, I add more paint to my palette, turning the small swirl of azure into a darkening pool of fathomless blue and an indigo so deep it’s almost black. When the colors feel right I dip my brush, then bring it to the canvas and give my hand free rein to move wherever and however it wants to.
It’s liberating, exhilarating.
I’m entranced by the sensuality of my brush as it licks the pristine field of the canvas. Color explodes in the wake of each stroke, some of it dark and brutal, some of it sublime.
I’m so caught up in my work, I don’t even realize I’m being observed until another song on the boom box ends and the studio plunges into silence for a moment. I sit back on my stool and startle to find Lita standing behind me with Matt and Travis, who’s now dressed in loose jeans and a white T-shirt that somehow makes him look even more gorgeous.
“Earth to the new girl. You didn’t hear a damn word I said, did you?”
“Um . . . “ I can’t even pretend she hasn’t just busted me, so I shake my head.
“It’s noon, so we’re all heading out for a bite to eat. Wanna come?”
I glance at my canvas, reluctant to leave it.
“Never mind.” Lita shakes her head. “You’re in the zone, so don’t break it. We’ll bring lunch to you. You like turkey or roast beef?”
“Turkey, please.” I hop down and pull out a twenty-dollar bill.
“Nah, forget it. Seeing how it’s your first day and all, it’ll be my treat.”
“Really? That’s so nice of you. Thanks.”
She smirks. “Don’t get used to it. We’ll be back in forty-five.”
After they’re gone, I grab a bottle of water from my rollaway and sip it as I stand back and look at what’s taking shape on my easel. A complicated riot of emotions tangle through me as I follow the lines and strokes that fill the canvas. It’s not bad.
Hell, it might even be pretty good.
Looking at what I’ve created, I’m excited and hopeful.
I am happy for the first time in a very long time, not only because I am finally reunited with my art, but because for the past few weeks—the past four months—I’ve felt more alive than I have for most of my life.
There’s only one part of me that’s still missing, and in the solitude of the empty studio, my heart aches for the piece of me I’ve left behind in Pennsylvania.
Retrieving the new cell phone Nick bought me from out of my purse, I dial the prison infirmary and ask if my mom could have permission to take my call. I’ve already updated her doctors and public defender with my changed phone number, but I haven’t spoken to my mother in several days.
They put me through this time, informing me that she’s awake, but is due to get another dose of painkillers in about ten minutes. Her accident a couple of weeks ago left her with a pierced lung and multiple fractures, the worst of them being her broken femur.
At her age, recovery is expected to take time, but I can’t curb my worry when I hear how small her voice sounds when
she finally comes on the line.
“Avery, honey? Oh, I’m so happy you called. Are you back in town again?”
“No, Momma. I’m in New York.” I don’t miss her small exhale, or the disappointment in that wordless response. “I’ve been thinking about you. How are you feeling today?”
“Tired, mostly. They keep giving me pills and shots at all hours of the night. I wish they’d release me so I can go back home.”
I wince, recognizing with more than a little regret that to my mother, home is the single-windowed cell she’s been living in for these past nine years.
“The doctors are just trying to make you better,” I tell her gently. “You got hurt pretty bad in that fall. It’s going to take time for you to heal.”
Talking about her accident makes the specter of my stepbrother’s threats crowd in on me like a thunderhead. I can’t prove that he had anything to do with her fall, but my gut feels certain.
“Do you remember anything about that day, Mom? Do you remember what happened before you fell?”
“Nothing I haven’t already told you, honey. I was coming out of the laundry after my morning shift. I remember it was crowded near the stairs. Everything happened very quickly. I must’ve lost my balance somehow.”
She goes quiet, and I know she can sense that I am pensive.
She knows me too well, even though we’ve been separated for nearly a decade.
She knows my heart better than anyone.
She’s the one person who knows all of my secrets . . . just as I know hers.
Then again, maybe there is one other person who knows them too.
“Have you had any visitors lately, Momma? Anyone you haven’t mentioned to me?”
Her silence nearly kills me. I can feel her wariness. Her worry.
“What’s this about, honey? Has something happened?”
I can’t tell her. Not on a prison phone. The lines are monitored, and it’s too risky for me to so much as mention Rodney Coyle’s name, let alone what he’s demanding of me.
But even more than that, I don’t want to burden my mother with the knowledge.
She’s got enough to deal with.
She’s carried too many burdens for me in her life already.
“Avery,” she whispers. “Please tell me you’re okay. Please tell me you’re safe.”
I close my eyes, feeling selfish for my call now. I needed to hear her voice, but now I’ve made her anxious. I’m scaring her, when that’s the last thing I want to do.
“I’m okay, Momma. Everything’s just fine.” I force a lightness into my voice that I don’t really feel. “You just get better, all right? I’ll talk to you again soon, I promise.”
Chapter 9
I take the subway home from the studio that afternoon, even though Nick seems less than enthused by the idea when I text him to tell him my plans. As appreciative as I am of his concern for me, I need him to understand that I also enjoy my freedom. And besides, the last thing I want to do is alienate my new friends by rolling in and out of the studio in a chauffeured sedan.
I know Nick doesn’t like it, but he relents on the condition that I text him when I leave the studio, then call when I arrive back at Park Place.
As I wander through the empty penthouse, dropping my purse and stepping out of my shoes, I dial his cell. He picks up immediately.
“Right on time,” he says by way of greeting. “Good girl.”
My mouth curves at his maddeningly authoritative, confident tone. “Satisfied, Mr. Baine?”
“Not yet, but let’s work on that.” His voice is dark with meaning, and I feel it all the way to my core. “I’m taking you out for dinner tonight. Can you be ready in an hour?”
“Sure. Where are we going?”
He hesitates a moment. “Someplace we haven’t been before. I’ll be waiting downstairs to pick you up in one hour.”
“I can hardly wait.”
In spite of the heaviness I’m still carrying with me after my brief conversation with my mom a few hours ago, I can’t deny my excitement at the prospect of being with Nick. I shower and dress quickly, slipping into a simple black wrap dress that falls just above my knees and ties at the waist. Strappy black heels complete the look, then, on impulse, I go to the top drawer of the bureau in the bedroom and retrieve the long string of pearls that were a gift from Nick.
The creamy gems are cool within my cleavage, and so richly lustrous there is no need for any other jewelry. I can’t wear them without recalling how wickedly Nick made use of them the night he gave them to me. Draped around my neck now, the long rope slides sensually against my skin with each step I take out of the apartment and down the elevator to the lobby.
As promised, Nick is waiting for me.
Standing just inside the building’s entrance, he’s talking with Manny as I cross the gleaming marble and head toward them. He’s wearing the black suit he had on when he left for the office this morning, but his dark hair looks soft and slightly damp from a recent shower, and the hint of a beard that usually shadows his face by evening has been whisked away with a razor. He’s so handsome and commanding, so profoundly male, my knees threaten to give out beneath me.
Nick sees my slight falter. He knows the effect he has on me and during our time together I’ve learned that it’s pointless to try to pretend I’m not entirely taken with him. Even more powerful is the fact that he seems just as caught up in me. His expression is so wolfish, so unwavering, it’s all I can do to keep my gait steady when his hot, appraising stare is licking fire through my senses and making the world tilt on its axis.
I nod at Manny, and he offers me a beaming smile. “Good evening, Miss Avery.”
“Stunning,” Nick says, looking at me as though Manny and the other dozen or so people in the lobby no longer exist. “Shall we?”
Manny gets the door for us and Nick leads me out to his black BMW M6 that’s idling beneath the porte cochère. He waves off Manny’s help at the car, smoothly opening the passenger door for me, then halting me so he can press a fleeting kiss to my cheek.
“The pearls were a perfect choice,” he murmurs beside my ear. “I’ll be envisioning you naked wearing nothing else but that strand all night.”
I tremble at the suggestion, because now I’ll be strung tight in anticipation, longing for the moment when Nick will make that vision a reality for us.
I’m half tempted to plead with him that we skip dinner and stay in instead, but his hand is firm and intent at the small of my back, so I climb into the car and wait as he closes the door then walks around to the driver’s side.
“Busy day?” I ask, once he’s seated and we’re both buckled in.
“Nonstop meetings,” he says, navigating out to the boulevard with an easy command of both the vehicle and the hectic traffic that surrounds us. “I was just out of the last of them when you called to say you were home. How was the first day back at the easel?”
“It was good. Actually, it was great.” When he glances my way, I can’t resist telling him about my new piece. “I’m trying something different. Playing with colors and abstracts. Seeing where my brush takes me.”
He nods, studying me for a moment. “Sounds interesting.”
“It was. I can’t explain it. The whole thing just kind of . . . poured out of me today. I finished the piece in a matter of hours. That’s never happened before.”
He grunts, his brows lifting as he watches the sea of illuminated tail lights at the intersection ahead of us. “You must’ve been inspired.”
“I was.” I slide my hand over to his thigh, reveling in the bunch and flex of his muscles as he brings the car to a stop at the traffic light. “You inspire me, Nick.”
I see something flicker in his gaze as he stares out the windshield, but I’m not sure what to call it. There and gone in an instant, when he turns his head to look at me, all I see is hunger. His hand goes around the back of my neck and he pulls me close, capturing my lips in a deep, sensual kiss.
When the light changes, he punches the gas and we prowl past the taxis and other vehicles to the next corner. We turn left, heading down a couple of blocks before Nick slows to a stop in front of a tall, brown-brick and limestone trimmed building that’s nestled within a street full of similar looking ones. Some are clearly office space, others appear to be multi-use buildings with retail shops and everything in between.
There is no signage on the one we’ve parked in front of, and only a few windows glow with light from inside, most of it coming from the top floor five stories up.
“I thought we were going to dinner?”
“We are.” Nick’s cryptic response only confuses me more as he gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. “Trust, Ms. Ross. Remember?”
Smiling, and so curious I’m about to burst, I take his hand and walk with him to the building’s front door. It’s locked, but he has the key in his jacket pocket.
“After you.”
I step inside the dimly lit vestibule, surprised to see pretty Art Deco tile on the floors and polished dark wood millwork on the walls. There’s an elevator immediately to our right. Nick pushes the call button and I watch the dial above the brass doors count down as the car descends to meet us.
“Is the restaurant on another floor or something?”
Nick doesn’t answer me, just guides me into the elevator, then presses the number five. As we climb the short distance up, I finally catch a whiff of something delicious cooking. Garlic and grill smoke and fresh-baked bread, along with a host of fragrant spices I can’t even begin to name. My mouth is watering as the doors open and Nick and I step out of the lift.
But there is no restaurant waiting here.
Just a single table in the center of a spacious loft with soaring beam ceilings and beautiful exposed brick walls. Candlelight glows softly from tall candelabras set up around the room, and from the fat pillar candle in the center of the table, which is cloaked in a white linen tablecloth with a diaphanous length of red silk draped across its center. A silver bucket of ice sits on a pedestal beside the table, a black-labeled bottle of Krug champagne chilling in the cubes.