by Kitty Thomas
The Dark Arts
The Complete Duet
Kitty Thomas
Burlesque Press
Contents
Publisher’s Note:
1. Book One: The Con Artist
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
19. Book Two: The Escape Artist
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The Dark Arts
Digital Edition
Copyright 2021 © Kitty Thomas
All rights reserved.
* * *
Digital Edition License Notes
* * *
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or shared. If you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Respecting the hard work of this author makes new books possible.
Publisher’s Note:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Neither the publisher nor the author endorses any behavior carried out by any character in this work of fiction or any other.
1
Book One: The Con Artist
It was the fund raising event of the year at a hip up-and-coming gallery. Saskia wasn’t officially invited. She was a plus one to tech tycoon and art collector, Lachlan Niche.
It was twenty thousand a head just to get in to the night’s festivities. That didn’t include the VIP tour or the silent auction of the pieces on display. Even if she’d been invited, she wouldn’t have been able to afford it with only thirty-two dollars and eighty-eight cents in her bank account. If she didn’t get a cash infusion soon she’d be eating a lot of ramen to make that stretch.
The event was white tie—the theme demanding guests wear only black and white. The invitations had been engraved on fine linen stationery. Simple black lettering on the most subtle shade of eggshell.
The art was modern—bright splashes of reds and purples and blues and yellows and greens with the occasional smattering of orange, making statements the assembled could only guess about. The great thing about abstract art was how smart people could feel about themselves while saying ludicrous things about shapeless objects. Feeling smart was the important part.
If more care had gone into the event, perhaps guests could have worn all white. They would have moved in and out of the art pieces, looking like blank walls and canvases themselves—becoming a part of the paintings and installations.
Lachlan waved from across the room. Mr. Tall, dark, and handsome. He looked too dangerous to be at home surrounded by art. He was Saskia’s benefactor for the evening, allowing her to rub shoulders with the people who gave to charity primarily so they wouldn’t have to feel guilty about the frivolous things they did with the other ninety-eight percent of their money.
No, that wasn’t fair. A good portion of it was reinvested and making them more money to feel guilty about while they clinked their champagne glasses and had another toast point with caviar.
He grew insistent, calling her over now. There was that glint in his eyes that reminded her he always got whatever he wanted.
How nice for him.
What he wanted right now was to use Saskia as his conversation piece. Apparently there weren’t enough of those scattered about the gallery.
She squeezed past huddled insular groups talking bullshit about art they would never understand because they didn’t have the heart for it. Money didn’t buy comprehension or depth, but they were all good enough at faking it. My, aren’t the emperor’s new clothes stunning? Look at those golden threads!
Saskia knew more about art than most of these people could search on the Internet—or have their assistants search. Wouldn’t want them to have to put themselves out in the quest for knowledge.
“Saskia,” Lachlan said in that congenial patronizing tone one hears when they know they’ve just been the subject of a conversation. His arm stretched outward, pulling her into his claw-like embrace. On the surface, she was lucky to have his attention tonight. He was good-looking, wealthy, and at least seemed cultured to the untrained eye. Odds were good he wouldn’t belch out the National Anthem, at least.
“I was just telling them you’re an art forger.”
Of course he was.
There was polite, uncomfortable laughter as they waited for offense or denial. Saskia smiled mildly and took another sip of her champagne as the group pressed in closer.
“So it’s true, then?” one of the older ladies asked, her eyes wide.
“Don’t get too excited. I don’t pass them off as real. I sell them as reproductions. All long-dead artists. Nothing illegal about it.”
Except maybe this one she was about to do. The artist in question was still somewhat recently deceased. That made things tricky from a legal standpoint. But Lachlan assured her he’d gained permission from the artist’s estate to have the reproduction made. And as if by magic, he’d produced the official-looking paperwork to prove it. Saskia wasn’t sure if the papers were legit, but she was too hungry to grill him about it in any meaningful way.
One of the men seemed intrigued. He offered his hand as if at a business meeting. “Nolan,” he said. His grip was firm. He dropped Saskia’s hand a split second before she could pull away. “What’s the market for something like that?” he asked.
The night might not be a total waste after all. Lots of alcohol flowing and shallow people with money in their pockets to burn. Perhaps she could pick up some small potatoes. You could make potatoes stretch almost as far as ramen if you knew what you were doing.
She blushed, feeling somewhat pinned down by the intensity of his stare, the way he pulled her into him with such focus. There was something hawk-like in his features—which seemed fitting, given how much she felt like prey.
“More than you’d think. They make good conversation starters—novelties mostly. But there are dry spells as with any business,” she said.
Lachlan’s hand drifted down her back in a proprietary way, coming to stop just shy of public scandal. She shrugged out of his grasp and sent him a tight smile. He returned it with that same dark look she’d received from across the room only moments before.
“I’m trying to talk her into doing a piece for me,” Lachlan said as if it weren’t already a done deal between them.
“Oh, yeah, which one?” Nolan asked.
“The Joseph Quill piece.”
“Ah. So the owner won’t sell?”
Lachlan shook his head. “I offered more than it was worth. They still refused. So I’ve resigned myself to a fake that will look more real than the real deal. Or so I’m told by Miss Roth here.”
“If you’ll e
xcuse me, I need to touch up my makeup,” Saskia said. The older woman in the group looked as if she might try to come along, but Saskia managed to extricate herself without an entourage.
She wandered down the dimly lit halls of the gallery, away from the buzzing din of voices and heels clicking on tile—away from the area the guests had been corralled into. It hadn’t been stated explicitly that they weren’t allowed in other parts of the gallery. Wouldn’t want to offend the generous donors. But it had been made to look as unwelcoming as a dirty alley strewn with used heroin needles, and the guests had taken the hint.
Saskia could barely stand to hear Joseph Quill’s name. She’d idolized him and had the pleasure of meeting him at one of his gallery showings when he was just beginning to become famous. Living artists rarely got so famous or claimed so high a price for their work.
She was sure she’d made a blubbering fool of herself that night and couldn’t even remember what idiotic things she’d said. She’d been shaking just from proximity to him.
Three months later, Quill was dead—a plane crash while traveling abroad. He’d been far too brilliant to die so young, leaving all the work that could have been... unfinished, languishing in the universal creative void just waiting for an artist far less talented to take up the mantle of a body of work far outside their range.
Saskia had mourned him as if he’d been a dear friend—even though she’d spoken all of four sentences to the man when she’d met him the one time. Sentences she wasn’t even sure had been coherent.
But she’d admired him so much. He’d inspired her. He’d painted the most haunting nudes she’d ever seen, some of them in far-too-compromising—even kinky—poses. But that wasn’t why people were drawn to the work.
It was the eyes.
Each woman he’d painted in his too-brief lifetime had a look about her as if Quill had taken and broken her apart, carved away all the pieces of her soul that didn’t appeal to him, and made her into something new that lit up the canvas like sunrise. Saskia was sure he’d slept with all of them—perhaps just before painting them. She’d spent nights fantasizing about being one of his subjects with all the dark eroticism she imagined such a position might entail.
Sometimes collectors were so captivated by the eyes of Quill’s women, they forgot to look at anything else, no matter how lurid the pose.
Saskia ducked into a bathroom at the end of the hallway and leaned against the counter. She’d convinced Lachlan that not only was she an excellent art forger, but a competent art thief as well. She’d regaled him with a few bullshit stories about a couple of low profile art heists that had never been solved, and he’d bought the story. Tonight was all about planting a seed so that when the real Quill nude hung in Lachlan’s home, all of his friends would think it was merely a clever forgery.
Or at least that’s how he thought it would play. Saskia could never steal the work of an artist she admired for a foul creature like Lachlan, but he couldn’t know he was her real mark.
She reapplied her lipstick and straightened the straps of the black dress. A strand of long dark hair had escaped her updo. She carefully pinned it back into place.
“You look lovely as you are.”
She spun, working to wipe any trace of startled guilt from her face.
“Lachlan, get out of here! This is the ladies room.” As if that needed stating.
He must have followed directly behind her. He’d been quiet as a panther stalking prey.
He looked ridiculous in such a rigid black tuxedo, standing in the midst of pale pink lace and cushions. His hand trailed down her cheek. “Saskia...” It was more a breath, a sigh, than speech.
She batted his hand away. “No, Lachlan. I told you, business only. If you’re smart, you’ll reserve your fucking for women who don’t have other skills you need.”
He wasn’t used to hearing the word ‘no’, or at least he wasn’t used to it being anything more than a prelude to ‘yes’. All part of a coy tease—a game a man like Lachlan was obligated to play to get to the warm, wet, excited prize.
He moved closer. “I understand. A woman doesn’t want to feel like a slut, so she pretends she never does this. She says no a few times and pushes you away. You slip your fingers underneath her panties, and you find the lie. And then it changes to yes. This isn’t a new game for me.”
Lachlan pressed her against the wall, his hand skimming down the side of her dress as if looking for an entrance to prove his point.
Saskia put her hands on his shoulders and tried to shove him, but he wouldn’t budge. He was a solid block of muscle. He may as well have been a solid block of stone. “I said, No!”
He shrugged and stepped away from her. “As you wish. We can leave if you’re ready to go. We’ve done what we needed to do.”
Saskia straightened her dress again in an attempt to hide her shaking and just how threatening she found him. “You didn’t bid on the silent auction?” she asked, trying to shift the topic to something safe.
“You know I don’t like abstract art.”
It was his sole redeeming quality.
She’d only been inside Lachlan’s home once. His preferences seemed to trend toward older, more classic work, but she couldn’t be sure if it was because of the difficulty and expense of acquiring the pieces he most coveted or because he actually had taste.
They slipped out a side door and didn’t speak again until they were ensconced in the privacy of his Bentley. Warning buzzers sounded in her head over being alone in such a restrictive space with him after what just happened in the bathroom. But he was her ride and ultimately her continued survival.
The engine purred to life, and Lachlan put the car into drive.
“Do you think they bought it?” Saskia asked as they pulled away from the gallery.
“I know they did. They’ll believe it’s a reproduction once it’s hanging in my house.”
“I never said I’d steal the real one. I only promised the fake,” she said. It was important for Lachlan to believe this was all his idea. The more he thought he had to convince her, the more committed he’d be to the version of events she wanted him to see.
“We both know you’re going to cave and give me what I want.” His hand moved to her knee. The double-entendre was probably sleazier hovering in the air between them than when it had been safely cocooned inside the privacy of his own head. At least that was what she’d decided to tell herself.
He was fifteen years her senior, but that wasn’t why she didn’t want to sleep with him. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was that despite his wealth and fitness, he was skating dangerously into age-inappropriate. And she didn’t want to be any man’s amusing piece on the side to make him feel like he still had it. What could the two of them possibly have in common? None of their cultural reference points overlapped. There was nothing to discuss.
Except maybe art.
But he didn’t understand it in the way an artist did. He was a sideline spectator at best. And owning a Quill piece wasn’t going to give him the soul of the man who’d envisioned it.
Saskia sighed. “Okay, let me be clear. If you want even a chance that I’ll steal the piece for you, you’ll keep your hands to yourself. I’m about ready to walk as it is. I get plenty of work from people less grabby and more respectful of my personal boundaries.”
“That must be why you stuffed your purse with leftovers. Because you’re living so large.”
Saskia ignored the bait and remained silent for the rest of the drive. The last thing she ever planned to discuss with him were her meager finances. Up next to Niche Industries, her net worth was a joke. And they both knew it.
She was surprised when he pulled up in front of her building instead of his own sprawling estate. The way he’d been going tonight, she’d expected to have to escape his home like a refugee, barely clinging to whatever virtue she might have left, pressing her ripped dress tight against her body.
But her dress wasn’t even creased, and Lachlan h
ad magnanimously allowed her to remain unmolested.
He turned off the ignition. “What is it about me that you find so repulsive, Miss Roth?”
Besides everything?
She wasn’t sure she could articulate it, at least not without pissing him off to the point she might have to dig through dumpsters to eat.
On the surface, all the columns of Lachlan Niche lined up right. He was a man who was beautiful in just the right lighting and angle, but the slightest shift changed the picture to something hideous—at least on the psychic level. To Saskia, Lachlan was like a holographic trading card—a suave, handsome businessman if you turned him to the right, monster skulking through dark alleys if caught by light on the left.
Either way, she didn’t want to be part of his collection—just another possession he kept in a case and bragged about to all his friends. But because he clearly seemed to think such a fate for her was an honor, it was pointless to try to explain it. It would sail too far over his entitled head.
She opened the car door before he could do the fake-gallantry and come around and open it for her. “Goodnight, Lachlan.”
He reached out, stopping her exit. “Saskia, wait. What about the job?”
