A Touch of Dark (Painted Sin Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  “I assume your father had good intentions when he hired your current security detail,” he says, sounding oddly neutral. “However, I shall take the liberty of installing my own men from now on. I can assure you that you won’t have a repeat of last night.”

  Did he mean the near break-in, his impromptu visit, or both? I shake my head to clear it. Neither matters.

  “I suppose I should feel flattered,” I admit. “Bodyguards installed by a criminal. I’m sure they excel at murder, and extortion, and whatever sordid talents men like you value.”

  He doesn’t even wince. “When necessary.”

  God, he actually sounds serious. A concerned Damien is the last thing I need.

  “Why should you care?” I demand, placing my hands on my hips. “You hate my father. I bet you loved seeing me terrified—”

  “You’re right. I despise your father, and you are the single most devastating weapon I can use against him. But I prefer to utilize you on my terms, as I see fit.”

  Can’t blame the man for honesty. “Well, you certainly don’t mince words,” I quip.

  “And you aren’t foolish,” he counters. “Accept my offer.”

  I should refuse. That would be the smart, logical thing to do. But smart and logical don’t apply to seeking safety in the arms of a psychopath.

  As if reading my mind, he adds, “I won’t always be there to listen for your nightly performances, Ms. Thorne.”

  I puff up indignantly and bite back a sigh of relief. Anger is a weapon I need now more than ever—I won’t acknowledge the fact he gave it to me.

  “Do what you want, Mr. Villa.” I make a show of marching into the living room. Loudly. My heavy footsteps barely drown out the slower, heavier ones in my wake. “Just so long as your offer doesn’t include you.”

  “This one doesn’t.”

  I look back and find him advancing from the hall.

  “My next proposal, well… That will require some negotiation.”

  I don’t take the bait right away. I nearly run to my coffee maker and fumble with the settings until something dark and steaming pours into a mug. Only after I’ve drained every last drop of liquid do I bite. “And what proposal would that be?”

  “Dinner. With me. Tonight.”

  “Dinner.” I hum thoughtfully and tap my chin. “Let me guess. You’ll take me to an orgy this time—”

  “Dinner,” he insists. “A meal. You and I. Entirely business in nature. We would both be allowed to question each other, and both be required to answer. Honestly.”

  I frown and search through my cupboards for another pack of instant coffee. “Frankly, Mr. Villa, I have to wonder why you’d want to question me. I’m Juliana Thorne, and as you’ve said more than once, there isn’t anything interesting about me.”

  “I’m sure there is plenty you would like to know about me,” he counters as he starts for the door and opens it. “The next time you search for me online, remember that there are two Ls in my name. Enjoy the rest of your day, Ms. Thorne. Oh, and Julio will be your guard for this evening. He’ll stay out of sight.”

  “Dinner…” I draw the word out, only mildly entertained by watching him linger. Oh, he doesn’t want to. I could bounce pennies off the tension coiled in his shoulders. “I’m terribly busy, Mr. Villa.”

  He takes a step.

  I raise my voice. “But…”

  Again, he pauses. For a second. Two. The fact blows my mind. He’s a man with a criminal empire to run, frozen at my doorstep in anticipation of whether or not I’ll accept a dinner invitation. “If I can find the time, how should I reach you? Scream into my wallpaper?”

  “Ah…” He chuckles darkly. “But as you yourself have said, I have more important matters to amuse myself with than the life of Juliana Thorne. Have a good day. Adiós.”

  He leaves, for real this time. I don’t bother taunting him back.

  I sip fresh coffee like the antidote to his poison only to find myself eyeing the very real toxic gift he left for me. I don’t normally keep plants on principle. They require even the bare minimum attempts at nurturing—something that was never my forte. Still, I take a stab in the dark and assume this one needs water. Surprisingly, its delicate petals haven’t started to wither. They cast the faintest aroma that itches my nostrils. It’s deceptively sweet. Like roses, laced with sugary candy. You’d never know that one nibble could be deadly.

  If there were a person as sweet and as innocent as oleander, Daddy wouldn’t think twice before letting them off, despite what the evidence may say. They weren’t menacing. Not like Damien or his brothers who alarmed and inspired unease on sight.

  Therefore… I drag my finger across my neck and mouth another one of Daddy’s chosen phrases, “Guilty as sin.”

  But what does that make me? Oleander, or snarling imposter weeds?

  The question haunts me as my cell phone rings.

  “Juliana,” my father says from the other end. “I’ve made all of the arrangements for tomorrow. All you have to do is attend.”

  “T-tomorrow?”

  “The press conference,” he says, exasperated. “I’m having a dress sent over. It will be at ten sharp, and I’ll have a car sent for you an hour before.”

  “Of course… See you then.”

  The looming prospect of media attention makes for the perfect foil to Damien’s visit last night. I’m haunted by both as I strip my dress and shower, scrubbing vigorously to erase every trace of the blind psychopath. When I return to my room to tidy it, I groan and wring my hands in exasperation. Someone already has—attempted to, anyway. They straightened my sheets. Removed the soiled clothing from my floor and placed it in the hamper near my closet. They also presumably tripped over the heels I left scattered near the door.

  I don’t clean for him. Neither is he the reason why I strip my sheets and replace them with fresh ones. So maybe I rustle the sheets loudly enough for a speaker to pick up from some hidden location. According to his smug insinuation, he won’t be listening. So he certainly won’t hear the reluctant sigh that tears from my chest.

  “Dinner,” I blurt, hating how my voice echoes in the silence. “We do this on my terms. Nowhere public, but somewhere with plenty of exits in sight. If I feel cornered, I’m leaving. If I feel threatened, I’m leaving. I decide what we eat, and most importantly—I ask the first questions.” I pause, belatedly realizing that he won’t answer back. Feeling my cheeks flame, I soldier on. “Have a car waiting for me at seven. A minute later and I’m not going. Though I suppose I might as well not bother at all. You’re far too busy to be listening.”

  There. Empowered, I shrug nonchalantly as if performing for a camera—though, who knows, maybe I am. Good. I hope the bastard has someone there to give him a very vivid description of my ass as I stoop for a pair of heels, grab my coat, and promptly escape my apartment.

  I enter a hall and jump at the sight of a large man leaning against the wall at the other end. Only his vaguely familiar features keep my heart from pounding its way from my chest. He nods to me slowly in greeting. When I head to the elevator, he doesn’t follow. Yet I can’t shake this lingering suspicion that I’m never alone. Someone is watching me—and not quite as predatorily as Simon.

  Speaking of which…

  My old friend hasn’t asserted his existence yet. I should feel relieved, but I don’t. Just tense. It’s not a matter of if he’ll resurface.

  It’s when.

  Seven rolls around and I’m still in my apartment, blissfully unhurried. After all, there’s no point in waiting for a ride that will never show—or so I tell myself.

  Following that logic, there was no reason to get dressed, either. No reason to wash and blow out my hair or paint my lips in the one shade I have other than red: a slightly lighter pink. There’s certainly no reason to glare at my reflection and wrestle with the idea of changing for the umpteenth time.

  In the end, I’m still scowling when I finally leave the bathroom and don my coat. I’l
l head down out of pure curiosity. Being stood up—in theory—will just give me more ammunition to use against Damien. At least I’ll prove he was lying about the bugs.

  Just for fun, I pause near the foyer and tilt my head toward the ceiling, scanning for little black devices. “I want pizza,” I say. “The extra-cheese special from Georgianos. They know me there, and I’m the only one in the world who orders that special, so there will be a record of your address that my father can trace if I go missing.”

  It’s a bald-faced lie. I haven’t ordered from Georgianos in months—though he doesn’t know that. Then again, the bastard did bug both my home and my office for an undetermined amount of time. In any case, I can take comfort in the fact Mr. Damien Villa has already expressed boredom from spying on me.

  Though I still find one of his men in the hallway when I step out of my suite. Dressed in black, he greets me with a nod. Downstairs, I spot two similarly dressed men lurking amongst the crowd. They don’t acknowledge me directly, but I sense them watching as I head for the main doors. Outside, a sleek vehicle is waiting for me. The driver stands beside the passenger’s door and opens it as if on cue.

  “Good evening, Ms. Thorne.”

  Damn Damien. So the bastard called my bluff after all. In the process, he gave himself away; he’s been listening to my boring life in real time.

  Gritting my teeth, I enter the car and try to ignore the alarm bells going off in my mind. This could be a trick. A rather elaborate one, admittedly. Any time during the day, Julio could have barged into my apartment and done whatever he wanted.

  Perhaps Mr. Villa preferred to do the deed himself? Luckily for him, I’m being hand-delivered.

  He isn’t far. My destination turns out to be only blocks from my building, in the same upscale part of town: an even taller skyscraper formed of black glass and gold accents. It’s a breathtaking bastion of wealth, but there’s no clear indicator as to its purpose. Evil lair? Reclusive penthouse dwelling?

  Inside, a plain lobby with granite floors and dark walls funnels any visitor to a gilded elevator.

  “Take it to the roof,” the driver instructs, having come inside with me.

  He leaves, and I ride the elevator up alone, desperate to quell my staggered heartbeat. When the elevator doors finally part, I’m forced to acknowledge my first concession of the night: Damien followed my instructions perfectly.

  The private roof, several stories above most surrounding buildings, certainly isn’t within obvious public view. Score one. The low barrier keeping an occupant from plunging to their death could technically be viewed as an abundance of “exits.” But only a sadist would interpret “I don’t want to feel cornered” as a license to host their morbid soiree inside of a structure composed almost entirely of glass.

  It dominates the center of the rooftop, illuminated with golden light. I blink several times before I dare put a name to it: a greenhouse.

  A real one.

  I can smell the flowers from here. Sweet. Fresh. An amalgam of color bolsters the different scents: spicy, delicate, aromatic. Too many to name. I’d stake my life on the assumption that roses are among them.

  When I don’t spot Damien lurking within the shadows, I warily approach the pair of glass doors serving as the greenhouse’s entrance. They open easily, and I smother a sigh as a comfortable warmth replaces the frigid night air. My eyes blink to adjust, and for good reason.

  It’s like I left winter and entered spring—if mother nature happened to be a passive-aggressive perfectionist.

  Countless plants are arranged neatly in black planters, spread out at meticulous intervals. There isn’t so much as a wayward petal on the stone flooring, and I could walk the orderly paths…well, blindfolded. A vital feature, I’m willing to admit, given the limitations of the man sensing my approach from beside a selection of his signature flowers.

  Red. White. Yellow. Pink. Roses in every hue imaginable sprout around him, a morbid rainbow, clashing with the black of his suit and matching blindfold. Here, Damien sticks out more than ever: a glaring stain on this otherwise paradise.

  “I hope this is suitable to your terms,” he says dryly.

  “It’s not a sex club, at least.” I fight to keep awe from my tone. “I hope you don’t think that bringing me here will make me let my guard down. I’ve never been that sort of woman.”

  The kind to fall for extravagant gestures such as a private dinner among a makeshift field of flowers. Then again, I’ve never been the sort of woman whom men made such gestures for on a regular basis.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  He has his head cocked, confused as he processes my words. Oh. I could kick myself. Obviously, he isn’t aware of how this venue might appear to someone. Which makes it doubly infuriating that he brought me here. Why?

  Could the choice be entirely personal rather than meant to intimidate? Maybe. He wants to confront me on familiar ground.

  “Did you plant all these yourself?” A tendril of appreciation makes it harder to seethe. I’m wandering the nearest row before I can stop myself, reaching out a finger to brush a soft bloom—a dangerous act in the world of Damien. “I hope this isn’t oleander?” I ask belatedly.

  “Toxic shrubs are in the righthand alcove,” he replies. “And I require assistance, but I care for what I can.”

  He sounds…hesitant. Each word is clipped. Defensive. The same way he sounds whenever I mention one of his paintings. He thinks I’m mocking him.

  “It…it’s beautiful.” My body deflates with the admission and I keep wandering, brushing flowers as gently as I can. Just to make sure they’re real and not plastic.

  He follows me, keeping a cautious distance.

  “I’m assuming this is where my ‘toxic shrub’ came from?” The righthand alcove. I find an area slightly set apart from the main display. Those boxes are silver, which gives the plants they hold a mysterious air.

  “No. I know a supplier whom I trust, but I would never discard one of my plants.” Judging from his tone, he could have substituted another word: I would never murder one of my plants.

  Not for the first time, he displays obsessive protectiveness of his work. Even sending a thinly veiled threat to a target is seen by him as wasteful.

  “And the roses?” I wonder. Unsurprisingly, his appear unmolested. I doubt my floor is good enough to be graced with Damien’s hand-grown creations.

  “Also purchased.” He sounds closer.

  Perhaps because I’ve stopped walking, riveted by a blossom unlike any I’ve ever seen. Ebony petals form a cup with a wash of light pink inside. I tentatively finger a petal; it’s so soft, one touch feels liable to tear it.

  “A black orchid,” Damien explains. He must have the layout memorized, down to the location of each blossom. “Ironic, considering you don’t seem to be wearing that color tonight…” His nostrils flare. Maybe the bastard really can sense color by smell.

  For the first time since leaving my suite, I look down at my dress and lament forsaking my chosen color. I went to the boutique earlier today—one I’ve frequented for years. When I requested something in “a more colorful shade,” the saleswoman looked as though I’d proposed ending world peace with a wave of my manicured hand. In a daze, she wandered into the back room and returned with this.

  A blood-red number in the same shade as his massacred roses. The fabric feels too thin, a mixture of satin and lace. The neckline plunges a hairsbreadth too low, displaying nonexistent cleavage. All in all, it’s a garment so unlike my usual style that I wouldn’t recognize myself.

  “Well?” I confidently appraise my opponent. No earpiece tonight—unless he hid it. No lackeys nearby to feed him all the right answers either.

  Just me and him. A level playing field for once?

  “What color am I now?” I extend my arms, offering myself up for his scrutiny. “Oh, Damien, all-knowing stalker of Juliana Thorne. Tell me how I look. Bonus points if you can describe it based on smell.”

/>   Mocking a blind person may be wrong in a different context, but I’m prepared to make an exception. Until he steps forward and inhales me deeply, without warning or permission.

  “Oh, I can’t be sure, Ms. Thorne, what with my disability…” He reaches for me, finding my shoulder. Two of his fingers tease the spaghetti strap of my dress and follow it down to the lacy neckline, heedless of the exposed flesh beneath.

  He knows just how to unnerve me. Where to touch so I can’t claim indecency. As well as the exact moment to pull his hand away and bring it to his mouth.

  I expect him to rub his chin thoughtfully. Not run his thumb directly over his lower lip as if tasting scarlet on my skin.

  “Why, Juliana, I have to say, you smell divine in red.”

  Bastard. “You cheated,” I snarl, turning away from him. “What, did you have me followed to the boutique?”

  “Come here.” The command lacing his voice alone should give me the cue I need to leave.

  He doesn’t own me. He certainly can’t order me to do his bidding. But perhaps that’s the infuriating part? He isn’t. No matter how many seconds tick past, he doesn’t come after me. Doesn’t reach for me. I don’t even hear him breathing heavily to indicate anger. No, he merely proposed a dare. Come here and learn the answer for yourself.

  I don’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, I turn on my heel and cross to him.

  He captures my forearms from either side. A gasp escapes my throat, but before I can even think to fight, he loosens his grip and one of his hands drifts up to my chest.

  “Your heart is racing,” he explains, grazing a nail over the muscle in question. I feel it lurch, assaulted by his touch even through layers of skin and bone. “You’re uncomfortable. Red is a bold color. You feel unsure wearing it. Though I did accuse you of being dull. It’s only fitting that you would select the boldest hue in response.”

  He sounds so damn smug, as if he has me pegged down to the last cell and strand of hair. When I raise my hand, he predictably seizes my wrist.

  “I wasn’t going to slap you,” I admit.