Dark Descent into Desire

by J. J. Sorel

  “Huh?” Fire pumped through me, waking me out of my schoolgirl crush. “Are you implying that I visited that place?” I paused for a moment to collect my words. “I saw you too. You were there. Exploiting desperate girls, I might add.”

  “What are you talking about?” He frowned.

  “Just that you attended that sleazy place.”

  “Now, look, Penelope. I was there only because James asked me along for support.”

  “But you looked?”

  His head pushed back. “I didn’t. And why are we discussing this?”

  “Because Lilly had a bad time.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “In all honesty, I’m not surprised. It’s that kind of place.”

  “And you should know, right?”

  “Excuse me?” His eyes darkened to a deep shade of anger. He lifted his cleft chin. “And what about you?”

  “I left just as you were entering.”

  “Why are you suddenly judging me?” he asked.

  “I suppose it’s your prerogative to exploit desperation. I’m sure you’ve never experienced hunger and mounting bills and a life that offers no way out.”

  “That’s where you’re very wrong, Penelope. Be careful. Don’t be fooled by appearances.” His low, grave voice sank deep into my gut.

  “I might be young, but I’m not a fool.” I turned my back on him and stormed off, like an idiot.

  Fueled by anger, more at myself than Blake, I got to the other side of the room.

  Fifteen minutes earlier, I’d been staring at the promise of a new life, and now here I was—the same Penelope Green, living in a stinky estate with a mother who could barely open her eyes.

  I noticed Blake leave. Shit. I’d blown it. I kicked myself.

  9

  * * *

  BLAKE

  THE HEAVY CANDLESTICK TREMBLED in my hand, and my throat constricted. I couldn’t yell. He looked at me with those pathetic, pleading eyes as if only I possessed the power to release him from the devil’s grip. Those were his words. His hand squeezed my ass as though his life depended on it. I’d seen what he was capable of. Although he overpowered me, he being a man and I only a boy, just as he touched me, I stood on my toes and slammed the golden candlestick over his bald head. A crack appeared, and blood spurted out, dripping down over those creepy black eyes and decrepit cheeks.

  Crashing metal echoed off the marble floor. The vibration traveled up my calves. His cold hand gripped my foot, and I kicked it away. He’d touched me one time too many.

  Repelled by his cries for help, I ran breathless into the wood without stopping until I arrived at the moors. The howling wind pushed me along. I wished I could fly like the ravens that hovered over that somber gray place.

  I entered my cave, a dark, foreboding place that was less frightening than the depraved beasts that I hid from.

  But my soul wasn’t free. The rocky walls distorted, forming faces of demons, just like those sneering monsters on the chapel facade. A silent scream clenched my jaw. Trapped by evil smiles and cruel eyes, I couldn’t escape. Even the roaring howl of the wind couldn’t drown out that choir of dissonant shrieks.

  A knock startled me awake. I jolted upright. It took a moment to orient myself.

  A large opulent bedroom in accents of teal and burgundy slowly came into focus. It was my bedroom in Mayfair and not hell.

  I lifted my exhausted body off the damp sheet. Shivering, I clutched my arms.

  “Is everything okay?” a voice called from the hallway.

  “Yes, Pierce,” I returned.

  A comforting warble from a robin reminded me that it was daytime and that I’d just had a nightmare.

  I took a deep breath and walked around, enabling the flow of blood to my tense muscles.

  Opening the drapes, I looked over at Grosvenor Square bathed in morning sun. People ran or walked their dogs while children bounded about, innocent and full of life.

  I headed over to the phone and cleared my voice. “Good morning, Maria. Just some coffee and juice.”

  “You’re not hungry?” she asked in her Italian accent.

  “No. I’ve got to be somewhere soon.” That wasn’t quite true, but at least it would stop her fussing about me not eating breakfast.

  “Oh… I’ve made brioche. Fresh.”

  Maria was always insistent. I did like having someone who cared. And her food was scrumptious.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “Subito, signore.”

  My new acquisitions hung on the wall. The triptych had arrived the day before, replacing a pair of Ingres nudes I’d paid a small fortune for—more than the hundred thousand pounds I’d paid for Penelope Green’s art.

  In each painting, the same woman appeared, wearing a long, flowing red gown that was vibrant against the gray city of distorted rectangular buildings. A man with his back turned watched before a gothic window as a woman flew through the city. This story was told over three panels. The art was masterfully created.

  I searched for a hint of the girl who had invaded my mind. She’d misunderstood me. How will I convince her that I’m not in the habit of buying virgins?

  A knock at my door made me jump. Those paintings had a strange hypnotic power over me. Only a truly gifted artist could attempt surrealism. And for me, Penelope Green’s talent grew each time I visited her work.

  “Come in,” I said.

  Maria carried a tray filled with food. I had to smile. “Maria, that doesn’t look like a brioche.”

  She waved her hand. “Only a little toast. Just in case.” She smiled, but as she studied my face, I knew I was in for some interrogation.

  “Are you okay, Signore Blake?”

  “I’m great. Now, put it down there, and off you go.” I used my kindest tone.

  Just as she was leaving, Maria looked up at my new acquisitions. “Oh… they’re new.” She studied them. “They’re so interesting. Gotica.”

  “Gothic, you mean?” I asked.

  “Mm… the artist has a fine hand and eye. It’s like the man’s in a church looking out at the beautiful girl, his object of desire, who is lost in a distorted machine-like city that she’s trying to escape.”

  I nodded slowly. “I picked them up at a student show.”

  “The artist will probably do great things.”

  I felt buoyed by her prediction, as though Maria had spoken about someone close to me. “If I ever see her again, I’ll relay your compliment.”

  She scrutinized me with her typical intensity. “You like this girl. She’s very pretty.”

  “How can you tell?”

  She pointed at the painted figure. “Does she look like her?”

  I conjured up Penelope’s beautiful face and nodded. “There is a resemblance.”

  “And you didn’t get her number?”

  “You know me. I don’t like questions.”

  She twirled her hand dismissively. “Ask her out. You’re too handsome. The girls would fall at your feet if only you would act more…” She lifted her chin up and pushed out her chest, giving her impression of cockiness.

  “Thanks for the lesson in the art of seduction,” I responded dryly. She smiled with a wink before leaving.

  Although I couldn’t imagine that being a cocky bastard would win over Penelope Green, I needed to do something to convince her that I wasn’t a cad. Maybe flowers and a note of apology.

  Flowers, yes. Apology? I had nothing to apologize for. She was the one who’d jumped to conclusions, although Penelope’s feistiness sent blood gushing to my groin as I recalled her pretty eyes firing up.

  My cell vibrated. The name Peter Barnes, a private detective I’d recently hired, came up.

  “Blake.” His gravelly voice was so loud that I held the phone away from my ear.

  “What can you tell me?” I asked.

  “Only that the Cherry Orchard’s registered to a conglomerate that is not that easy to pin down. But I did find one lead.”

/>   “That is…?”

  “A name that’s connected to a leading figure from an Eastern European gang.”

  I rubbed my head. “Right.”

  “I’ve got a few leads. I’ll do some poking around, and perhaps we can meet at the end of the week. I’d prefer to do things away from the phone,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  10

  * * *

  PENELOPE

  THE MODEL FOR OUR life drawing class had that kind of muscular body that sent Sheldon into a meltdown.

  Cupping the side of his mouth, he whispered, “He’s gorgeous.”

  I had to smile. The model did have that Adonis appeal. And him being naked as the day he was born wasn’t exactly making things any easier for poor Sheldon. I only hoped the model’s shriveled member wouldn’t rise for the occasion.

  A break was called. We’d been drawing all morning. Life drawing was my favorite subject, although I preferred female models. They were easier to draw. All those masculine sinews put me in awe of the Italian masters, particularly Michelangelo, and their ability to depict the male figure.

  As I headed for the coffee machine, a bunch of roses and a pair of legs headed my way, and this time, it wasn’t my surreal take on the mundane.

  Angie, the administrator, noticed me passing. “Ah… there you are, Penny.” She handed me a bunch of roses of every color known to that genus.

  After I regained my senses, having buried my nose in the intoxicating bunch of fragrant flowers, I asked, “Are they really for me?”

  She smiled. “An admirer.”

  Over my shoulder, I heard Sheldon remark, “A rich admirer, I’d say.”

  “Lucky you,” she said, passing me an envelope.

  The card nearly fell from my hand. I looked up at Sheldon, who took it from my hand and sniffed it. “Mm… it’s perfumed.” He held his chin. “Now, who could these be from?”

  My legs, by this stage, were nearly buckling from the weight of the blooms coupled with shock and all other kinds of indescribable emotions.

  Sheldon took the bunch from my arms. “Here, let me help you. Shit, there must be at least sixty roses.”

  Shaking my head in disbelief, I uttered, “Holy crap.”

  He remained there with the roses in his arms. “Well, come on. Aren’t you going to see who they’re from?”

  I sat down and opened the envelope. The card read: Can we start again? Dinner? Your paintings look lovely in my home. Thank you. Blake Sinclair.

  I kept reading it over and over as if I’d missed some small detail. It was handwritten, and I ran my fingers over the card, feeling the pen markings, like a psychic with a piece of jewelry.

  “It’s from him, isn’t it?” asked Sheldon, placing the flowers down on the seat next to me.

  I nodded. In a trance, I passed him the card.

  “You must go. I mean he’s absolutely fucking gorgeous.”

  “I know. He’s almost too gorgeous.”

  Sheldon tilted his head in sympathy. “Don’t be scared. I’m sure he’ll be a gentleman. Unless, you know…” He growled. “You don’t want him to be.”

  I laughed.

  Blake hadn’t left my thoughts, even though I tried to quash this sudden obsession, because Sheldon was right—Blake Sinclair terrified me. I hated the thought of him learning about my life at the estate, and my drug-addicted mother. Swamped by guilt, I hated how shallow that made me. But what would a man of his class, used to the finer things in life, do with someone like me?

  I imagined he was after my body, and after he was done with me, he’d probably move onto the next flower to pluck. Maybe it was a sport. I’d read about rich men and their kinky ways. Perhaps he had a thing for impoverished art students.

  “Can you imagine him dropping me off at my home, with the walking dead, and drug dealers lingering about?”

  Sheldon’s mouth turned down in sympathy. “Oh, Penny… just enjoy it. And anyhow, tell him you’re living with me in Soho. It’s partly true.”

  “I feel like an idiot, pointing my finger at him for something that wasn’t even my business.”

  Sheldon nodded. “You did overreact. It’s fear. I can understand it. But he’s seriously yummy. I mean, the guy’s hot, and I bet he works out.”

  I had to agree with all of that. “So, should I reply? He’s printed his number on the card.”

  “I would’ve been on the phone and in his bed by now.” He giggled.

  “That’s the point. I’m expected to sleep with him, aren’t I?”

  “Penny, you’re going to have fuck some time. Baby, you’re twenty-three, for God’s sake.” His head pushed back. “And to be honest, I’d kill to have my virginity taken by someone like Blake Sinclair.”

  “Hmm… I suppose.”

  After I left Sheldon, instead of returning to class, I headed outside and found a quiet spot on a bench canopied by a sycamore.

  I kept looking down at the card with his number. After five minutes and endless deep breaths, I tapped his number. My hand shook as I gripped the phone.

  It went to voicemail, and his husky voice traveled deep into my core.

  I waited for the beep and then stammered, “Um… this is Penelope Green. Thanks for the roses. I… just called to thank you.” I closed the call, overcome by self-loathing at how stupid I sounded.

  The phone vibrated in my hand, and I took the call without looking to see who it was.

  “Penelope.” His deep voice traveled all the way to my nipples.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Blake. I just missed your call.”

  “Oh… um… I just called.” I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe how imbecilic I’d become. “I received the flowers. They’re beautiful. There’s lots of them.” I giggled nervously.

  “Good. Fragrant, I trust.”

  “Very much. They made me dizzy. The scent, I mean.”

  “Good. I mean not so good feeling faint. But roses have that affecting charm about them. I love smelling a rose in full bloom.”

  I hadn’t expected that.

  “Penelope?”

  “Call me Penny, please,” I said.

  “Penny… would you like to have dinner? Or a drink?”

  “Sure. That would be nice.”

  “So, dinner, drink, or both?”

  “Dinner sounds good.” My voice sounded weak and quavering. In order to still my racing heart, I reminded myself that I wasn’t talking to the leader of a nation or a king or anything. This was a normal person.

  Well… maybe not so normal. Hell.

  “Great. Say, seven tonight?”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Wonderful. I look forward to it. Text me your address.”

  “Oh… you’re going to pick me up?” I clenched my jaw.

  “Would you prefer to meet me somewhere?”

  “That might be better,” I said cautiously.

  “How about if we meet at a bar in Piccadilly?”

  “Yes. Good. Just text me the details, and I’ll see you there at seven.”

  “Will do. I look forward to seeing you. Your paintings look great.”

  “Oh, you’ve hung them?” I kept forgetting that he’d bought my work, and that I’d become a wealthy artist. It still didn’t feel real to me.

  “In my bedroom,” he said with that clit-tickling voice that could have recited the telephone book, and I’d probably still burst a vein.

  I paused. Why did my paintings being hung in his bedroom sound so intimate? They were inanimate objects after all. But then, to me, that triptych held a power. “Oh… that’s a very personal space.”

  “It is. And they’re right at home. They change with the light. In the morning they greet me with a smile. In the afternoon, they’re a little more introspective, and by nightfall, they become figures of supreme mystery.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Yes. Light and shadow change paintings. I love that you’ve seen that, because that’s such an important way to exper
ience art. I wish I could be more eloquent.”

  “You’re sufficiently eloquent, Penelope. The sophistication of that work speaks for itself.”

  “Thank you. That’s very complimentary. I… I never quite know what I’m going to paint. My approach is ‘stream of consciousness.’”

  “That’s why it works. Art, for me, is about magic,” he said.

  “You sound very knowledgeable. And I’m a little obsessed.”

  “Obsession is passion, and where there’s passion, there’s potency.”

  A shiver of warmth touched my soul. “That’s so true.”

  “I’ll text you the address, then.” His deep voice roused me from the dream of hearing him speak. It was a form of verbal foreplay.

  As a storm of desire raged through me, I had this feeling that I might never be the same again.

  * * *

  THE SKIRT HUGGED MY hips more than I would have liked. I kept tugging at the clingy fabric. At least I’d chosen a knee-length version and not the mini that Sheldon had suggested.

  Shopping was an exhausting process of elimination. In the end, I opted for a tight-fitting skirt with a tulip-shaped flounce and a silk shirt that I couldn’t stop stroking. The whole outfit cost me more than my monthly allowance. But I couldn’t meet with a man like Blake Sinclair in my Oxfam hand-me-downs. Despite priding myself on my secondhand chic, a date with Blake was hardly the time to show off my individuality at bargain-basement prices.

  I looked at myself for the umpteenth time in the reflection of a window I passed. The green shirt suited my dark hair as Sheldon had enthusiastically declared, and the black skirt, although fitted, made my ass look smaller—a feat in itself, given my size 14 ass.

  Crossing my arms, I shivered. Although it was summer, the early evening air had a bite. I felt my nipples spike against the back of my hand—one of the problems with wearing silk, I’d discovered—and rubbed them discreetly, crossing my arms to hide them. Even my sexy lace bra was new. That purchase came after Sheldon dragged me into a lingerie store. The way he gushed over the skimpy ensembles made me laugh. He loved the female form from an artist’s perspective, and unlike me, he regarded my curves with envy. I’d always wanted to look like Lilly—blond, blue-eyed, and slim.