by Nora Flite
Nothing. He didn't bring you here to hurt you. Could I be so sure? Maybe he was lying about wanting to help my art career. Maybe he had other things planned. If I was going to be a pawn for something nefarious, I'd know soon.
Pacing the large room, I stare at the city extending before me. Is he in the building, or did he go somewhere else? I wonder if I angered him by trying to make him tell me who he was. A tremor rolls up my spine. What if he's furious someone warned me? Fuck. Was Katy in danger?
I yank out my phone then I notice I have a text message.
Katy: U land yet?
My thumb taps across the screen.
Me: Are you okay?
Katy: Me? I'm fine, why? What's wrong?
Me: I don't know. Just a feeling.
The phone buzzes, Katy's name flashing. I answer it quickly. “Hey,” I say.
“Leona, what happened?”
I look around the room before answering, my voice dropping an octave. “Marshall has a gun.”
“What?” she yells in my ear.
Wincing, I say, “He has a gun, Katy.”
“Did you see it? Oh god, did he pull it out on you?”
“No! No, I didn't see it. I felt it.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was in his jacket.”
Katy goes quiet. Then, in a flat voice, she asks, “Was the jacket still on him when you felt it?”
I'm already blushing. Sitting on the white leather couch, I grab one of the cushions and hug it to my chest. “It's not how it sounds.”
“Uh huh.”
“Katy!”
“Did you touch anything else besides his gun?”
Sputtering, I say, “Nothing happened. I swear.”
“Nothing yet,” she snorts. “I don't know why I was worried about you. You're having a great time in New York City already. It's late, I'm going to bed.”
“Wait, Katy! You were right about him. He's in the mafia, he has to be.”
My sister sighs into my ear. “I warned you. Are you really that shocked?”
Glancing at the front door, I frown thoughtfully. "After I discovered the gun, he left me alone at his place.”
“What do you think he went to go do?”
“I don't know.”
“It's probably better you don't.” Her cryptic advice makes me shiver. “You're there for his art connections. Whatever he's doing that's under the table, don't get mixed up in it. Keep everything separate.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“That means keeping your hands off of him, too.”
I grit my teeth. “Goodnight, Katy.” Hanging up, I put my phone in my jacket pocket. I'm burnt out and I want a shower. Cleaning up will feel like a reset. I need one if I'm going to do what Katy said and keep distance between Marshall and me.
Don't get involved with him or any seedy business.
Abandoning the couch, I find the large bedroom that's clearly meant for me. My suitcase sits at the foot of the bed. I flick on the light, confirming I have my own bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I strip out of my clothes and my bare toes drift across the fluffy white rug. I find everything I need in the pristine black and ivory bathroom. I'm sure Marshall has a housekeeper of some kind; I can't picture him setting out little squares of lavender soap and perfectly folded towels. I relax under the hot water until my fingertips are wrinkled to the point of being painful. When I turn the shower off, my body is too languid to dry myself, so I dress in a clean robe and make my way to the queen-sized bed in my private room.
I don't realize I fell asleep until a noise awakens me.
Rubbing my eyes, I scan the dark room. Didn't I leave the light on? A worm of suspicion demolishes the lingering sleep in my brain. Sitting up, I look side to side, my eyes adjusting to the shadows. The window’s blackout curtains are shut, so the only source of light comes from under my door.
The noise comes again. I strain to listen. Identifying Marshall's throaty way of talking is easy. Inching off the bed, I creep to the door like the quiet little mouse I was known for being back home.
Holding my breath, I crack the door open and peer outside. I see Marshall standing with his back to me in front of the glass overlooking the city. He's naked from the waist up, his wide shoulder blades are illustrated with colorful ink and marked with scars, like the one on his lip, but bigger.
His phone is to his ear as he mutters under his breath. I want to listen, but I'm distracted by his stunning physique. I'm viewing one half of a coin, sure the other side is just as amazing, terrified to witness it, obsessed with knowing. I widen the crack, my breath winding in a ball in my lungs. I try to breathe through my nose in silent little puffs.
“I know what we just talked about. I was fucking there. You think changing my mind isn't something I take seriously?” he asks, his voice rising the longer he talks. He turns, still facing away, but I see his hard jaw grinding. He's pissed. “This could blow up in all our faces if she keeps asking questions.”
My fingers clutch the door jam. Is he talking about me?
“It's not that fucking simple,” he seethes, one muscular arm gesturing in the air. The snake tattoo on his spine writhes like its alive. He pauses, listening, his shoe tapping. “Yeah. Yeah. Fine. I'll do what I can. Just, fuck, I hope you're right.”
Marshall throws his phone at the couch. His fist slams into the window, the impact loud enough that I expect a crack to appear. His rage surprises me, making me jump and my shoulder collides with the doorknob.
He spins, staring in my direction. I don't wait to see if he spotted me. I turn, diving into my bed and burying myself in the blankets. My eyes shut, my heart thumping wildly. Please, please don't have noticed me!The door creaks open, ruining my wish. I keep my eyes shut tight, doing my best to act like I'm asleep, like I was unconscious the whole time and never heard a whisper he said. I don't know what's going on here, but I'm sensing it's bigger than I suspected. And my only upper hand is pretending I'm oblivious.
There are no footsteps. I can't hear if he's entered my room. It's astounding that a man of his size could move so quietly. I come very close to cracking an eye to check, certain he left me alone. Then a whiff of familiar musk dances into my nose.
He's here. He's right next to my bed. Even with my eyes shut I can feel the heat coming off his body, the darkness growing as his shadow crosses my face. Marshall is standing over me, saying nothing, doing nothing, thinking, well, I wish I knew.
The blankets shift, startling me, but I manage to keep myself still. What is he going to do to me? I feel the gentle pressure as he tucks the blanket around my body, a kind gesture that doesn't fit his tatted-up gun-toting demeanor. Devils aren't supposed to be sweet.
The door clicks, suggesting he shut it after himself, I open one eye to confirm. I'm alone in the dark with my heart acting like a drumline. Clutching the blanket, I swear I can feel the warmth where he touched it seeping into my skin. I didn't imagine it. He really did tuck me in.
I watch the door for a few minutes, tensely expecting him to enter again. He doesn't. I grab my phone to check the time. It’s 1:10 in the morning. Who was he talking to at such a late hour? Where did he go when he vanished inside the elevator?
Sinking back onto the pillows, I hold my phone to my chest. There's a tangle of thorns in my skull that prick at every thought involving Marshall Klintock. Is he an art curator? Does he really want to help me? Is his attraction real, a game?
Earlier, I fell asleep without trying.
Now, it takes me an hour before my mind settles enough to find sleep again.
Chapter 6.
We don't talk about what happened in the elevator.
Not when I venture out of my bedroom to find him dressed in a suit with a tray of strong black coffee and pastries waiting for me.
Not when he sits across from me, sipping quietly, not eating a bite.
Not when he asks if I slept well, and I recall how he stood over me in the dark.
And not even wh
en we climb back inside the elevator to go look at a local art installation he helped a client arrange.
Standing in that mirrored box, I vividly recall the throttled moans that left his lips. How his scar felt when I brushed my mouth on his, making me curious how he got it. But we don't talk about it.
We just think about it.
I don't doubt for a second that it's on his mind, too. He's acting like there's a wall between us, like I couldn't just reach out and touch his wrist and trace his tattoos and ask him about the ones on his back that he doesn't know I saw.
Shivering, I clutch my coat around my body, stepping fast out of the elevator, the building, and into the car waiting for us on the busy street. The day is bright and crisp. Winter clearly on the horizon. Garland winds around the traffic lights. Someone in a Santa suit rings a bell on the corner, ignored by the New Yorkers who rush off to their important lives.
I am distracted by the sights when Marshall sits across from me in the car and shuts the door loudly. “Leona,” he whispers. His tone matches the ambiance of the dimly lit cabin. "Yeah?" I ask. His fingers are steepled across his face, hiding his mouth, so I don't know if he's smiling or scowling.
"The place we're going is owned by a man I work for, Bradford Mink. Have you heard of him?"
"No, but when you told me about it at breakfast, I looked him up." I wave my phone to show what I mean. "He owns a ton of galleries out here. Forbes did an article about him, sounds like he's extremely sought after by hordes of artists."
"He is. And he's excited to meet you."
"What, why?"
"Because I told him to be."
My eyes widen nervously. "Oh god, wait, that's putting a lot of pressure on me."
"You? I'm the one putting my reputation on the line." He chuckles, winking at me before cracking the window. Cold air rushes in and strands of hair escape from my loose bun and tickle my neck. "We're nearly there. Any questions?"
"Yes! A lot of them! What is he expecting from me? I didn't even bring my portfolio. I have nothing to show him!"
"Of course you do. Use that phone of yours to bring up your work."
A flicker of paranoia takes my breath away. "Then ... you have seen my stuff online? How did you know it was me? I used a fake name."
He drops his hands to his lap, drawing my eye briefly to the front of his pants where my curious mind tries to picture his manhood hiding away. If I hadn't freaked out last night, I might have seen it ... touched it ...
Instead I touched a gun.
I have to remember that.
His voice is heavy with mystery. "I have my ways to find out anything I need, or want, to know."
My phone feels heavy in my grip. I turn it slowly, fidgeting in my seat. "When did you first see my art? How long have you ..." The car stops, ending our conversation.
There's a woman standing outside the car. She bends as the waist, beaming at us as Klintock opens the door. "Welcome to the Ramette House!" she crows, tilting her head, sending her curly brown hair bouncing. "We've been waiting for you, Mr. Klintock, Ms. Hark."
"Thanks," I say, shifting to get out of the car. The second I do, I gape at the beautiful building in front of me. The Ramette House sets itself apart from the surrounding buildings. Shaped like the bow of a yacht and made of glass, its eave curving like a metal wave. I love all things art, including architecture.
"Wait until you see the inside," Marshall chuckles in my ear. I stand straight, his breath creating turmoil in my lower belly. My cells remember what he can do to me. They want to feel it again.
Putting his hands deep in his long black jacket pockets, he follows the woman towards the building. I walk behind them both, not to keep my distance, but to take in the beautiful structure of the Ramette House.
We pass through the massive doors that open automatically for us. There's no lobby, no front desk, nothing to make it feel like a business. Instead the room is large and round, sunlight pours through the windows. The arched ceiling’s support beams stretch high and are adorned with chandeliers.
But the design doesn’t hold my attention. Instead, I look at the canvases spread across the walls. They vary in size—some bigger than me, others the size of my palm— and are filled with vivid colors. "Gloria Fildego," a coarse voice says beside me. I twist, spotting the large, barrel-chested man I recognize as Bradford Mink. His distinctive white beard was in every online photo of him.
He nods at the art, saying, "That's who did all these. She's amazing." He offers me his hand, gray eyes twinkling. "I'm Bradford. You must be Leona, yes?"
"Yes," Marshall says for me. He's moved to my other side, the men surrounding me, making me feel like I'm on display as much as the art is. "How are you, Bradford?"
"Good. Can't complain, as you know. Gloria's work was all pre-purchased by buyers before it hung on the walls. You know what people want."
Marshall shrugs, his attention shifting to the canvases. "Sometimes."
"Hopefully this time, too," Bradford says as he looks me over pointedly. "Marshall tells me you're someone to pay attention to, Leona."
My mouth falls open at that. "I don't know what he told you about me."
"He never tells me much. Just points me in the right direction." Chuckling warmly, Bradford starts to walk along the wall. "Min?" he says to the woman who led us inside. "Get us some tea, please. There's a chill in here."
She bows her head, scurrying out of view through a door I hadn’t noticed.
"I'll leave you two alone," Marshall says, strolling across the room to look at some of the art.
"Did you bring any of your work with you?" Bradford asks me. I shoot furtive glances at Marshall. I wish he'd guided me about what to say or do in this situation. Why offer to help me, then set me up to sink or swim? "I didn't," I say carefully. Bradford frowns mildly. I think about what Marshall said in the car. "But I can show you some things on my phone."
"Your work is online?"
"Some." Fishing out my phone, I scroll to Instagram, popping my profile open. I plan to just thumb through a few pieces, but he grabs my phone from me, taking control. My stomach drops like a rock. I'm not ready for him to see everything I have on there.
Bradford whistles softly. "These are wonderful. You have a very distinct style." He scrolls down the images, pausing on some, zooming occasionally, his voice rising with interest. "And look at all your followers! You've got a great fanbase. Do they come to your gallery shows?"
"No, uh, I haven't done a show yet."
His eyes pop wide. "That's an injustice. Lucky me that I get to host the first."
"I ... excuse me?" My head is swaying like it's full of helium. "You mean ..."
"I want to arrange a gallery for you, yes." He hands my phone back, and I take it, holding it like it's a bomb. "How long will it take you to create ten or twelve pieces?"
"I'm not sure," I say from far away. "I've never made a proper collection."
He looks over my shoulder at Min who's arrived with a tray of sky blue teacups. "I'll have Min send Marshall the details. He can help arrange the supplies and timeline. Breathe, Leona."
I blink, then take a shuddering inhale. "Sorry, I'm just shocked. This is happening so fast."
"Welcome to New York City," he says with a wry grin. Sipping the tea, he checks his watch. "I've got to go. There's a gala on Friday. Will I see you there?" I blank out at the question, but he's already walking away.
Min hands me a steaming cup. "Drink," she says sweetly. "You look like you're about to pass out."
Taking the fragile cup, I put it to my lips, sipping without tasting the tea. I'm barely in my own body. What just happened?
As I watch, the woman carries the tray over to Marshall, who takes the cup with a nod. He's looking at his phone, typing with his thumb. There's a faint scowl on his lips, and when he sees me staring, he forces a smile, burying his phone in his pocket. One finger crooks at me.
My knees wobble walking over to him. "Well?" he asks.
"Good. I thought he would." Drinking the tea, he watches me over the rim. "You look like you don't believe it."
"Because I don't."
"Better change that attitude, and fast. You've got art to create. How many does he want?"
"Ten or something? He said Min would send you the information." The brown-haired girl is nowhere to be seen in the room. I wonder if she went outside or followed Bradford into the side door. "Marshall, I just want to say thank you."
"For what?"
I motion with my arm so hard tea spills on my shoe. "Everything! I didn't know who Bradford was until you told me his name. He would never have seen my work if you hadn't convinced him to check it out. I'm just ... this is really happening. Right? It's not a dream?"
Marshall tosses his head back as he laughs. It's the same way he laughed when he sat across from me on his plane after I'd asked if he'd called me beautiful. He swings forward, hair dusting across his forehead, but he keeps going until his lips are next to my ear, his hand clutching my shoulder. "You're not a great actress, Leona."
I stiffen, staring straight ahead so I don't have to look at his jaw where it nearly caresses mine. There's a painting in front of me on the wall. Purple, blue, a splash of red as wild as my heartbeat. "What do you mean?"
He whispers, "You wear your emotions on your sleeve. Like last night." His grip tightens. "You're the genuine article. That untainted innocence could get a man hooked. I might already be."
There's an undertone of distaste in his realization. It makes my hair stand on end even as my thighs squeeze together. "That's too bad, you're not getting anything from me."
"We'll see." Marshall pulls away so he can look me in the eye. I jut my chin out, challenging his inquisitive stare. I wish I could fake bravery or indifference or any number of things at the drop of a hat. But I can't. And I hate that he can use it against me.
His eyebrows lower, some of the distrust leaves his eyes. "You're not what I expected."
