Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One

by Halloran, L. M.

  “No,” he hisses, “we’re all fucked. If this deal doesn’t go through, kiss your jobs goodbye.”

  Neither Trent nor I speak, Maxwell’s desperation clogging our throats. Whatever unwritten deal he made with Frank Masters, CEO of the massive tech-conglomerate D&M Dynamics, he overpromised.

  “What exactly did you offer Frank Masters, Maxwell?” My voice stays level even though I’d like nothing more than to scream.

  His already red face grows darker, almost purple. This is clearly painful for him. Too fucking bad.

  “Spill it,” I snap.

  Through his teeth, Maxwell admits, “That Gideon will stay out of the news entirely for the next six months.”

  Trent explodes to his feet. “That’s impossible! He’s a fucking magnet for press! What the hell were you thinking?”

  Maxwell is a lot of things, but under his wolf costume he’s a sheep. Or maybe a ferret or a weasel. Yes, definitely a weasel. Trent, on the other hand, is a former USC linebacker who decided he preferred his brain concussion-free. He’s built like a tree, not an ounce of fat on him, and he’s black. It matters little to Maxwell that Trent grew up in a nice neighborhood in Ventura and his parents are pediatricians. Trent still scares the fuck out of him because he’s a prejudicial, privileged piece of shit.

  Case in point—at Trent’s words, Maxwell goes pale. “You would have done the same thing,” he says quickly. “This is the biggest contract our division has ever handled. How could I have known when we signed that Gideon’s marriage was about to go up in flames at the same damn time he would explode in the art world? Who the fuck cares about art?”

  My mind racing, I motion for Trent to sit back down. Maxwell on the defensive will get us nothing. Once Trent is seated and silently fuming, I look at my boss.

  “You overshot. I know Jerry’s retiring at the end of the quarter and you want his job more than you want to be a decent person, but this is bullshit. You’re asking me to manage a client who isn’t even a client. I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”

  “Not if you convince Gideon to hire us,” he fires back.

  My eyes narrow. He obviously had that bullet lined up to fire.

  “And how do you suggest I accomplish that? Like you said, he’s a loose cannon. Not only that, I handle companies not individuals. My rolodex reflects that.”

  Not to mention first impressions matter. After last night, I seriously doubt Gideon would hire me even if I literally and figuratively doused myself in honey.

  Maxwell throws his hands up. “I don’t know! Figure it out. Find a pitch he can’t say no to. Partner with Phillips—he’s got the contacts in art and fashion. Be versatile, Deirdre! Do you want to move up in this world or not?”

  I haven’t pitched a client, much less a celebrity, in… fuck. Years. Sinking back into my chair, I stare at the ceiling.

  “Get out, Maxwell,” I say tiredly.

  “You’ll handle this?” he asks hopefully.

  I nod shortly and he escapes.

  Trent clears his throat. “You think that’s what this is about? He wants to be VP so bad he put us all on the firing line?”

  Lowering my head, I arch a brow. “What do you think?”

  Trent sighs. “I think you need to tell me exactly what happened last night.”

  3 indecision

  “Maggie better get over this virus ASAP,” I grumble, snagging one of Trent’s cooling French fries. My chicken salad is long gone. “Did she sound bad?”

  Maggie’s official job title is information specialist; she does copy writing, press kits, and the like for me. In reality she’s my jack-of-all-trades. She’s wily, has her ear to the ground across multiple platforms—press, print, and online—and can charm the pants off a priest.

  At my insinuation that she’s faking sickness, Trent gives me a flat look. “She could barely talk.”

  “Ugh, fine.” I throw the uneaten half of my fry back onto his plate. “What do we have so far?”

  Trent glances at the notepad of scribbles beside his plate. When I see a spot of ketchup marring the paper, my eyelid twitches. I need a fucking vacation.

  “First task is to get a tail on Gideon so we can collect details on his daily schedule. Did you hear back from Lyle yet?”

  I nod. “He texted while you were in the restroom. He’s on it.”

  “Okay, second move is to orchestrate a meet. What are you thinking?”

  I wince. “That depends on how habitual Gideon is.”

  Trent, a media marketing associate—my left hand to Maggie’s right—flips open a national entertainment magazine released a few months ago. Gideon is on the cover, looking every inch a tortured, brooding artist.

  “According to this interview, he jogs every morning, works at home until three or four, and goes out most evenings.” Trent sits back, sighing in aggravation. “Who doesn’t have a Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram these days? This dude is a cypher.”

  “Shit, so I need an excuse to run into him or show up at his home during the day.” I chew my lip in thought. “Flat tire?”

  “Nah, he’ll see right through that.” Trent’s gaze runs over my face and upper body. “Do you have any jogging clothes, or is your definition of casual a blazer and three-hundred-dollar jeans?”

  I ignore the last comment. “Nope.”

  He chews his lip in thought. “Hear me out—let’s say you’re doing renovations and need a place to stay. Maggie’s condo is in Pacific Palisades, right? You shack up with her, and we find out his morning route. Then you borrow her dog and go for a walk. Or jog, whatever. Do you own sneakers?”

  “Jesus,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Why am I even considering this?”

  “Because you don’t want Maggie and me to lose our jobs. You’ll get snapped up in a heartbeat by another agency, Deirdre, but we’re still peons. If we go under, the stink will follow us.”

  “That’s not true,” I protest.

  “Which part?”

  “The second part!”

  He grins, both dimples appearing. “I knew you loved me.”

  “Can it, T. I didn’t agree to your harebrained scheme. If Lyle confirms that the article isn’t complete shit, we’ll reassess.”

  His brows lift. “And in the meantime?”

  “I’ll make some calls, put out some feelers. We need to know who else is sniffing around him.”

  “Word is he’s still unattached. No manager or agent.” He taps the surface of the magazine. “He says he likes handling things himself. Being in control of his life.”

  “Yeah, yeah. He’s a regular Renaissance Man. Except he lives in the Palisades, drives multiple cars, and grew up with a silver spoon in his ass.”

  “Why am I getting the feeling you have some beef with him? If we’re going to pitch this guy, maybe you should cut him some slack.”

  “I don’t have a beef with him,” I say quickly.

  “Uh-huh,” he says dryly. “Bad first impression? Let me guess, you caught him fondling a stripper.”

  I do my best not to think about Gideon watching a woman with a man’s face between her legs. “No,” I tell Trent. “I don’t dislike him—I don’t even know him. But as much as I hate to admit it, Maxwell is right. Gideon is unpredictable, and that’s not good for business.”

  I push back my chair and stand. The little diner we frequent for lunch is almost empty, our brainstorming session lasting well past reasonable lunch hours. As I pass Trent, I touch his shoulder. He looks up, caramel eyes soft on mine.

  “No matter my personal feelings, I always get the job done. Don’t update your résumé just yet.”

  His warm hand covers mine. “I know. But I’d rather lose my job than have you sacrifice your morals.” His fingers curl around mine. “Hear me? You’re not Skylar.”

  It’s common knowledge that Skylar’s definition of pitching a client is seducing them.

  I attempt a smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

  “I hope not
.”

  The seriousness of his voice, coupled with our impromptu touching and eye contact, turns the conversation in a direction I had no idea existed.

  Carefully withdrawing my hand from his shoulder, I frown at him. “I’m too old for you, Trent.”

  He doesn’t smile. “You’re four years older than me. That’s nothing.”

  Maybe he’s right in a general sense, but I’m not a typical twenty-nine-year-old woman. Sometimes I wonder if I was born middle-aged, or if my early childhood merely leeched all the innocence out of me. The person in my mirror looks young, but in my case, looks are deceiving.

  “I’m flattered, but you know I don’t—”

  “Mix business with pleasure,” he finishes with a resigned sigh.

  It’s my standard excuse for avoiding everything from work parties to happy hours, and I’ve used it a lot.

  I’m relieved he doesn’t look rejected or worse, angry. Just disappointed. In a few years, he’ll look back on this moment and laugh, knowing as I do now that it isn’t really me he wants, but the put-together, tough-as-nails woman I pretend to be.

  “I’ll see you in the morning?” I ask softly.

  He nods. “You got it, boss.”

  I’m halfway out the door when he calls, “Don’t forget to buy some jogging clothes!”

  * * *

  Curled on my couch that evening with a glass of wine, I scroll through a backlog of articles about Gideon Masters. Much of what I read is subjective, a good portion likely fabricated. It’s well known that Gideon rarely grants interviews, and when he does, he’s usually taciturn or tightlipped. While details about his divorce from popular fashion designer Lucy Linn abound, those regarding his personal life are scarce.

  Born and raised in San Francisco. Mother died in a car accident when he was twelve, after which his father relocated them—and a small-fry D&M Dynamics—to Los Angeles to be close to his sister’s family. Attended private high school in Bel Air. Harvard for undergraduate, majoring in philosophy of all things.

  After graduating, he took off to Europe for five years to do whatever young men do in foreign countries. Backpack across the continent, join a punk band in Paris, whatever.

  He returned to Los Angeles at twenty-seven for no discernible reason and met his wife shortly thereafter. They were married for four years with no children or pets. A year before their very public split, a dinner guest—who happened to be a mover and shaker in the art community—saw one of Gideon’s paintings and flipped. Yadda yadda. Fame and fortune.

  More fame and fortune, anyway.

  Pulling up a recent image of him, I give his face the attention it deserves. Having met his father, I can only guess that he favors his mother. He looks wild. Untamed. Hard but undeniably sensuous. The light sprinkling of freckles across his tanned skin give him a softness I doubt he’s earned. As does the golden-red hair with a natural, soft wave. In most of his photographs, including one from last week, it’s shoulder length, either drawn into a ponytail or rioting like a lion’s mane.

  Last night, though, it was drastically shorter. Almost completely shaved on the sides with varying lengths up top. It looked like he got drunk and took an electric razor to his head. Though he just as easily could have paid four hundred dollars to be butchered at a salon.

  I distinctly remember—and wish I didn’t—the curl of bright hair that fell periodically over his brow. How his elegant fingers swept it back just as often, an automatic gesture speaking to long habit. I remember, too, the dark circles under his eyes. The hollows beneath his cheekbones and the stark line of his jaw.

  Gideon Masters is a man on the edge, and it’s now my job to bring him back to safe ground. Here, in the privacy of my own home, I can admit I have no idea how to do that.

  Trent doesn’t want me to sacrifice my morals, which would be funny if it weren’t so depressing. If he knew half the shit I’d done and seen in my life, he’d start going to church.

  I spent my formative years with an abusive drunk of a mother and a drug-dealer father. While learning how to steal, handle a knife and a gun, and distribute tiny crystals into plastic bags, I cheated and manipulated my way through school. And all that was before I left home at fourteen.

  Trent’s respect for me and my so-called morals is merely a reflection of what a good liar I am. And the implication I might be tempted to use sex to get Gideon’s signature on the dotted line just pisses me off.

  A woman with loose morals is a whore, while a man with loose morals is a rouge. Fuck that.

  I don’t despise Skylar because she sleeps with people to get ahead in life. I couldn’t care less what she does with her vagina. I despise her because she doesn’t have an original thought in her head and almost beat me out for a promotion because her daddy is a big-shot studio executive.

  Besides, morality is like God. Everyone sees or believes something different. And no one can truly understand morality unless they’ve walked across those amorphous lines of choice.

  Only looking back can you see what you’ve lost.

  4 temptation

  I don’t buy athletic clothes. Instead, I pester my favored PI, Lyle, for the next three days until I have a workable schedule for Gideon. He eats at the same café in the Palisades every morning, ordering a sandwich to take home for lunch. Without fail, he arrives between 8:45 and 9:00, freshly showered from his run.

  He eats alone, conversing only with his server, and doesn’t use his phone during his meal. Nor does he read a magazine or newspaper. It’s a rarity that gives me pause until Lyle tells me he carries a small notepad and short charcoal pencil. All three days, Gideon has spent the time sketching, absentmindedly picking at his food. What he draws, Lyle doesn’t know, because Gideon guards it carefully from sight. Short of peering over the man’s shoulder, Lyle got as close as he could.

  Friday morning at 8:39, four days after hunting Gideon down at the club, I arrive at Sam’s Seaside Café with Maggie in tow. I’m wearing what amounts to casual for me—not jeans and a blazer, thank you very much, Trent—but a sleeveless maxi-dress and sandals. I opted for minimal jewelry, barely any makeup, and even left my hair down. I want Gideon to see another, more human side of me, manufactured or not.

  Maggie and I slide into a booth facing the row of two-seater tables. Three of them are empty, but whichever one Gideon sits at, I’ll have a direct line of sight. And so will he.

  The thought makes me reach for my ice water, my throat suddenly dry.

  “You okay?” asks Maggie, looking up from her menu.

  I nod, eyeing the entrance like it might open on a tidal wave. “I’m still not sure how I’m going to play this. Or if he’ll even talk to me.”

  “He will. I’ll barely have to act when I rush out of here. What’s he gonna do, leave you to call a taxi? No way.”

  A young, fresh-faced server stops to offer us coffee. I accept, thanking her and dumping three creams into my cup. Maggie orders green tea. When the server leaves, I study her face, which is more pale than usual.

  “I’m really sorry I dragged you down here,” I tell her. “You should be in bed.”

  She smiles weakly. “I’m feeling a lot better, just weak, and I already missed four days of work. Wasted most of my vacation pay. So much for my trip to New York.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I say firmly.

  Her expression softens. “Really?”

  I smirk. “It might be the last thing I do before we’re all fired, but you’re going to New York in May.”

  Her dark eyes well with tears. “You’re a good person, Deirdre. How the hell did you become a publicist?”

  I laugh to cover an unwanted spike of shame. I’m not a good person. Everything I do is calculated in risks versus rewards. If I seem good, it’s because sometimes what is necessary aligns to other people’s ideas of what is right.

  Our server returns to take our orders. It’s now 8:54 and I’m starting to get nervous that Gideon won’t show. Lyle warned me that it was too earl
y to confirm a weekly schedule, but I decided to gamble.

  The café door jingles as it opens.

  “Hot damn,” whispers Maggie behind her tea mug.

  I shouldn’t look—I’m not ready to establish connection—but I can’t seem not to.

  Gideon must have had a late start this morning because he’s still in running clothes—athletic pants, sneakers, and a black muscle-tank that clings to the hard dips and curves of his chest and abdomen. He’s flushed, sweat glistening on his collarbone and neck. Unsmiling, his expression remote, he gazes at the floor while he waits to be seated.

  I’m not the only one staring. Most of the restaurant’s patrons have paused their meals or conversations, some cellular alarm alerting us of an apex predator in the vicinity. A lion in a den of ripe prey.

  My confidence bottoms out. Dragging my eyes away from where Gideon is now being led to a table, I stare at my cooling coffee.

  “Deirdre?” whispers Maggie.

  I shake my head, looking at her. “New plan.”

  She blinks wide eyes. “Don’t blame you. Should we wait for our food or bail?”

  “Bail.”

  I hail our server discreetly and ask her to wrap our food to go, slipping her my credit card in the process. As we wait, I don’t look at Gideon. Not because I don’t want to but because I can’t. The sight of him flooded me with uncomfortable memories of the drive home from the club.

  “Were you watching?” he murmurs, head pivoting on the headrest toward me. “Did you see her face?”

  We’re almost to his house. Five more minutes and I’ll be free of this nightmare. Although I know exactly what he’s talking about, I ignore him.

  “Of course you saw. The real question is whether or not you felt it. Did you feel the echo of a tongue between your thighs?”

  “Stop,” I whisper.

  His dark, almost sinister chuckle raises goose bumps on my arms. “Why should I, when you ruined my evening? I think you did feel it, even if you didn’t want to. Sex is art. It speaks, in one way or another, to everyone. Not even ice queens are exempt.”