Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One

by Halloran, L. M.

  Our food arrives and we slip out of the booth. Maggie goes first, her stride impressively nonchalant as she passes Gideon. I keep my head straight, my eyes on the door, and pray he doesn’t recognize me behind my sunglasses.

  No such luck.

  Warm fingers curl around my forearm, snapping me to a halt. Fiery prickles of sensation race up to my shoulder and into my chest, igniting pistons in my heart.

  “Well, well, well.”

  Summoning every last dredge of composure I possess, I look down at Gideon. Thank fuck for sunglasses, because my eyes are wide with panic.

  “If it isn’t Denise.”

  “Deirdre,” I correct sharply.

  A slow smile curls his lips. Above them, golden-brown eyes peer straight through my dark lenses. “Are you stalking me? Making sure I act in accordance to my father’s reputation?”

  “No,” I snap. “As you can see, I was just leaving. Let go of my arm.”

  He does, but only after stroking his thumb over my sensitized skin. I’m paralyzed by that small movement. Want him to stop. Want him to never stop.

  “Join me for breakfast, Deirdre.”

  “I’m here with a friend.” I clear my throat, disgusted by my breathless tone. “Don’t burn any buildings down today, okay?”

  The smirk becomes a grin. “Make excuses. I’ll drive you home, or to work, wherever you need to be.”

  Maggie appears at my side. I melt with relief, then freeze as she says brightly, “Works for me! I have to run some errands before heading to the office. Hi, I’m Maggie. Deirdre and I work together.”

  “Nice to meet you, Maggie,” he says, shaking her hand. “Thanks for letting me steal your date.”

  Maggie laughs. “No problem.”

  She smiles at me, ignoring my pissed expression, and hands me the take-out bag with my omelet inside. I’m caught in my own trap. Despite wanting to throttle her, I’m actually a little proud of how quickly she acted.

  Maggie leaves with a jaunty wave and my car keys. I sit down opposite Gideon, our knees brushing beneath the small table. I flinch and shift back. He smiles knowingly.

  “Go ahead and eat. I won’t mind.”

  “I’m not hungry.” And I’m not—anymore.

  His gaze flickers across my face. “You look different today. I almost didn’t recognize you. Still the same walk, though, like you’re on a battlefield.”

  My tongue is frozen in my mouth. For the first time in a long time, I’m intimidated by a man. Most men have a simple set of motivations. Eat, sleep, work, fuck. Gideon is an anomaly. Complex. Nuanced, yet direct. Highly intelligent and perceptive, but seemingly without the social boundaries laid down during childhood.

  “I unsettle you,” he muses, eyes on mine as he takes a sip of coffee.

  “No, you unsettle my job security.” The words slip out, revealing far more than I want to. “That is—”

  “I get it.” With a smooth motion I barely see, he reaches across the table and removes my sunglasses. “Ah, look at that color. Such a luminous shade of blue-gray. I’d love the challenge of replicating it in acrylic.” His gaze drops. “Your mouth, on the other hand, I’d have no problem painting.”

  His brazen words have a calming effect, likely the opposite of their intent. Maybe he isn’t so complex, after all. I shift my methods from subtle manipulation to battering ram.

  “Mr. Masters—”

  “Gideon.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you, so you can drop the act. I want you to hire me as your publicist.”

  “Not going to happen,” he says lightly.

  A moment later, a blushing server puts a bowl of oatmeal and cup of fresh fruit before him.

  “Anything else?” she croons.

  “That’s fine, thank you.” He doesn’t even look at her, his gaze pinned on me. When she’s gone, he continues. “It’s nothing personal, but I don’t want a publicist. Especially not one who works for my father.”

  “That sounds pretty personal to me. And I don’t work for your father anymore.”

  His eyebrow cocks, disappearing behind that damned copper curl. “Why not? You got the job done Sunday night.”

  He doesn’t sound bitter but humored, throwing me. Back to unpredictable. As much as my mind rebels against the chaos he represents, there’s a part of me that revels in it like it would the embrace of an old friend.

  A dangerous, volatile old friend.

  “Look, Gideon, you were right. I’ve had you followed the past few days and came here this morning to talk to you. And as I’m sure you noticed, I changed my mind. I don’t like being jerked around, and I don’t spread my legs for my clients. But let me give you some friendly advice—you need a publicist like a skydiver needs a parachute.”

  He doesn’t reply, instead taking a bite of oatmeal. Watching him chew from such close proximity is disturbingly intimate. Each swallow, each flex of his jaw, hits me with a visceral punch.

  “Why’d you change your mind?”

  I frown. “What?”

  He points his spoon at me. “You said you changed your mind about talking to me. Why?”

  My brain short-circuits. “Because I’d rather move back to the trailer park than work for you.”

  The words, spilled without conscious permission, shock me more than him. My head spins as blood drains away.

  “You’re hired.”

  5 concession

  In my office late afternoon, I sit with my head in my hands while Trent and Maggie celebrate by uncorking a bottle of wine Maxwell dropped off a few minutes ago. He also brought a cellophane-wrapped charcuterie basket, doubtless a regift from his office. The last thing he left is sitting under my right elbow. A plain white envelope housing my kickback from Frank Masters.

  I haven’t looked at the amount yet, though I’m sure it’s enough to make me blink. Especially since Maxwell waited to cut it until I’d landed Gideon Masters and winked when he dropped it on my desk.

  “Why the long face?” asks Maggie around a hunk of cracker and brie. “You should be ecstatic!”

  I rub the tight skin between my eyebrows. “Did you even read the contract?”

  Trent and Maggie exchange a glance. “Not yet,” she says, while Trent shakes his head, worry creeping into his eyes.

  I don’t respond, closing my eyes for a moment’s quiet as they find the email on their phones and read. After a few minutes, Maggie whistles. Directly following, Trent curses.

  “I can’t believe you signed this,” murmurs Trent.

  Avoiding the accusation in his eyes, I inspect my manicure. “Yeah, well, as you both pointed out, I have more than just myself to think about.”

  He begins angrily, “I didn’t mean for you to—”

  Maggie punches his arm, silencing him. She clears her throat. “It’s not so bad. You’ve wrapped him up pretty good. In spite of the, uh, trade-off, it’s a solid contract.”

  I snort. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Should we call off Lyle?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Contract or no contract, I’m not taking any chances. Gideon deviates from the agreement and we get a call.”

  “Short leash, good,” says Trent, trying hard to sound positive.

  “Two days a week.”

  I stiffen. “Absolutely not. However high-profile you think you are, I have other clients.”

  Gideon shrugs. “I don’t care. Two days a week, three-hour sessions. And make no mistake, you’ll be in the nude.”

  “Not happening,” I snap.

  He chuckles. “Don’t worry, Snowflake, I don’t fuck my models.”

  I sigh in exasperation. We’ve been stuck in the same chairs for two and a half hours, attempting to iron out a contract that so far reads like a deal with the devil.

  He has to be a good boy for six months in exchange for… me. Photographing, drawing, then painting my likeness. Along with a bunch of other bullshit that my head hurts too much to dwell on, but essentially makes me his manager, pu
blicist, and errand bitch.

  “Why?” I ask softly, beseechingly.

  He grins. “Because I can.”

  “He’s an entitled ass,” I tell them wearily.

  Maggie sighs. “I think it’s romantic.”

  “More like creepy as fuck,” growls Trent.

  Neither of them brings up the other concession I made, either because they missed it or don’t want to kick me when I’m down.

  Gideon demanded I be available to him 24/7, attend every public appearance he makes, and keep his father off his back. The reward—retaining my job, my employees’ jobs, and making the higher-ups at the agency happy—lost its luster a few hours ago.

  Six months is a long time.

  * * *

  At 11:00 p.m., my phone rings. I’m still awake, nursing a cup of chamomile tea and rereading Jane Eyre. When I see the name on my screen, I quickly decline the call. They call again—three times in a row—before giving up without a voice mail.

  I need to change my phone number, though if I’m honest, there are reasons I haven’t. Reasons I don’t like to think about. They’ll call again in a month or two. Maybe I’ll pick up, maybe I won’t.

  The last time I answered, around four months back, I swore I’d never do it again. But sentimentality is a weed—every time you pull that fucker from the ground, another grows two inches away.

  My appetite for fiction gone, I toss the book on the cushion beside me and sink back, cradling my warm mug. I consider turning the television on, or some music, or even going to sleep, but the convictions never last long enough for me to take action.

  Since Sunday, my mind has been on a spin-cycle, unable to rest more than an hour at a time. I’m tense but can’t relax, hungry but can’t eat, exhausted but can’t sleep. It’s a clusterfuck I have history with, reminding me of my days as a runaway.

  Ding.

  I look down at my phone and the text message alert.

  LYLE: Image Attached.

  With a sinking stomach, I open the message and click on the photo to enlarge it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The picture, taken with a telephoto lens, is a clear shot of Gideon and two women on a sidewalk. They’re in motion, approaching a black door bearing a stylized C in white paint. The C stands for Crossroads, an exclusive, invite-only BDSM club off Wilshire in Beverly Hills. The club is infamous as much for its clientele as its purpose.

  “Dammit, Gideon,” I hiss.

  LYLE: Next move?

  DEIRDRE: I’ll handle it.

  LYLE: K

  In lieu of throwing my phone against the wall, I thumb through my contacts. My finger hesitates over the name I’m seeking—hesitates long enough that I curse Gideon several more times.

  Finally, I make the call. It rings five times.

  “Is this who I think it is?” asks a low, threatening voice.

  I smile in spite of myself. “Hey, little brother.”

  He chuckles. “Hey, stranger. You know I love hearing from you, but I’m working. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

  “I, uh—that’s actually why I’m calling. Can you put me on the list tonight?”

  There’s a long pause during which I imagine his jaw hitting the floor. Finally, he clears his throat.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say, then admit, “I’ll be on the clock.”

  He sighs. “Dee, I can’t—”

  “Please,” I say quickly. “In and out. It’s not like I’ve never been there before. I won’t stick out.”

  He groans. “I know, but last time you were here…”

  My heart thuds painfully. “That was two years ago. I’m not that person anymore.”

  “I know you’re not, and you’re not blacklisted or anything, but if Dominic or Charlie see you they’ll know I—”

  “Write me in as a guest of Gideon Masters. You just saw him a few minutes ago.”

  “Shit. He’s the client? Never mind, don’t answer that.” Silence stretches for an excruciating ten seconds. “I never could say no to you, but it saved my life enough times that it doesn’t matter.”

  My smile is genuine. “Thanks, Nate.”

  “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “I won’t, promise.”

  I plan on making Gideon Masters regret it enough for all of us.

  * * *

  I’m beginning to wonder if Gideon is a sexual deviant. Scratch that—I’d put money on it. First the strip club, now Crossroads. Granted, Crossroads is much more mainstream than the VIP-only fuck fest I found him at Sunday night.

  My surroundings are elegant and polished, a sharp left-turn from traditional sex dungeons. The refinement juxtaposes its occupants’ interests in a near-poetic fashion. The owners, Dominic Cross and Charlie Rhodes, are geniuses. Good people, too, even if they’d probably flip at me being here.

  Three years ago was an exploratory period in my life. And not in the way of a new hair color or wardrobe. I made some bad choices, trusted the wrong people, and the incident Nate referred to was a much-needed wake-up call.

  If Dominic hadn’t found me in time, there’s a good chance I would’ve wound up in the morgue. Thanks to me, the club shifted to invite-only, and every member is now personally vetted by the owners.

  You’re welcome, Los Angeles.

  “Hey, little brother.”

  Nate stands from his stool and stoops to give me a bone-cracking hug. Looking at us from any direction, you wouldn’t think we were related. We’re not. By blood, anyway. But we’re brother and sister in every way that counts.

  His long, white-blond hair is loose tonight, brushing like silk against my cheek as he straightens. The crimson glow of the small antechamber makes him look like a demon instead of an angel, but I know better.

  “Hey,” he echoes softly. “Are you sure about this?”

  I nod, smiling tightly. “I’m just here to make sure my client doesn’t do anything stupid in front of someone who might sell the story.”

  A brow cocks. “Don’t insult our establishment. And besides, shouldn’t that be someone else’s job? A manager? Or better yet, an intern?”

  I nod. “I’ve been temporarily demoted to crisis management for spoiled man-children. Don’t bother asking why, because I can’t even explain it to myself.”

  Nate laughs and gives my hand a squeeze. “All right. Stay away from the rooms, you hear?”

  I shudder, the skin of my back tight with remembered pain.

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  He steps to the side and opens the door to Crossroads.

  6 deviancy

  There’s a live performance underway. The club’s lighting is dimmed, a mellow spotlight shining over the central stage, nicknamed the Epicenter of Sin. Circular in shape, the sunken area has a retractable metal lattice overhead that I’ve seen used for all sorts of fun and freaky things. Though it’s up tonight, high in the shadows, the crowd’s humming interest tells me whatever’s going on doesn’t require suspension.

  I check the crowded bar first, then meander around the assorted seating areas, but don’t spot Gideon. No one speaks to me and very few make eye contact, likely because of the pissed-the-fuck-off look on my face.

  Three fruitless circuits through the crowd surrounding the live show and I’m forced to consider that Gideon is exactly where Nate doesn’t want me to go. Where I don’t want to go.

  I allow myself a few seconds to wallow before straightening my shoulders and heading toward a nearby, arched entrance. The wide hallway is lit by industrial sconces, each of them hung between long viewing windows—four on each side of the hallway. Twenty or so people cluster in groups before various windows. Two are dark, either because they’re unoccupied or the occupants pulled the curtains.

  I walk to the end of the hallway and back, studying both the spectators and the rooms’ participants.

  No Gideon.

  Sighing, I pause before an open viewing window, the only one that caught m
y attention on my first pass. Inside are two men and a woman. What intrigues me isn’t that the woman is blindfolded and bound spread-eagle to a table, but that both men are focused on her pleasure. One lavishes attention on her upper body, kissing, sucking, and licking, while the other kneels between her legs. His head moves sinuously, ravenously, as he eats her out.

  The sight is undeniably erotic; I’m not immune, warmth pooling between my legs.

  Warm breath teases the shell of my ear.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” murmurs Gideon. “Thoreau said, ‘We cannot well do without our sins; they are the highway of our virtue.’ But who’s to say what highway one must take, what sins it should be paved with? Is pleasure truly a sin when it’s given freely, without manipulation or motive?”

  I want to turn and laugh in his face, to dismiss the words as trite, but I can’t. Because I believe they’re true. I can’t even summon anger at his proximity. He’s not touching me. I don’t feel threatened—at least not physically.

  Shifting a little, I glance up at him. He’s watching the spectacle in the room, no discernible expression on his face. Like he’s here and not, his mind far away.

  “Why are you here?” I ask, more curious than I want to be.

  His gaze stays on the room. “What if the pursuit of happiness and pleasure is, in fact, a pursuit of sin?”

  I frown. “I’m surprised you believe in it.”

  His eyelashes flutter, gaze veering to my face. “Believe in what?”

  “Sin.”

  “I didn’t say I did.” He nods toward the glass. “But don’t you wonder if their pleasure isn’t enhanced by the idea of sinning?”

  I study his face for signs of inebriation but don’t find any. He might be on drugs, but it’s too dark to discern whether his pupils are artificially dilated.

  I step away from the glass, obeying a primary need for distance. Distance from the scene, but even more so from Gideon. His voice, breath, scent… his everything.