by Maggie Ryan
“…like I said, if you know what’s good for you, stay away from Doucet. Women have been known to disappear around him.”
Grace no longer gave a damn what the man wrote. She’d not only heard Laurie’s gasp, she’d seen the flash of pain cross Quentin’s eyes before they became the color of molten steel. Jerking her arm free, she didn’t even care that her other ankle twisted a bit as she moved toward the couple.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Doucet,” Grace said, extending her hand. “I can’t thank you enough for escorting Laurie to my show.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Quentin said, taking the offered hand.
Once he released it, Grace hoped the shock she’d felt as his hand engulfed hers wasn’t obvious as she threw her arms around Laurie. “Get me out of here,” she whispered.
Laurie hugged her back, then linked her hands through Grace’s arm and began to lead her away. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Brooks? It’s my turn to monopolize the artist.” Grace was grateful when Quentin joined them but didn’t miss the look on the critic’s face as he was left standing alone.
“I don’t think he’s too happy,” Laurie said quietly as they walked away. “I hope he doesn’t make trouble for you. He did his best to discredit Quentin…”
“Laurie.”
Grace wondered at both the single word and the look the two exchanged even as she shook her head. “Despite Charles’ warning to play nice, I refuse to do so simply to get a better review.”
“Review?”
“Yes. Mr. Brooks reviews restaurants, social events and gallery showings. Why? Oh…” She paused, remembering that Brody had spoken of a reporter who seemed determined to convict Quentin for the death of his girlfriend even after he had been excluded from the list of suspects. From the tension surrounding them, she understood that the reporter had been Brooks. “I’m sorry…”
“Nothing to be sorry for. If you’d prefer, I’ll wait outside,” Quentin said.
“Absolutely not.” Grace reached without thought to link her free arm through his. “The man’s a total jackass.”
“That may be but there’s no reason for my presence to taint your show.”
“Honestly I don’t care; let him write what he wants. I create for my soul and not for the approval of people who form their opinion based on some biased reviewer who is either pissed that I won’t sleep with him or holds some sort of grudge.” She felt her heart skip a beat at the surprised look that did indeed soften the grey color of his eyes for a brief moment before they once again became unreadable. When he gently disengaged his arm from hers, she was disappointed, but understood she’d invaded his personal space just as David had hers. Still, she didn’t apologize as she’d enjoyed the feel of his arm beneath her fingers. Before her mind began to take her to places she didn’t belong, she turned to Laurie.
“So, what do you think?”
“I think you are one of the most talented artists I’ve ever known. My God, Grace, seeing what you’ve created from a photograph has me almost speechless.” Laurie pulled her towards a large canvas that was centered on a wall in a circle of light. Grace stood silently, her eyes not on Laurie but on Quentin as he moved to stand directly in front of her featured piece. She didn’t truly care what David thought but found she really did wonder how this man perceived her work. Every other person in the gallery disappeared as the artist stood with bated breath, waiting for the only review that mattered to her.
***
Quentin felt almost transported as he stood before the painting. It was not simply oil on canvas. Instead of brush strokes, he saw living tissue. He could practically feel the raw sexuality pouring from the frame. His eyes roved over every inch and yet found not a single flaw. It was as if the artist never once hesitated in her work; as if her hand had simply been the tool but her soul had been the true creator.
“It’s stunning,” he said softly. Looking at the small plaque mounted to the left, he smiled. “Entwined. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect title.”
“Thank you,” Grace said, her heart beginning to beat again.
“You made the jewelry as well? I saw it last night.”
“How? We only hung it this morning.”
“No, I mean, I saw the actual jewelry last night. How you made gold seem to flow like water around a body is truly incredible.”
“Oh,” Grace murmured and he turned his eyes from the painting to her. He wondered if the flush on her cheeks was due to his praise or the fact that she must be wondering how he’d know how the jewelry would fit its owner.
“Is gold the only metal you work with?” he asked, not particularly caring to share the events of last evening with someone outside the club.
“No, I work with all sorts of materials. Silver is actually the most requested due to its lower cost, but I admit, gold is my favorite. There is just something about it when it is a golden, molten pool just waiting to come to life.”
Giving another long look at the painting, Quentin couldn’t stop a grin. Perhaps times had changed more than he’d thought. After all, whereas he was adamant about keeping the names of their clientele strictly confidential, he was looking at the same couple he’d seen playing at Plaisir the night before. Though her face was shadowed by the fall of her hair from where she’d tucked her cheek under her lover’s neck, and the man’s face was turned away, his cheek pressed to the top of her head, he knew without a doubt that the painting was of Jessica standing in front of Keith. His left hand was at her throat, a finger slid beneath the collar of golden leaves that encircled her neck. His right hand was splayed against her abdomen, the darker color of his skin contrasting with the paleness of hers. The jewelry that began at her neck continued down her body. A thin chain led from the center of her collar to a small ring that hung between her breasts. Kudzu leaves covered the slopes of her breasts. Amethysts had been used to define the small purple flowers he’d held the night before which had concealed Jessica’s nipples. Another thin chain ran down her stomach, disappearing briefly under Keith’s palm and reappearing at the apex of her thighs. Though his leg was crossing hers, drawing her legs apart, her sex was hidden by another cluster of leaves.
Quentin knew for a fact that what the painting didn’t show was that the chain continued to run between her legs, ending in a final cluster of flowers adorning the end of a butt plug that was buried deep within Jessica’s body. Every line, every curve of each leaf, each petal of the flowers looked as if they could be plucked from the canvas but he knew that there was not another soul on earth who could state that the jewelry truly belonged to them… they only came alive on the body for which it had been created.
“Every piece is custom, isn’t it?” he asked, finally dragging his eyes from the canvas.
“Yes,” Grace said, a smile on her face that showed her appreciation of his pleasure. “I know some people think it’s silly and poor business but I don’t care. I’ve lost customers because I won’t replicate a piece but I want those who do me the honor of choosing my art to know they are unique.”
Quentin nodded and allowed Laurie to pull him towards the next painting. It was titled, Expectations and depicted a woman, obviously well along in her pregnancy, with her hands splayed across her distended belly. He remembered how people said women glowed when expecting and he could easily believe it as he looked at the painting. Her expression seemed to reflect a myriad of emotions: love, hope, fear, joy and… yes, expectations of what the future might hold for the life she was carrying. It took him a moment to realize the woman also wore pieces of Grace’s unique collection. Small silver bracelets adorned each of her wrists and ankles and she wore a collar around her throat. This woman had given the ultimate gift of herself to someone in more ways than one. She’d given her heart and soul and would soon be giving the living gift of a child.
“It was a little boy,” Grace said. “They had tried for years to become parents but she couldn’t seem to carry one to term. She was terrified she’d lose thi
s baby as well. I remember praying daily that their miracle would happen, and cried when he called me and said she’d given him a son.” She paused and Quentin realized she was wiping her eyes.
“I’m glad,” Quentin said and truly meant it. Suddenly, he stepped closer and studied the collar. What had looked like a solid band from a distance, wasn’t. Instead, tiny links, actually, tiny heart-shaped links, interrupted the band. Two small hearts bracketed a larger one that was nestled in the hollow of her throat, breaking the solid ring of silver. Quentin stood for several minutes, his head slightly cocked as if the painting were speaking to his soul. Turning, he looked at Grace. “They lost two babies?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God, that’s… so sad,” Laurie said.
“It is,” Grace agreed, her eyes on the painting. “Most people believe the three hearts represent the baby and his parents.” She looked at Quentin. “Very few understand the true meaning, the great loss.” She paused and lifted her eyes to the painting again. “And yet, they found a way to keep each lost angel in their hearts and not allow the sadness to stop them from finding the greatest joy in becoming parents. I have no doubt that there will never be a single moment in their son’s life where he doesn’t know how much he is loved.”
When an older gentleman approached and Quentin heard Grace sigh, he wasn’t surprised to be introduced to the gallery owner, Charles Westing. What he was surprised to feel was disappointed when she apologized but allowed Charles to pull her away. Once she was out of sight, Laurie slipped her hand through his arm. They continued to look around and spent another hour studying several pieces of jewelry artfully arranged in glass display cases. He smiled, noticing that this jewelry could be worn by any woman, as the offerings consisted of rings, bracelets and necklaces that were not intended to be worn specifically as a submissive’s collar. Several had red stickers placed next to them.
“I knew her show would be a success. I’m so happy for her.”
“She has an amazing talent,” Quentin agreed
The crowd had thinned out considerably as the night grew later. Quentin had managed to avoid the art critic until the end, when he saw Grace shaking her head as David spoke to her. The man turned and gave Quentin a sneer before he stomped out the door.
“Shit. I have a feeling that Brooks is going to trash her just because I’m here.”
Laurie shook her head. “I really don’t think Grace would care. She meant what she said about creating from her soul.”
“That’s obvious in her work, but still, the man is a little shit.”
“I couldn’t agree more but Grace isn’t a pushover. Hold on, I’ll be right back,” Laurie said as she moved towards Grace. He watched as the two spoke and his suspicion grew as he saw Laurie’s grin when the two begin to walk towards him.
“You can do us both a huge favor,” Laurie said, her batting lashes putting Quentin on full alert. “It’s a shame that poor Brody is stuck in that bed and couldn’t enjoy the show. I want to go pop in at the hospital, which would leave room for you to take Grace home.” When he didn’t immediately respond, Grace spoke.
“It’s okay, I can take a cab.”
“Nonsense,” Laurie said. “I’ll grab a cab. I can’t wait to tell Brody about the success of your show, and besides, it would be a waste of a good dress if he didn’t have the pleasure of seeing me in it. Don’t you agree, Quentin?”
Quentin definitely felt manipulated but when Grace gave a soft groan as she wobbled on her heels again, he capitulated. “I’m sure Brody would appreciate a visit, and I’d be glad to see Grace home.”
“You’re the best!” Laurie said and after giving him a hug, she added, “Oh, there’s a cab. See you later, Grace. Great show!”
Quentin watched her dash out the door and flag down the cab. It didn’t escape him that she managed to run without a single misstep, wearing heels higher than those currently torturing the woman standing next to him.
“I really don’t mind taking a cab,” she said.
“No, it’s fine.”
“If you’re sure, I’ll change and be right back, okay?”
At his nod, she turned, walked towards the back of the gallery and disappeared. Charles was walking around, a tablet in his hand, entering what Quentin thought was probably the commission he expected on Grace’s sales. From the look on the man’s face, he too was pleased at the outcome. When Grace reappeared, Quentin watched the impeccably dressed man’s face morph into one of dismay at the change in his featured artist. Gone was the little black dress and the designer stilettos. Instead, she wore a pair of black leggings that fit her like a second skin and a white, loose cotton sweater. He could see the heels stuck in her oversized tote bag, their red soles attesting to the fact that while she might appreciate the design of another artist, she’d had enough of Louboutin for the evening, changing into ballet flats instead. As she joined him, he realized she’d lost a good four inches in height, the top of her head barely reaching the middle of his chest.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you. I just couldn’t stand another moment in those heels. Um, I hate to push my luck, but I’d be eternally grateful if we could stop for coffee? I didn’t have time to eat all day.” Flashing him a grin, she added, “How do you feel about beignets?”
“Fried dough is not a healthy choice,” Quentin said.
“You only live once,” she countered. “Besides, I’m considering it my reward for not breaking my neck and keeping my temper. Come on, my treat?”
“All right,” Quentin agreed, holding the door open for her to precede him outside. “This way.” He led her to his bike and watched her mouth drop open. “If you’d prefer, we can walk…”
“Are you kidding? No way! I’ve always wanted to ride on one of these. God, this is a beautiful machine. It’s an Indian, right?”
He was surprised by both her knowledge and her enthusiasm. Her giggle grabbed his attention.
“How did you get Laurie to ride on this? She was wearing a dress!”
“Let’s just say she didn’t choose to walk,” Quentin said, not adding that Laurie had no problem hiking her dress up and straddling the bike, wrapping her arms rather tightly around his waist. Nor did he mention the fact that she’d teased and pleaded he keep riding about the city until the vibrations of the bike did a proper job of rewarding her for her tolerance of this means of transportation.
He took the bag from Grace and put in in the saddlebag as he lifted a helmet out. He watched as she eagerly plopped it on her head and then struggled to adjust it. “Here, let me,” he said, moving her fingers away from the strap in order to secure it properly. He felt a jolt of pleasure as she tilted her head back, exposing her throat. He ignored the look of puzzlement on her face as he rather brusquely told her to get on the bike and pointed to where she should place her feet. As he mounted in front of her, he felt a twinge of guilt when she asked if she should put her arms around him or just hold onto the seat.
“It depends, how fast do you want to go?” he asked, turning back to look at her.
“How fast does the wind blow?”
He couldn’t help but grin as her question sounded more like a challenge. “Hurricane gale force it is. Hold onto me,” he said, starting the motor. Once he felt her arms wrap around his waist, he allowed the machine to leap away from the curb, hearing her startled gasp and then her laughter as the wind blew by them. It took less than ten minutes to arrive at the famous outdoor café, Café du Monde, where chicory coffee and fried dough liberally dusted with powdered sugar were served twenty-four hours a day. Helping her from the seat, he was a bit disappointed when she removed her own helmet and handed it to him.
“Thanks, that was incredible.” He watched as she tilted her head back and listened to her inhale deeply. “Do you smell that? It’s the aroma of the nectar of the Gods. Come on!”
He chuckled, thinking she was acting as if the coffee supply would disappear before she got her fair share. “
You pick a table and I’ll get the coffee.”
“No, I said I’d treat,” she said, attempting to step in front of him.
“No, you’ll sit.” When her mouth opened he added, “Unless you’d like your coffee without benefit of beignets?”
Her mouth snapped closed and she smiled. “In that case, how about I pick a table and you bring me a large serving?” When he nodded, she turned back. “Oh, and don’t forget lots and lots of powdered sugar, please.”
He shook his head but she’d already turned away to find a table. The place was hugely popular and Saturday nights were especially crowded. Still, by the time he had a tray containing two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate piled high with almost molten golden fried dough, she’d secured a table that faced out onto Jackson Square across the street.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, reaching for a beignet the moment he set the plate down. Her first bite had powdered sugar rising in a cloud and falling onto her shirt. She giggled and shrugged. “At least I wore white,” she managed to say around a mouthful of dough.
“Good thing,” he agreed, and felt another stab of arousal as his fingers twitched, wanting to reach across the small table and brush the powder off the small mounds of her breasts. He sat back, raising his own cup to his lips and pretending that the big swallow of the piping hot brew was the cause of his discomfort. This little woman was causing him to think of things best left alone. The sooner she ate her sweet reward, the sooner he could get her home.
“How long have you lived in New Orleans?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t live here,” she said and his cock jerked as she ran the tip of her tongue along her fingertips as if to capture every bit of sugar clinging to them.
