by Ani Keating
“Here are the other paintings, Mr. Hale,” Kasia simpers. I amuse myself by picturing her in liquid form, a bit like a blob. There is no response from him whatsoever.
“May I take them, sir?” asks a deep male voice I have never heard before.
“Yes, Benson, thank you.” Hale’s voice is warmer when he addresses the unknown Benson.
“Mr. Hale, is there anything else I can do for you?” Kasia asks—or rather begs.
“Yes. Two things indeed.” From his arctic tone, I know nothing good is coming for Kasia.
“First, I’d like the last painting to be delivered to this address tomorrow. Second, I’d like to meet the artist.”
“Yes, Mr. Hale.” Kasia seems to have gotten the hint. “The painting will be finished by tomorrow though it won’t be dry. And Mr. Feign is not here at the moment but I’ll give him your message.”
A long pause. For some reason, I picture him frowning. Eventually he speaks with the same cold tone that accepts no opposition. “Tell him I’d like to discuss…an unconventional proposal, shall we say. Goodbye.”
An unconventional proposal? What does that mean for a man like Mr. Hale? For some reason, I shiver.
Benson starts talking to Kasia about delivery details. One set of commanding footsteps rings on the marble floor while the two are still talking. The door squeaks behind Mr. Hale. Apparently, he makes even inanimate objects whimper. Benson leaves shortly after. I wait awhile and come out.
“No need to bite my head off, Kasia. I’m going out this way because someone has blocked the back exit,” I say before she rakes me over the coals for polluting the swanky lobby.
But she is too distracted to snap at me. “Isa, did you hear that? He wants to meet Brett.” She claps her hands in excitement. This barmpot really thinks Feign is the painter. He would never trust her with his darkest secret.
I smile. “Yes, I did. How well deserved for Brett’s talent.” I put as much British gentility in my sarcasm as possible, and walk out.
* * * * *
Back home, Reagan is in the living room in front of a makeshift three-way mirror. She has taken my mirror, hers and the one from our restroom and has turned them into a bridal setup. She is wearing a burgundy dress that clings to her for dear life, making her look like a redheaded version of Kim Basinger.
“Oh hey, luv.” She grins when she sees me. “Thank God you’re here. I need some advice.” She twirls in front of the mirrors. I can’t help my smile. I know this look, and it’s about time. Reagan has a hot date after a month of mourning her breakup with I’m-too-good-for-Portland Aaron who moved to New York, unwilling to try long distance. His loss.
I take my spot on our cream sofa and curl my legs under me. “So who is he, where did you meet and yes, this dress looks brilliant.”
She giggles. “His name is Nate. I think I had a mini-orgasm just looking at him.” She closes her eyes and bites her lip in faux ecstasy.
I keep my smile fixed. Lucky Reagan and her orgasms. I can’t go there. Truth be told, I think there’s something wrong with me in that department. My body hasn’t experienced arousal since the accident. Scientifically, I know why. My brain has been too sad to produce serotonin. But knowing that doesn’t make me feel more human. Luckily, when you are working two jobs, keeping a 4.0 GPA for your scholarship and inventing a protein supplement so that you can keep your father’s dream alive, you’re too exhausted at the end of the day to think about orgasms.
I resurface in our living room. “So where did you meet Orgasmic Nate?”
“He’s one of the construction workers renovating the Reed gym. I was drenched in sweat and there he was—jeans, hard hat and all.” She giggles again.
“A construction worker. I guess I know who’ll do the hammering and the nailing.”
Reagan laughs and gives me an I’m-going-to-miss-you look but composes her face quickly. She tries on four more dresses but the burgundy one is still the winner. An hour later, she’s out the door, almost tripping over her Louboutins. I’m left behind in a cloud of her Lolita Lempicka perfume.
It takes fifteen seconds to realize that being home alone is a bad idea. With no finals, no presentation and no work, I’m left with too much time to think. And that, I cannot afford. I start manically cleaning the apartment. When it’s all done, I rearrange the furniture in the living room because pushing, pulling, grunting and lifting suddenly feel like a really good idea. In the end, I admire my handiwork. It doesn’t even look like our place but maybe that’s good. Maybe my subconscious knows that change is coming and it’s expressing it in weird ways.
But, instead of feeling exhausted, I’m all fired up. I go to my bedroom but when I see the things that make up my entire universe, I feel nauseous. I don’t have much to my name, only what I could fit in one large suitcase when I crossed the pond. I can count my treasures on my fingers: my mother’s calligraphy set on my desk; a dried rose from her rose garden in a vial; some of her clothes in my closet; my father’s chess set in the first drawer; a picture of them dancing Argentine tango on my nightstand. A crater opens in my chest, so I dart back to the living room. My new target is my desktop computer, whose age rivals that of Tyrannosaurus rex. There is one thing that I know will distract me: my Mr. Hale.
I set myself loose on his Google trail with the fervor it took to study for organic chemistry. As always, he never fails me. He’s got me good and light-headed in minutes. But distracting as his pictures are, my wired brain has discerned three patterns.
One, there is nothing personal about Mr. Hale anywhere. This means he either controls it or he has no life. The former is more likely, which means he must be hiding something.
Two, he has no business partners or relationships of any kind. He finished University of Washington with a 4.0 GPA in fourteen months and founded HH one year later. Now, at age thirty-five, he controls over a hundred subsidiaries. All alone. This means he is more isolated than even his cold exterior suggests and he must have a powerhouse where the rest of us have brain tissue.
Three, in all pictures he is always alone against some wall or window. No women. No men. This means he’s either a hermit, asexual or closet gay. All options distress me tremendously, so I move on and focus on his scar. It’s strange that in the perfect face, it’s the flaw that draws me. It makes him real when everything else about him is surreal. When I start considering printing one of his pictures and tucking it under my pillow, I shut down T. rex and curl on the sofa.
The exercise worked. I’m finally exhausted. I fall asleep in minutes, dreaming of distant blue eyes.
Chapter Ten
Paradox
I wake up Saturday morning, feeling a little groggy. My alarm clock informs me that it’s 8:30. I yank the plug out of the wall. No more schedules, no more clocks, no more rules.
I shuffle down the hall to the restroom, passing by Reagan’s bedroom. She is passed out on the bed, burgundy dress still on. Nate must be better at hammering than nailing. I throw her favorite fleece blanket over her and close the door. If anyone deserves true love, it’s her. I smile, thinking of her Pinterest board of wedding ideas.
One hour later, after brewing some ginger tea for Reagan, I head to the lab to train my replacement, Eric Lee. After that, who knows? For the first time in my life, I have no plans. On my way to the lab, I practice my American accent. Four years later and I still can’t get the rhotic lilt of the tongue. I’m better with the slang though.
When I walk through the lab doors repeating “vite-a-min”, not “vit-a-min”, I freeze. Right inside the lab, by the fume hood, is an unmistakable head of swept back dark hair, a set of tense, broad shoulders clad in a light gray sweater and an inordinately firm derriere dressed in dark jeans. Don’t act like a daft bimbo. And don’t drool.
“Ah, here she is,” Eric says, looking a little panicked. Even his glasses and the pens in his pocket protecto
r are trembling.
Mr. Hale turns and x-rays me, lingering a fraction too long on my collarbones, peeking from my boat-neck sweater. His eyes change subtly from sapphire to turquoise. Why do they do that?
He saunters my way. I try to calm my heartbeat lest everyone from here to London hears it.
“Hello again, Miss Snow.” His voice is tuned to Alaskan spring, rather than Arctic tundra. Brilliant.
“Good morning, Mr. Hale. This is a surprise.”
“Yes, it is,” he says cryptically, as if he is talking to himself rather than me.
“Did you have any other questions about my project?” It’s the only reason I can think as to why he would be here.
“Not as such, but I’d like to speak with you for a few moments. I understand from Mr. Lee that your schedule is flexible.”
“Sure. Let me just leave a note for Professor Denton and show Eric the timer.”
He gives me a nod and the first full smile I have seen on him. The innocent dimple lifts higher in his sculpted cheek, flirting with his scar. I feel warmth on my cheeks and dart to Denton’s office, careful not to trip. I scrawl Denton a Post-it Note with shaking hands, show Eric the timer and skip back to Mr. Hale, trying not to look impatient.
He opens the lab door and I walk through, sensing him behind me like a homing beacon. He asks where I want to go and suggests places that Javier and I admire from the windows because their coffee alone would deplete the eighty-seven dollars I have to my name.
“They all sound lovely but I need to be back soon. Eric is still learning how to use the bioreactor. Maybe Reed’s Paradox Café?”
“Sure. Although if a reactor is about to go off, Tour Eiffel may be safer.” He smiles. I try to calm my ridiculous pulse at the realization that he has a sense of humor. I smile back, searching my brain for something witty to say. But the only things that come to mind are geeky scientist jokes. A virus and a chromosome walk into a bar—no, I better keep my mouth shut.
We walk to Paradox mostly in silence. Some distance away, his bodyguard follows us discreetly even though the campus is almost empty now that school is over. Mr. Hale makes small talk about my finals, but I have the feeling he is only warming up or perhaps studying my reactions. Like they do with polygraph tests, ask you simple questions first, and then drop the bombs.
The moment we enter Paradox, Mr. Hale scans the room, much like he did yesterday. He probably runs into people he knows all the time. Except his high-alert posture seems too vigilant for expecting an acquaintance. It’s more like he expects a threat. Probably women tackling him to the floor.
We sit at a small table in the corner, with a half-finished chess game and squashy orange-velvet chairs. Only Aiden Hale could look the way he does against orange. The rest of us probably look like prison inmates. I glance at the chessboard to distract myself from his mouth, which he is currently caressing with his thumb.
“Do you play?” he asks.
“I used to. Not anymore though.” I rely on years of practice to conceal the sadness in my voice. Chess was something I did with my father.
“Why not?” I notice real interest in his eyes. No matter how disarming that interest is, I cannot indulge it.
“It’s a long story. What did you want to discuss, Mr. Hale?” I’m not in a rush with him, but I don’t want the giddiness I feel in his presence to fade at my memories.
“I have time,” he says, searching my face. I beg him with my eyes to drop it as I did during my presentation. He nods but his jaw flexes and his eyes harden. Ah yes, he doesn’t like my secrecy. We are interrupted by Paradox’s waitress, Megan, who ogles my Mr. Hale shamelessly for thirty seconds before snapping to her senses at the rather harsh clearing of his throat. After some blushing and stammering—much like yours truly—Megan comes back to earth.
“Hi! My name is Megan. What can I get you folks?”
Mr. Hale looks really annoyed. Whether it’s her ogling or stammering, or the fact that she addressed him as “folks”, I have no idea. Suddenly, it dawns on me that it must be quite exhausting to have women gawking all the time like he is an exotic beast at a zoo. I can’t fault him. But I can’t stop my own ogling either. I realize belatedly that he is waiting for me to order.
“A hot chocolate, please.”
Megan smiles. She knows my chocolate dependency and has enabled it gladly for the last four years.
“And for you, sir?”
“An espresso doppio and a Pellegrino, no ice, no lemon,” he reels off quickly. Megan almost breaks her sparkly pen, trying to write it all down. She stumbles away, tripping once. Tripping seems to be an environmental hazard of being around Mr. Hale.
“Something amusing?” he asks me. It must have shown on my face.
“I was just contemplating selling you some of my secret-formula skunk spray so you can repel all your admirers.”
He chuckles and the dimple puckers in his carved cheek. It’s such a simple gesture but the effect on me is out of proportion. Almost like an instant addiction, this idea of making him laugh.
“And what is the going rate for this defensive weapon?” he asks.
“One million dollars.”
“Of course it is.” He chuckles again. The throaty sound is so beautiful that oddly, it fills me with a sense of loss. I look away from his face, unwilling to examine my reaction too closely.
Megan brings out our order then. Her hands shake a little when she sets the espresso before Mr. Hale. She leaves, this time looking carefully at her steps. Good idea.
“So, what did you want to discuss, Mr. Hale?” I ask the question that is buzzing in my brain to prevent myself from tripping while sitting down.
His smile vanishes as he sips his espresso. He sets down his cup and looks at me with probing intensity. “Are you the woman in my paintings?”
Bollocks! The question settles in front of me like a coiled beast. Blood rushes to my feet and my stomach twists. My mouth parts to let in some air. I notice with horror that he has seen all my reactions, which must be confirmation enough. I have to get it together. No matter my flights of fancy, what Javier and I are doing is illegal. I’m a goner already, but Javier could get deported. I have to help him, even if it takes me down.
“Why would you think that?” I try to keep my voice as composed as possible but don’t do a great job of it.
“I’m a man of means, Miss Snow.”
“What exactly does that mean?” Bloody hell, does he know about Javier already?
“It means that if I want something, I will stop at nothing to get it. In this case, however, the conclusion was not hard to reach. I saw you at Feign’s gallery and the way the receptionist ordered you around indicated that you must work there. I obtained a copy of Feign’s personnel records and the only two women that have worked for him are blondes. You are the only one with dark hair and the woman in the painting of the neck has dark hair.” He finishes explaining his process calmly, like he is merely giving directions.
“But the model does not need to be an employee. She could be anyone.”
“Yes, she could be. But she is not. She is you.”
“If you have already reached this conclusion, why are you asking me about it?”
“To hear you confirm it, Miss Snow.”
“Why would my confirmation matter if you are convinced?”
“Because it will be a surrender, rather than a conquest.” His voice is softer and more hypnotic than ever, but his eyes are exponentially more probing.
“A surrender? Is that why you’re here?”
“It’s one of the reasons. And before you try your distraction technique again, let me make it clear that I don’t intend to divulge the other reason for my visit until you have satisfied me on this point.” He pauses. Then, his eyes burn with a new intensity.
“Admit it,” he whispers. I imagine this is
how the snake must have sounded to Eve. But Eve did not have a family to protect. I do.
“It seems that despite your impressive deduction skills, you have overlooked one possibility, Mr. Hale.”
“Have I?” He cocks his head to the side, sounding sure that he has overlooked nothing.
“Yes. It’s possible that there are different women for each painting.”
“There is only one woman, Miss Snow. And we both know who she is. But if you need more convincing, I’ll be happy to show you.” His voice is husky and low. Yet, it echoes in my ears, even after he stops talking.
“Show me? How?” I’m nervous about the word show.
He leans across the small table into my space. I smell sandalwood, cinnamon and something I can’t name. My heart starts clawing against my rib cage. The few breaths I was managing stop. He extends one long index finger and hovers it very closely to my throat without touching it.
“Like this,” he whispers. “It’s your neckline. Your throat. Your collarbone.” His finger trails along the path he is describing but does not touch me. Nonetheless, the effect on me is visceral. My body coils and tenses like a warhorse coming to a sudden stop at the crumbling edge of a cliff.
“I have no doubt, Miss Snow, that if you take off this sweater and these jeans, I would see the same waistline, hip and leg as in my paintings.”
I can’t speak through the terror and thrill that are tearing me in half.
“I can describe them to you if you wish. You have three dark freckles, positioned exactly like an equilateral triangle right above your left hip. They are the only marks on your skin. I would be more than happy to prove my case. Would you like me to, or will you surrender?”
I try to locate some words, or even air, but I can’t. Something darker, scarier than my fear of getting caught assaults me. My shallow breath, the blood rushing in my ears, the flutter at the bottom of my belly and the involuntary flexing of my thighs explain it better than any words. Arousal. I have not felt it in four years. And without a single touch, he has revived it.
