Betrayed by Love

by Lila Dubois

  “Next week. The sketches are ready. I’m really looking forward to this one, so I hope they like the drawing.” Savannah flipped to a sketch she’d done in charcoal. It was a pair of lovers wrapped around each other, bodies contorted to the point of surrealism. She’d drawn inspiration from Rodin’s marble sculptures for the positioning. The building she was designing it for had an entirely black marble lobby. When the interior designer contacted her, he said the client wanted something visceral that would cause controversy and draw reactions.

  For Savannah there was nothing more visceral and emotional than love, or the illusion of it.

  If the client liked the piece she’d sculpt it larger-than-life size, from clay and plaster, then have it cast in bronze or copper to complement the black marble of the lobby. The fifty-thousand-dollar price tag, plus five grand for materials, was very attractive. It was an expansive project, one she desperately wanted, as most of her commissioned pieces were not nearly as evocative and interesting as this.

  * * * * *

  Roman tapped the edge of his headset, which was buzzing discreetly, indicating an incoming call. “Roman,” he said smoothly.

  “Roman, it’s Peter. I just wanted to check we’re still on for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” Roman said, leaning back in his chair. Normally he would expect his secretary to confirm these details, but Peter was a solid business acquaintance. Almost a friend.

  “Good, good. It will be nice to see your sunny, smiling face,” Peter said.

  Roman let out a bark of laughter, one side of his mouth twitching in what passed for a smile. “Tomorrow then. No business talk. I promise.”

  “No, no business talk. Not as long as you insist on buying those disgusting residential properties.”

  “Tomorrow,” Roman said, not willing to honor Peter’s lame joke with a second laugh. One was enough for this conversation.

  He tapped his headset again and ended the call. He actually was looking forward to lunch tomorrow. Peter owned a commercial design firm. For years he’d been Roman’s go-to man for renovating office spaces bought as part of his real estate development firm.

  Appearances could be everything in business, and companies were willing to pay top dollar to rent or purchase buildings that were state of the art and beautiful. Roman and Peter were both tapping into this, though in different ways.

  It was five o’clock and Roman’s secretary, a thin blond man, ducked into the office to see if there was anything Roman needed. There wasn’t, and his secretary ducked out again.

  Around him his office went quiet. He ran his empire from a small set of rooms in one of the first commercial buildings he’d bought in Chicago. No penthouse suites here—he reserved those for the rent-paying clients. His office was on the fifth floor, with a view of the building next door.

  There were showcases spaced in other buildings he used, but this was a place for work, the place he was the most comfortable.

  As the lights in the outer office clicked off and the sunlight faded, Roman turned on his desk lamp and kept working.

  * * * * *

  So much for getting away from the humidity.

  Savannah shrugged out of her tailored jacket, throwing it over her arm. It had been a muggy July day in Savannah, the air so thick you could practically eat it, and Chicago seemed to be no different.

  She passed a tourist stand offering the Ferris Bueller tour of Chicago and headed toward the short man with a heavy mustache who carried a placard with “Savannah Jones” written on it in blocky letters.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Savannah.”

  He smiled wide. “Hello there, Ms. Jones. Great accent.”

  Savannah offered him a brief smile, inwardly amused. Apparently Yankees really did love a Southern accent.

  He led her to a Lincoln Town Car, air-conditioned to near arctic cool. Savannah was instantly grateful she’d accepted the designer’s offer of a ride. She hadn’t let him buy her plane ticket, though a business-class ticket would have been nice rather than the on-sale coach one she’d bought herself, but she wasn’t comfortable owing the designer that much.

  The driver’s jacket had a company logo on the pocket from a rental service so he wasn’t a personal employee of the firm. No need to pump him for information.

  Her driver had tucked Savannah’s small carry-on bag into the trunk, but she had her portfolio with her. She flipped it open, the charcoal sketches protected by plastic sheets. She rehearsed her description of the creative process, including snippets about Rodin and his influence, the impact of metal sculpture and the details of the production process as the driver made his way through Chicago.

  Details and factoids about the art and the artist were usually as valuable to the designer and client as the piece itself. They wanted to be able to walk through their impressive building, point at a piece and tell people, “You know, the artist, whom I met, drew her inspiration from Rodin…”

  Forty minutes later she was seated at a conference table with Peter, the designer. He was on the third page of the folio and Savannah was already sure she’d gotten the job. He had some pictures of the renovation of the lobby of the building, which was nearly finished. Her piece was perfect for the space.

  Peter reached the end of the book, flipped back to the first page, and smiled. “I love it.”

  Savannah gave him a slight smile in return. “Thank you. After looking at the photos, I really think the piece is going to enhance the space.”

  Peter checked his watch. “My client was planning to join us. If you don’t mind I’d like to give him a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine by me,” she said.

  “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Peter left the room, presumably to check in with his client. Aware of the large glass wall at her back, Savannah didn’t relax in her chair. The deal wasn’t final, but she was damn sure she was going to get the job. She tipped her head to look at her sketch, not with a business eye, but an artistic one.

  The man was down on one knee, bent forward to kiss the woman, who lay on her back, draped over a rock. Her body was arched, her breasts in distinct profile. One of the man’s hands was on her hip, the other rested on his thigh, a dagger clenched in his hand.

  The woman’s arms lay against the base of the piece, alongside the rock she was draped over. Her hands were contorted and flexed, her wrists wrapped in chain, which melded into the stone under her. And yet the woman’s face was turned toward the man, her face a study of longing and desire.

  These details were as clear in Savannah’s eyes as if she’d taken a photo of models posing, but in reality they were only hinted at. The proportions of the man and woman were off. The man’s back was too broad, his hands too large. The woman’s arms were too long, her features—heavy and almost coarse—were clearly visible while the man’s were limited to a nose and the indentation where eyes should be. The dagger was only a suggestion of shape, seeming to be part of the leg unless viewers knew what they were looking for, and the chain, which grew less distinct the farther it got from her wrists, seemed to be part of the rocky base on which she lay.

  Savannah looked away, out the window, and fought to swallow the dark, painful feelings that rose within her. Not now, not here. There was no outlet for her terrible rage in this brightly lit office space.

  She’d sketched this piece, conceived it, just before she “went away” as Michelle called it. She’d been in one of her dark moments, unable to escape her ghosts as she knelt on the floor of her studio, hands clenching her head as she screamed. She’d screamed until she was hoarse, then she’d sketched, coal-dusted hands flying over white paper, dirtying it with the darkness inside her.

  Savannah could feel sweat forming on her lower back. She wanted to get out of here.

  Pull yourself together.

  She closed her eyes and brought up a vision of the ocean. Vast, timeless, the deepest gray-blue—her refuge. It was not the temperamental Atlantic she pictured, but the
endless Pacific.

  The conference room door opened and Savannah opened her eyes.

  “Sorry about this. My client’s in a meeting and his secretary doesn’t have a good guess as to when he’ll be out. Are you going to be in town for a few days?”

  “Overnight.”

  Peter took his seat and set a pad and pen down. “I know he isn’t available tomorrow. Well then, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself and your process?”

  “I was inspired by Rodin. The exaggerated positioning of the bodies and the hints of details are some of the more distinctive…”

  An hour later, signed contract and check for the materials in hand, Savannah left the conference room. She was elated to have landed this job, not just for the money but because it was an interesting project. And maybe making this piece would hold some of her ghosts at bay for a few months.

  She’d left the majority of the sketches with Peter so he could show his client. She kept three, each from a different angle and bearing Peter’s initials, which she slipped into her bag as she crossed the lobby. She looked up, scanning for the driver, who Peter had arranged to take her to her hotel.

  A tall man, shoulders broad in a gray suit jacket, walked past. His tightly curled chestnut hair glinted in the sunlight. Savannah stopped mid-stride, her breath caught in a painful gasp. She turned to watch the man disappear into the elevator.

  Turn. Turn around. Show me your face.

  He slid into an elevator. As he turned the doors closed, hiding him from her. Savannah stood in the lobby as if rooted there while people flowed around her. Her hands were shaking, her fingers ice cold.

  She pulled herself together and exited the lobby. The driver was waiting there, leaning against the car smoking a cigarette, which he stubbed out as she approached. The man inside reminded her of someone, someone she used to know.

  Used to know.

  Though really, she’d never known him at all. If she had, she might have been able to protect herself. Instead she’d succumbed to a brilliant smile, laughing eyes and chestnut curls.

  It was the sketches. They’d made her think about him, and because she’d been thinking of him she’d imagined she saw him. But it wasn’t possible. He was in California, or Hell. As far as she was concerned they were the same place.

  The darkness she’d tamped down was rising again. She needed an outlet, though it had been only a few weeks since her last “exorcism” as she liked to think of them. With a grimace she pulled out her cell phone and opened her email.

  * * * * *

  Roman slid into the elevator. He shook his wrist and looked at his watch, grimacing. He hated being late. The day had devolved into a disaster. He’d spent the morning having a building inspector tell him the residential building he was in escrow on had severe electrical problems.

  He was beyond late for this meeting, and with everything else he had to do today he would have preferred to skip it, but the devil was in the details, and the Fennelin Building was such a huge investment he couldn’t afford to overlook anything. The art in the lobby was as important as the type of marble he’d laid on the floor and security system he was installing.

  Commercial leasing was a tough business. There was money to be made, but companies looking to lease had plenty of options. If name companies were going to choose your space, it had to be exceptional. He needed Fennelin to turn a profit if he was going to stay in the black this year.

  Peter was standing at the reception desk, conferring with a colleague who held a design panel in one hand. He looked up as Roman stepped off the elevator and waved away his employee.

  “Roman,” he said, walking forward, hand extended, “glad you could make it.”

  “I’m late.”

  “I noticed.”

  “The artist is gone?”

  “I sent her back to the hotel. I have all the details and she’s sending over some written stuff. I’ll have my office work it up for you.”

  “Sketches?”

  “Come in to the conference room. Have you eaten lunch?”

  “No,” Roman said, the corner of his mouth kicking up.

  “Sarah, will you get us some sandwiches?”

  Peter led him into the conference room. Roman looked around, admiring the space. Peter’s office was, of course, in one of Roman’s buildings. Peter had done an exceptional job with his suite of offices, making sure they were a working example of his skill.

  He’d updated them several times, ensuring the décor never got dated. This building was probably due for a basic renovation—carpet, paint—but it would have to wait. Roman made a mental note to check into it.

  Shaking his head, he took a seat. He had enough going on without worrying about updating a building that was in working order. After the residential properties turned a profit and he finished Fennelin…

  “Did we find it?” he asked Peter as a young woman wheeled a coffee cart into the conference room.

  Peter held his gaze in a long look, then grinned. “Definitely.”

  “Good,” Roman relaxed slightly. Another piece of this project checked off.

  The young woman set sandwiches, bags of chips and cups of fruit in front of each of them along with a bottle of sparkling water.

  Roman unwrapped his sandwich, only then realizing how hungry he was. He rarely remembered to eat. There was a time when he would have been like Peter—smugly aware of hole-in-the-wall cheap eats and excited to go out and try new food, desirous of turning each meal out into an event.

  Those days were gone, as was the woman who’d sat across from him, laughing and licking her fingers as they ate dripping tacos or juicy fruit puffs.

  He chewed in silence, filling his body but taking no real pleasure in the food.

  When he was done he dusted off his hands and leaned back. This unexpected break in the day wasn’t helping his schedule, but Roman was realistic enough to know when he needed to take some downtime. That was over; it was time to work.

  “What can you show me?”

  Peter pushed away their wrappers and pulled out a black artist’s portfolio. Roman tensed for a moment, then forced himself to relax.

  “You’re going to love this. The artist came highly recommended and she’s done commercial pieces before—mostly in the South—but still she understands our schedule and won’t pull any artistic license crap.”

  He flipped it open to the first image and pushed it over to Roman.

  “It’ll be controversial, there’s no doubt about it, but I think that means we can get some coverage—”

  Roman lost the rest of what Peter said. He couldn’t hear over the ringing in his ears.

  The lovers were close, bodies flowing together. The male was above the female, unquestionably mastering her. The woman was submissively bowed before him. The lines of their bodies were alternately precise and flowing, as if these people were emerging from the sculpture. The woman’s face gave an impression of desire and passion. The man didn’t have as many features—just a strong jaw, large nose and forbidding brow.

  Roman turned the page. From here he could see the man’s hand, the hilt of the dagger it held. Both his hand and the weapon were only hinted at, not as defined as the face, but there was no mistaking what he held.

  He flipped the page. Here the details of the cuff around her wrist, the straining of her hand, were visible.

  He hated it, hated everything about it. What it showed, what the shadowy menace implied, was wrong.

  “My favorite part,” Peter said, unaware of Roman’s absorption, “is that the guy looks like you. I mean, as much as a statue without real features can look like someone. It’s more of an impression.”

  Roman looked up sharply then flipped through the images until he arrived at one that showed the man’s face clearly.

  There was his nose, his forehead. There were no lips, and no eyes, but Roman recognized himself.

  It was him, five years ago.

  Memory rose, quick and wild as a butterf
ly. He saw himself, naked from the waist up, the upper half of his wetsuit dangling around his legs as he hopped out of the car. He stood on the doorframe to unstrap his board from the roof and a pair of long-fingered hands rubbed his thighs, reaching around to squeeze his butt. He looked down to see her still seated in the car. She wore sunglasses and a ridiculous hat. Her heavy bag full of sketching materials was on her lap. She grinned at him, her lips full and glossy. Her skin was beautiful cream, thanks to the hat that protected her from the sun. His Georgia peach.

  Heart beating fast, Roman forced the memory down and turned to the image of the woman. Did he recognize her? There wasn’t enough of her face to be sure, but the long fall of rain-straight hair could be her.

  “The artist,” Roman said, voice hoarse, “is a woman?”

  “Yes, beautiful too. Savannah. Savannah Jones.”

  Chapter Two

  Savannah pulled the black catsuit out of her bag. Sitting on the side of the bed in her generic hotel room, she cursed herself for bringing it. If she didn’t have it with her she wouldn’t be able to go to one of Chicago’s notorious BDSM clubs. Instead she would have had to lie here, order room service and watch TV.

  That sounded lovely. A night away from her studio so she couldn’t feel guilty for not working. A night to take in a bad made-for-TV movie while indulging with fries and a burger.

  But if she spent her evening that way, she would never sleep, haunted by the ghost of a young man and woman she’d once known.

  To test herself, Savannah stuffed the catsuit into the bag and lay down on the bed. She thought back to the last scene she’d done.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Ten times more she caned his ass, the blows quickly followed by spanks to his cock and balls, some straight on, some coming from beneath to bruise and abuse his sac. They were both in a frenzy, his body arched in a bow, every muscle defined, she a controlled fury, savage and cruel.

  She stopped. Faced him. “Slave, what do you need?”

  “The spikes the spikes, please put them back… Oh God, please!”