Bound for Nirvana: (The Bound Trilogy Book 3) (8 page)

“Four-thirty?” We usually reserved slots in the mornings for private appointments, before the gallery opened to the public at midday.

“Yes, sorry, it was the only time the client could make it. Alice has the details. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hung up.

Strange. She hadn’t even given me the chance to ask about Charley, if she was feeling better. I’d sent a text earlier in the day, but Jia hadn’t replied. Because I was busy packing, I didn’t question it at the time, but come to think of it, that was odd as well. Placing the phone down on the island, I turned back to Ethan. He was still scowling.

“Who the fuck is calling you at stupid o’clock?”

“E, it’s not even ten, and it was Jia—she sounded funny.”

“What do you mean, funny?”

“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. She can’t come into work tomorrow; she wants me to man the gallery.”

Tsk
. “I wanted you to move your stuff in.”

“There’s no rush.” I watched his face fall at my words and hurried to remedy by blunder. “I mean there isn’t much to bring anyway. Nothing I have an immediate need for. Everything I need is already here.”

It did the trick and a warm smile spread over his handsome face. He opened his arms in an invitation for me to crawl into them, and I did immediately, tucking my face into his neck and reaching up to scratch at the day’s stubble on his chin.

“You’re very grumpy this evening,” I muttered tiredly against his gloriously-smelling skin.

“Am I?” He pulled me close, kissing my forehead. “I’m sorry. Just tired.”

Guiltily, I thought about the worry I’d caused him last night and his late night journey to the airport. The trouble he’d gone to in order to recover my mom’s pendant, only to have me turn my back on him when he’d dared to tell me some hard truths. It was my fault he was grumpy and tired, my fault he felt insecure.

“It’s me who’s sorry, E. I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes you do. Don’t ever say that. Come on.” He pushed to his feet taking me with him, still cradled protectively in his arms.

“Where are we going?” I grumbled in objection and turned comfortingly into his neck. “I was comfortable in your lap.”

“You’ll be more comfortable in bed.”

Angling my face, I looked up at him as he carried me with ease down the hall to our bedroom. “No more, surely. Haven’t you had enough for one day, Mr. Wilde?”

Hitching a brow, he set me on my feet, his fingers moving to the buttons on my—his—shirt. “I could
never
have enough of you, Miss Lawson, but actually on this occasion, I meant to sleep.” I couldn’t help the disappointment from reaching my face as he slipped the shirt over my shoulders, and the way his eyes grew knowingly dark told me it hadn’t escaped his notice. He shook his head. “Christ, you’re such a dirty, dirty girl, Angelica.”

And then he closed his mouth over mine.

Chapter Four

The gallery seemed odd without Jia, like a soda without its effervescence. The artists were the ones who filled the place with its aesthetic appeal, made you want to examine the contents further, but if it didn’t fizz when the lid popped, it just wasn’t any fun.

Jia hadn’t been herself when she’d called last night, although she’d claimed to be fine, and I was worried about her. Silently, I vowed to give her until close of business to call and reassure me that she was alright, and if I hadn’t heard from her by then, I would get in contact.

For the most part of the day, I kept busy in the office, leaving Alice to her thing on reception and venturing into the showroom whenever a customer showed more than a browsing interest. I sold two pieces by an emerging artist who had an exquisite eye for the use of light and whose work we’d only recently begun to display. Yet another gem discovered by Jia.

Throughout the day, I kept in contact with Ethan by text. It was quite normal for us to exchange messages when we were apart, but I felt particularly eager to keep reminding him that he was in my thoughts today more than ever. I guess I was still trying to ease my conscience about how I’d let him down over the weekend.

At four-thirty, Alice buzzed through to the office, announcing the arrival of Dominic Sloan. It was only then I remembered the mention of a private viewing, and wondered why Alice, who was sweet but not the brightest button in the box, hadn’t reminded me. Realizing I didn’t even have the time to check through our records to see whether or not he was a current client, I made my way through to the foyer, cursing myself for my unprofessional sloppiness.

Glowering fleetingly in Alice’s direction, I turned toward the man who was patiently perusing the fine selection of work displayed in the foyer.

“Mr. Sloan, so sorry to have kept you waiting.” I reached out to shake his hand as he turned, but when he didn’t reciprocate, I looked up at his face in question.

Dominic Sloane was mid-thirties, tall and extremely handsome with flawless olive skin and dark, almost black hair as slick and debonair as the suit he was wearing. His brown eyes were framed by long sweeping lashes and an abundance of… what? Alarm? Confusion? My cheeks heated furiously as I stood with my outstretched, unshaken hand, wondering nervously if I’d got his name wrong.

Suddenly, he seemed to wake from his trance, taking my hand and holding it firmly for what felt like a fraction too long. “Miss Huang, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Realizing what his obvious confusion was, I corrected him quickly. “Oh, please accept my apologies. Miss Huang was unable to make your meeting today. I’m afraid she’s unwell. But if you’d like to come this way, the showroom is prepared for your viewing.” I glanced awkwardly at Alice, praying I wasn’t making another professional blunder and breathing a heavy sigh of relief when, mercifully, she responded with a nod. For private viewings, we usually erected a selection of work by artists, either specifically requested by the client, or work which we believe they might appreciate based on their criteria.

When Dominic Sloan still didn’t move, I added, “Or if you would rather reschedule, I can ask Miss Huang to call—”

“No,” he interrupted suddenly. “That won’t be necessary.”

I nodded. “Can we get you something to drink, Mr. Sloan?”

“Iced water. Thank you. And please call me Dominic.”

Alice tottered off to get drinks and I smiled, silently grateful that the frosty atmosphere appeared to have been broken. I gestured for him to join me as I bypassed the main showroom and wandered through the exhibit area to the smaller room at the back, which we used for private viewings. He followed silently, his pace slightly slower than mine, which meant he trailed behind me rather than walked beside me. I could feel the weight of his gaze assessing me, gliding steadily over my body from head to toe.

“I’m afraid it’s rather embarrassing, Mr. Sloan, but Miss Huang’s indisposition was somewhat thrust upon us, and I’m afraid I’m not entirely aware of your brief.” I had no clue of his damned brief and just hoped the showroom, which, thankfully, Jia had prepared in advance, would give me at least a vague hint as to which artists he was interested in. “Is it just the one piece you’re—” I halted midsentence as I entered the showroom and gazed around at the prints flanking the entire perimeter of the room.

Usually, if a client wished to see work in print, we would select a small sample of an artist’s photographs to display, typically a dozen in total. If more than one artist was of interest, the number would reduce. More of each artist could, of course, be viewed on our website, with work from a variety of collections, plus detailed biographies.

There was no mistaking which artist this client was interested in. Today, I was faced with between twenty and thirty pieces, each one erected on an easel, and all from the same artist: me. Most of the images, I’d never seen in print myself, and some I had only a vague recollection of taking.

Mr. Sloan moved into the middle of the room, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his pants. He began a deliberately measured three-sixty degree turn as he leisurely eyed each one. Though not quite as unhurried, I found my gaze following his, as I reacquainted myself with images I’d long since forgotten.

There were a couple from a collection I’d entitled “kissing.” Men and women from all different cultures; some caught in a passionate embrace, others turning a reluctant cheek to the person demanding their affection.

Then my gaze set upon one image in particular. It was black and white, like all the photographs in the room, except for one single, striking element slap-bang in the center of the image. It was the brightness, the vibrancy of the color which drew you to it, capturing your unwavering attention and leaving you in no doubt as to the subject of the picture. The image was of a regular yard sale. A child selling unwanted toys and household items, each one laid out on a weary looking, lopsided table, out front of a ramshackle house in one of New York’s poorer neighborhoods. Settled in among the family’s redundant possessions was a pair of red patent shoes.

I remembered capturing the image; it was as clear in my mind as if it was yesterday. It was early on in my career, at a time when—if I think about it now—I used to seek out pairs of red shoes to photograph so I could study them, purely to try and understand how they made me feel. Any red shoes would do—on the toeless feet of a shop front mannequin or at the end of a pair of shapely legs as they waited on a busy sidewalk to cross the street. I never did figure out why my throat would burn with mounting bile at the sight of each and every one, but I never forgot the tight, heavy weight that lodged itself in my gut at the sight of this particular pair. For days, even the usual purging act of vomiting refused to shift the discomfort.

The reason? The red patent shoes in this image belonged to a child, and worse—they were scuffed beyond salvation.

Suddenly, I remembered Mr. Sloan and tore my gaze from the picture to find him staring at me with an intense fascination. “You’re her.” It wasn’t a question, but more of an accusation. “You’re the artist. Angelica Lawson.”

“Yes,” I muttered, my cheeks beginning to burn under his scrutiny. Why the hell hadn’t Jia warned me about the display? Right now, I’d feel less exposed if I was stood in the middle of the room in my bra and panties. I moved swiftly across the room to stand in front of the yard sale picture, as if trying to conceal my nudity. “I’m sorry, did you say it was a single piece you hoped to acquire or—?”

“I didn’t,” he interrupted. “It could be several. If I find what I’m looking for.”

“And what are you looking for?” The question was harsher than I’d intended, and I tried promptly to smooth out the edges. “What I mean is, are you looking to brighten up a room or reflect a certain ambience? We present many talented artists; perhaps if you haven’t seen anything particularly striking today, I could arrange a viewing for something more to your taste.”

“I’ve seen plenty to my taste, Miss Lawson.” Something about the way his eyes swept lazily over me made me feel uncomfortable. “Yes, I’m delighted,” he muttered almost under his breath and then seemed to gather himself, turning back to peruse the images around the room. “I’m not interested in other artists. Your work is what I came to see. There is something about it that reaches out to me. When I look at it, it’s almost as if I can see inside your mind… inside your heart. These aren’t just photographs, or a means to earn a living…” his gaze halted at the yard sale picture “…this is how you purge.”

Whoa! His words hit me in the face like a balled up fist—too direct, too invasive. The way he looked at me, the way he analyzed my photography was as if he were dissecting me, slitting open my body from top to bottom and pulling out my organs to get a closer look at how I functioned.

“I’ll see where that drink’s gone to.” Spinning around, I strode swiftly from the room, my hand reaching to rub at the back of my neck trying to smooth the heated, prickling sensation crawling steadily down my back. Who the hell was this guy to assume he could waltz in here and have the right to tell me how I tick? God, his manner was almost aggressive.

In the foyer, I glared at Alice who was busy on the phone. She mouthed the word
sorry
in answer to my hand gesture that inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. Sloan’s drink. In the kitchen, I tipped ice into a glass and snapped the lid off a bottle of water, pouring only half over the frozen cubes. I didn’t want Mr. Sloan’s stay to be prolonged any longer than necessary.

By the time I made it back down the hall to the foyer, he was waiting for me. “My apologies, Miss Lawson, I’m afraid I’ve been called away to a meeting.” His eyes narrowed as if he were considering his words carefully. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve just moved into a new apartment and I want your work to line the walls of my home so every room evokes a different emotion. I would like to see work from every collection you’ve created, and if necessary, I’d like you to produce some pieces especially for me. I’m happy to pay generously for exclusive rights, and of course for time incurred. It might be beneficial for you to visit my apartment; it will give you an improved understanding of what it is I’m hoping to achieve. Here is a down payment for your initial commitment.” He handed me a check and my eyes strained against their sockets as I read the amount.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
A down payment?
Exactly how many photographs was Mr. Sloan looking to buy, I wondered. The question must have been written all over my face, because he answered before the thought had barely left my mind.

“It’s a very large apartment. This is the address,” he grabbed an Evoke business card off the foyer desk and scrawled on the back. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you for your time today, Miss Lawson. It’s been very… memorable.”

My brain was still trying to soak up everything he’d said as I offered him a barely perceptible nod and reached out to accept his proffered hand. But instead of the formal shake I was expecting, he drew my hand to his mouth and kissed me gently on the backs of my fingers. The gesture was completely unethical and I found myself pulling away. He nodded once, whether it was an expression of regret or simply a gesture of farewell, I wasn’t certain. And then he turned and left.