Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (59 page)

“They love you. Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he muttered at the back of my ear.

“I don’t think I can do anything else,” I muttered back through the rictus of my fake smile.

“Haha, don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “Deep down, you crave this. You know you do.”

I pulled back slightly, shooting him a quick, secret scowl.

He shrugged imperiously. “What,” he said. “You’re going to deny it?”

I flared my nostrils and looked away, resuming my porcelain doll act while people said polite things in Dutch.

“Yes, that’s what I thought,” he whispered, tugging me closer. “And you’re sold out, my dear. You should give me a little credit for knowing you, maybe even better than you do sometimes.”

“Sold out what?” I asked, plucking a flute of champagne from a silver tray a young, pretty woman offered me.

 “Everything.”

“Everything what?”

I felt his breath come out in a sigh. It trickled across my bare shoulder. Stepping away from him slightly, I turned back to meet his eyes. He blinked at me passively, a supreme smirk twisting one corner of his mouth.

“The paintings, Margot,” he said impatiently.

I shook my head. “I don’t have anything to show.”

“Oh, I think the last week was very productive.”

My mouth fell open.

“No,” I growled, just above hearing. “Those are not ready to
show
. They’re not even
done
.”

An older, shiningly wealthy couple had sidled closer to us and Declan cut his eyes toward them.

“It’s a little late for that,” he said quickly, brushing me off before turning to the new fans that so obviously required his attention.

 I clutched the stem of the champagne glass in my hand and stepped away from them, almost tripping over the back hem of my dress. People backed away from me politely, continuing their conversations as I turned slowly in place.

He wouldn’t have,
 I reasoned.

Through the double doors at the end of the room, I heard the piano music and still more guests. Stunned but curious, I began to walk toward them.

Smile, Margot
, I reminded myself as I stilted forward.

I smelled them first: the warm, savory perfume of linseed oil combined with the piney tang of turpentine. As I crossed through the doors, I saw the hip-high velvet rope that had been set up along the walls.

No, no. No, no, no.

The guests grinned and offered stiff bows in welcome. A few ladies clapped their hands politely and stepped aside, presumably so I could stand there instead. Right in front of them. My paintings. My beautiful, still-bloody, just-born paintings.

Trapped between outrage and the desire to not appear like a lunatic, I clawed my own wrist, hoping the sensation would ground me. I was dangerously close to sailing around the room like an untied balloon. I could have cried. I maybe should have. But everyone was smiling and nodding so enthusiastically, I struggled to control myself.

They’re sold; it’s done,
 I told myself.
Get a grip. Be nice. And then get the fuck out.

My hand fluttered up to shoulder height and I sort of waved, hoping that looked like thank-you in Dutch.

“It’s genius, you know?” Peter said, suddenly at my side. “Your recent works? Especially these new ones? I couldn’t believe it when Declan had the men hang them, right in front of our eyes. Quite the unveiling. I had to fight for my favorites.”

I stared into his generous, paternal face, feeling like I had only the thinnest veneer left between my phony smile and the boiling rage behind it.

“I’m… honored, Peter,” I choked, hoping it looked like I was overcome with different emotions. “Thank you so much… for your support.”

“It’s a beautiful collection. So moving, so intense… I very much enjoy the juxtaposition of traditional and modern techniques,” he continued, glancing at the far end of the room.

“Yes, thank you,” I stammered, automatically following the direction of his gesture. There was another velvet rope on the other side of the doorway, a gathering of a dozen or so guests chatting and nodding in front of it.

Unconsciously, I began to walk toward them, Peter strolling slowly beside me. He was flushed with pride. Beaming, really.

My heart began to pound violently in my chest, my throat narrowing like I was half-caught in a swallow. White noise rushed loud in my ears as though the room was suddenly filling with water.

“
No
,” I heard myself say.

“Excuse me?” Peter asked politely, leaning his head toward mine to see what I saw.

“Something is wrong?” he asked.

“Ohhhhh no,” my voice said, all on its own.

Oh Bridget, I am so sorry
, I moaned internally.

Peter straightened again, nodding, apparently interpreting my noises as some kind of understandable artist fit.

“Just sublimely provocative,” he enunciated, directing his comments to the confused guests that surrounded us.

I started to tremble, staring at the wall. Six more paintings were hung all in a row, framed robustly in carved mahogany. Bridget’s paintings. The ones I promised her weeks, even months ago.

Suddenly the room was loud. Too loud. I leaned away from Peter and aimed myself for the door.

“Won’t you… excuse me please,” I whispered hoarsely as I stumbled forward with my hands out, making my way through the crowd that parted, startled, in front of me.

Declan shot me a disgusted look as I hurried past him and back to the foyer, then up the stairs. The dress billowed behind me like a sail all the way up to the studio.

My legs and belly literally trembled with rage as I grabbed my bag from the closet and began to throw everything in it, ripping my clothes from hangers by the handful.

“What on earth are you doing?” Declan demanded, hurrying in after me. “We have a house full of people you need to meet!”

“What am
I
 doing?” I shot back, a fistful of dresses in each hand. I stood there wishing I had something to throw, feeling my skin going slick and hot with anger.

“What… You just snuck in here to take them the
second
 I was out of the room?? You had no right--”

“Well technically I had every right,” he shrugged.

“No!” I yelled. “Those weren’t… Those aren’t…”

I forced myself to stop, dropping the clothes on the bag and walking toward him deliberately, concealing as much of my uncontrollable fury as I could.

“The new paintings aren’t done,” I explained, impressing myself with the even tone of my voice.

“They’re sold,” he said simply.

“They
can’t
 be sold because I didn’t authorize you… or anyone… to sell them.”

He gave me a wink. “Oh yes you did.”

“NO.”

“Well I hate to quibble, but I
am
 your authorized agent. I have the right to sell anything you make.”

“And you
stole
 those paintings from Bridget!”

“Oh please,” he rolled his eyes. “You never got around to even giving them to her.”

“They were
promised
 to her, Declan! That
means
 something!”

“It doesn’t mean anything, actually. If she never took possession of them--”

“I promised her!”

He sighed impatiently. “OK, listen, you really have to up your game, here. This isn’t Grandma’s County Art Show anymore. This is the big leagues. These are serious collectors. Giving them to Bridget would be… a step backward. I saved you that mistake.”

“You saved me!” I repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, and you should consider thanking me.”

I bark-laughed, the veneer that held back my emotions shredding into splinters all around me.

“Thanking you? For what? For tricking me? For lying to me… setting this whole thing up because you knew I would never say yes?”

“Well that’s true, right?” he shot back. “You would
never
 have said yes. What choice did I have?”

My mouth opened and closed like a fish. I felt like I was fighting a ghost, a fog, pounding my fists against thin air.

“Oh my god, there is no way to make you understand,” I mumbled, shaking my head helplessly. What good was it to try to explain? “When is Jackson getting here?”

He shook his head. “Jackson’s gone.”

“What? Gone where?”

He held his hands out, palm up, as though it was obvious. “Gone. Defeated. Given up. On to new adventures. Asta la vista.”

“What? Why?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Because you made your decision. You picked
this
,” he waved his hand around the studio air.

I shook my head as though to clear it. “I didn’t pick this, exactly. I was just… I was working. Which he understood. We talked about it. I didn’t pick
you
. I didn’t pick
you over him
.”

Declan shrugged, smirking maddeningly.

“I didn’t pick you, Declan.”

“Whatever. In any case... you’re here, and he’s gone.”

My hands flapped at my sides. It really was a blessing I didn’t have a handful of knives at that particular moment. “For how long?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed, obviously wanting this to be done with. “Forever? That’s my guess.”

“Not possible,” I retorted defensively. “He’ll be back.”

“Hah,” he scoffed. “For what?”

“For me.”

“Not likely,” he chuckled, his fingers scraping at an invisible dimple on the plaster wall. “Jackson’s never fought for anything in his life. He just gives up. The guy’s just… terminally apathetic. He floats. Our father even held him back in school for a year so I could be next to him to kick his ass into caring about something. Anything. But it never took. Things don’t really matter to him the way they matter to people like us.”

“I am nothing like you,” I hissed, my eyes wide with shock.

“Oh, aren’t you…” he chuckled, cocking his head to the side. “Don’t you just love the way people look at us? Doesn’t that energy just…
whoosh…
 fill you with a thrill?”

“No idea what you mean,” I lied.

“Oh yeah, right,” he drawled. “Like it or not, you and I are very much alike. You think I am ruthless? I think
you’re
 ruthless. It’s one of your most adorable qualities.”

“I am no such thing!”

“Oh aren’t you? I seem to remember you trotting Jack and I around your living room just to humiliate that Kevin guy.
Tsk tsk tsk.
 That was brutal, Mar.”

I turned away, hiding the pain that must have flashed across my face. There was truth in what he was saying. I knew it.

“Listen, come back downstairs,” he said, his voice softening. “I know you’re mad, but you still have business to work through,
downstairs
. We can sort the rest of this tomorrow.”

I squinted and hesitated, then nodded.

“Yes?” he said, his voice brightening with relief. “That’s my girl. I knew you could take it.”

I heard him standing tall, straightening his beautiful suit.

“So I’ll see you down there?”

“OK, Dec. Just give me a minute,” I said softly.

“See?” he said sweetly, walking over to me and embracing me from behind. “I knew you would do it my way. We’re going to have a blast, kiddo.”

Slapping me lightly on the shoulder like I was a teammate in a locker room, he left the studio. As soon as he closed the door, I pulled the beaded belt from my waist and threw it on the bed, then the dress after it.

I could only get my clothes and makeup in my bag, but that was fine. I couldn’t even care anymore. Let it all sink to the bottom of the canal. Let it burn in the fireplace. What did it matter.

Snatching the wad of unspent cash Declan had given me days earlier I opened the envelope Jackson left me. Inside was a single airplane ticket to LA, open-ended. Choking back a fist of emotion, I glanced around the studio at everything I was leaving behind with just a bag of clothes and mascara, then snapped off the light for the last time.

I kept the shoes though, because... well, you know. Gucci shoes.

SOMEHOW HOME SEEMED STRANGE and unfamiliar. It took two days to get there via three different commercial airplanes and by the time I arrived, it all looked manufacture, like a movie set.

“Hello, house,” I whispered when I walked in, breathing deeply, trying to trigger a sensation of belonging. But nothing came.

I dropped my bag on the slate tiles and unbuckled my thoroughly broken-in Gucci sandals, leaving them where they fell. My feet on the cool tiles felt deliciously unfettered and I walked deeper into the house, feeling an inkling of change, a small sense that I did in fact belong here.