Seductive Secrecy (Shadows series) (3 page)

A look of satisfaction spread over his face, and he gently lifted me off the wall and placed me on the bench behind us. Just as I was about to set my feet on the floor, he kneeled in front of me and gripped my ankles to stop me.

“Put your heels on the edge of the bench.”

I did as I was told, bending my knees and curling my toes
around the ledge.

His hands quickly darted to my ass, dragging it to the same place where my toes rested. His touch broke through the sensitivity that still dominated my body and the ticklishness of my flesh. “I’ve
been waiting all day to lick you.” He took his time, gradually
dipping his lips to my thigh, tasting and sucking small bits of me. “Tell me I
can have you.” His words spread over me like a thickening fog,
covering me with warmth and desire.

“You
”

“No, baby…I need to hear my name coming from your lips.”

When I looked down, his mouth was hovering in front of my pussy, waiting for me to speak. His breath hit my folds. The added heat only teased me more.

“Cameron,” I whispered and stopped.

That was all it took for his tongue to find me.

OUR SCHEDULES HAD BECOME INSANE,
with the majority of our time being spent in the studio, so Cameron and I tried our best to have breakfast together every morning. It was usually just a cup of coffee and something that didn’t require utensils to eat, but at least we had those few uninterrupted moments together before the
craziness of our days began. This morning was no different.
Cameron knew I had a meeting with Professor Freeman and was already in the kitchen when I entered. He met me at the island, handed me a banana and a full mug of blonde roast, lightened and sweetened. Then his lips briefly brushed over mine.

“I missed you last night,” I said. “You warmed me up, but then your side of the bed went so cold.”

He leaned against the far counter while I pushed my back against the granite, only a foot of space separating us. He took a sip from his cup. “I’m struggling with this piece.”

“Anything I can do?” I knew there wasn’t, but I still wanted to offer. Painting was such a solo adventure; advice, encouragement,
spoken inspiration didn’t penetrate when an artist felt as blocked as
he was.

He shook his head and pulled a loose strand of hair off my lip. “I got an email from my brother early this morning. He still doesn’t know when he’ll be home.”

Ryder was Cameron’s younger brother. For the last six months he’d been backpacking through Asia. He’d left during the mansion
take down; I’d never gotten the chance to meet him, though
Cameron talked about him often. They were best friends; Ryder was the only family Cameron would ever speak about.

“Ryder’s probably just having a really good time,” I offered. There was a twinge of melancholy in his eyes every time his name came up. “I know you miss him.”

“I’ve never been apart from him for this long.”

I pushed my back off the counter, leaving the mug on the stone surface, and wrapped my arms around his neck. “You have me.”

He kept his fingers beside him, but he scanned my eyes, my face. “I know I do. It’s just...different with my brother.”

I didn’t have a sibling. I couldn’t even imagine what it would have been like to raise a brother or sister and deal with Lilly, my mother, and the environment she had created for us. But a part of me had always yearned for a relationship like the one Cameron had with Ryder. And even though I had something similar with Emma, she wasn’t blood…and she was gone.

“I understand. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

He nodded. “You’ll be home after your meeting?”

“Yes,” I leaned in quickly to peck his lips. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” I released his shoulders and took a final sip of coffee before moving to the foyer to grab my bag.

“Charlie,” he said as the elevator chimed, notifying me of its arrival.

I turned toward him.

“Be careful.”

I smiled at him. Then I walked through the entrance, pushing the button for the ground floor.

***

Professor Freeman was ensconced in his high leather chair. I sat on the opposite side of his desk and we both stared at
Smoke and Shadows
, the painting I had placed on an easel in the back of his office. Although he wasn’t teaching any of the three classes I was enrolled in for the semester, he was still my mentor, and I met with him weekly to discuss the pieces I was working on, for school or for
buyers. The one we were examining was for a collector named
Olivia, a woman he’d introduced me to several weeks ago. She’d
requested a piece for her bedroom; she wanted sensuality,
seduction—mystery, even. For her, I’d painted a woman in profile; her arm was bent, and the back of her hand rested on her forehead. From the placement of her fingers, a shadow was cast over her eyes in a shape
that closely resembled a mask. Her neck was slightly faded and
flowed seamlessly into her shoulders, collarbone and breasts. All that skin was covered in smoke, a thick vapor that surrounded and wafted off of her. In the entire painting, only her lips held color: naphthol red that glossed and accentuated the plumpness of her mouth.

“The woman you created doesn’t resemble Olivia at all,” the
Professor said, referring to the contrast between Olivia’s creamy complexion and platinum hair and the dark features of the woman in the painting. “It looks more like a portrait of the artist, actually.” I hadn’t meant for my own characteristics to come through; I had wanted something of a fantasy instead. That didn’t always happen,
no matter what my intentions were. “But I know she wanted
something a little darker in tone overall. I think she’ll be really pleased with this.” He stood and moved over to the piece, holding the wooden ledge of the easel and bending to get a closer look. “She’s stunning, Charlie. Your growth continues to impress me.”

The Professor often asked the inspiration behind my pieces. Sometimes I was honest with him and described the moment when
the image had come to me. Other times, I lied about everything he
asked.
There was a side of me he hadn’t met, the side that bled dark
emotion. He didn’t know I had worked at the mansion
he wouldn’t have
even known what the mansion was if its existence hadn’t been
broadcast in the news
or that the Doctor, one of his collectors, was my father. He believed my shadows stemmed from the death of my mother and the unhealthy relationship we’d had. That was only part of the truth, though. And my art had changed somewhat in the last six months. It had always been loud, sensual, gritty and painful—and it still was all of those. But within those swirls of dusk were new hints of conflict and unresolved feelings working their way to the surface.

I thanked him with a nod. “I met with Gareth last night.”

He returned to the desk and took a seat. “Interesting fellow, isn’t he?”

“Extremely.” I retrieved my phone from my bag and pulled up the pictures of the outline I had sketched that morning. With all that had happened in the shower the night before, I hadn’t had time to
start on it like I’d wanted to. “His taste is a little darker than
Olivia’s.”

 “Yes, well…his art serves a slightly different purpose. He
doesn’t just use it to decorate; he uses it to define the lifestyle he practices.
But your talent will fill his needs as well.” His expression never
changed
as he flipped through the pictures. I could tell he was just as
impressed with this piece as he’d been with Olivia’s. “Gareth was enamored when I showed him some of your past work. He even offered to pay double your normal fee.”

“Double?”

“He can afford it, as much as Olivia can afford the extra she’s paying you. They both appreciate your particular skill much more than others do.”

It wasn’t just my artistic skill that Gareth was after; it was a certain atmosphere he wanted my art to create in his living space, one that I could relate to personally. He wanted shaded, he wanted sexy, he wanted submissive. I was a certain level of all three, and it carried through in my art.

“If the feedback from Gareth and Olivia are positive—and I have no reason to believe that it won’t be—I think it’ll be time for us to raise your commission.”

When the Professor referred me to buyers, he took a certain
percentage, as a finder’s fee; the same was true for galleries and
interior decorators who recommended me. Their rates were standard for representing a novice with no reputation in the industry. But as an artist began to gain popularity, negotiation of fees and prices became a possibility. They could even become more selective about the work they took on.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“On the back end? Maybe three or four points. On the front? At least a few thousand. You’re in demand now, and your prices need to reflect that.”

I had discussed this with Cameron several weeks ago when we had talked about his climb in the Boston art scene. Each artist had a
different experience, for sure, but he was the only person whose
history I knew and could compare mine to. Based on his numbers and what he’d received when he was in a similar position in his career, the raise was more than I was expecting.

“Talk it over with Cameron and let me know what you decide.”

I smiled and thanked him. He knew I was going to accept the offer, but I appreciated that he was giving me time to consider it.

He moved back to the easel and wrapped Olivia’s piece before handing it to me. I tucked it under my arm, gathered my bag and gave him a quick hug as I left.

Once outside, I headed in the direction of our apartment rather
than toward the train. I preferred walking on days where the
weather was tolerable, since most of my time was spent inside the studio. Air gave me a chance to process everything. Our building was much closer to Northeastern than my old place had been, which made the walk much shorter.

I crossed at Huntington Ave when the signal changed and kept
my eyes trained on the sidewalk ahead. There was a time when I’d
looked over my shoulder constantly, scanning the street or the curbs
for my father’s limo. For a while, it was the only way we had
communicated; the mansion had kept such close track of me, it was the safest place for us to speak. There was a short period after my father had turned in all their records when I feared I was being followed. I didn’t trust the tinted windows of any car that passed me, or eyes concealed behind sunglasses. I was worried they knew the truth about who I really was: that I was the Doctor’s daughter, that I’d been the whistleblower and had persuaded my father to turn
in the evidence. And the evidence revealed every young woman
who had been lured into that house, the ones who had been kidnapped
on the street, the organs that had been ripped from their delicate
bodies and to whom they’d been sold.