Slow Seduction (Struck by Lightning) (3 page)

“Nice to meet you,” I said. I looked past him to the parlor behind, though, and added, “Oh.” Every inch of the walls was covered with art, some of it sculpture, some paintings in frames, some that looked painted or attached directly to the wall. There was a fireplace and a large mantelpiece, and the furniture was placed among sculptures and shelves covered with books and knickknacks and things, a glorious riot of color and clutter.

Amid the chaos sat two red velvet chairs with claw feet and a love seat that faced the fireplace with a coffee table in the center. Or, a tea table, I supposed. Pots and cups and china as mismatched and eclectic as the decor waited on a tray.

“You two sit down,” Paulina said. “The scones are about to come out of the oven.”

She went through a doorway into the kitchen, and I followed Misha to the chairs. Something smelled sweet and delicious. I took a seat and Misha poured tea into my cup. On the table were a few slices of finger sandwiches and what looked like chocolate cookies. Now that I was sitting down in front of it, I could see the large painting above the mantel was a portrait of the two of them, only it looked like they had swapped clothes before posing. Interesting. The likeness of the painting to their faces was striking.

“So what brings you to London? Becky said something about a summer job?” Misha asked me.

“Yes, I’m helping out with this pre-Raphaelite exhibit at the Tate Britain,” I said. “I get to give my first tour tomorrow.”

“And you are an expert on the pre-Raphs?” His accent was French and yet he clearly didn’t struggle with English at all.

“I wrote my dissertation on them.” I added a lump of sugar to my cup and stirred. “And I happened to meet one of the curators from the museum, and one thing led to another.”

“Lucky girl,” he said, and it sounded like
lucky gull
.

Paulina emerged with scones still hot from the oven on a tray. For a few minutes then we were all too occupied with breaking open the delicious baked goods, slathering them with butter, and eating them to have decent conversation. It was one of the most fantastic things I had ever tasted. Better than the ones at the Buckingham Palace Hotel.

Paulina smiled indulgently when we all finally slowed down and sat back. “Some folks call our place the House of Indulgence,” she said.

“And they’re not wrong!” Michel chimed in, licking crumbs from one of his fingers. “Now, where were we? Becky was telling us you’re looking for a place to live.”

“Yes. Just for the summer,” I began. “I’m supposed to go back to school to finish up my doctorate.”

“And you’re poor as a church mouse?” Paulina guessed, or maybe Becks had told her.

“Pretty much. The thing at the Tate is sort of off the books. I’m getting paid under the table.”

“Oh, now
that
is intriguing,” Paulina said, leaning closer to me. “The art world has its mysteries, though, doesn’t it?”

Does it ever,
I thought, wondering if they were familiar with J. B. Lester as well as Lord Lightning. But I couldn’t tell them of the connection if they were. As far as I knew, Becky and I were the only people who knew that the glass sculpture artist and the rock star were the same person. “You two seem very…arty.”

“We dabble,” Paulina said with a shrug. “All of our friends are artists of some kind.”

“I can’t help but admire the painting. Did a friend do it?”

“Oh, yes. Fantastic, isn’t it? Our showpiece.” Paulina gestured toward the mantelpiece. “Truth be told, we’re trying to turn the space downstairs into a gallery. But the money’s a trickle and there’s a lot of work still to do…” She trailed off, looking into her teacup. Then she and Michel shared a look.

Michel spoke next. “As we told Becky, we do have a room upstairs, currently storage, and one of our goals is to get it cleaned out. We’d be very happy to offer you the room in exchange for your help cleaning it and working on the gallery downstairs.”

It took a moment for what he said to sink in. “Wait, you mean work instead of paying rent?”

“Yes.” He smiled a knowing smile.

“That’s a great idea! But, well, maybe I should see this room so I know what I’m getting myself into?”

“Fair enough,” Paulina said. “We may as well go upstairs and have a look, then.”

She led the way, I followed, and Michel brought up the rear. He pointed out the door to his own studio, and then we went up another set of stairs. Paulina’s studio was toward the front. She let me look in for a moment and I saw various canvases in various states of half-finished. From there we went toward the back of the building. She pushed open the wooden door at the end of the hall, and it swung open into the room.

The space for the door to open was the only fully clear space on the floor. Everywhere else there were towering piles of books, including on what looked to be a small, low bed, the table beside it, and the dresser against the wall. A lot of books. But not so many that I couldn’t imagine what the room would be like when they were neatly arranged on shelves. The window on the back wall was set high up, above the shelves and almost to the ceiling.

“Ideally,” Paulina said, “we’d get some shelves and things set up downstairs in the lounge area, and a lot of these could move down there. But we haven’t got that far yet.”

“I think I can handle it.” The late-afternoon light came through the small window that faced the back alley. It would be a charming, cozy room once the books were tamed.

“Excellent! Paul, let’s break out some champagne to celebrate,” Michel said. “Welcome to the ArtiWorks!”

Paulina chuckled. “You’ll soon learn that Misha will use any excuse to open a bottle of champagne. Thankfully we can buy it in half bottles now.”

“ArtiWorks?” I asked as we went back downstairs. “I thought this was the House of Indulgence?”

Michel chuckled. “The name of the new gallery, that is, if we can ever get it finished and opened,” he explained, as he popped open a small bottle and poured for us. The bubbles tickled my nose.

“So are you also a Lord Lightning follower?” Paulina asked, while we were sipping.

“Not exactly,” I said, not sure how much to say.

“Becky told us you are trying to find him,” she continued. “But that’s all she said.”

“Yes. I…” I trailed off, not sure what to say.

“You don’t have to tell us anything,” Michel said quickly. “We are nosy people. I can tell you that we sometimes hear about his whereabouts. So there is that.”

I couldn’t help but ask. “Have you heard anything lately?”

They both shook their heads. Paulina poured me some fresh tea. “We’ve heard he’s in England,” she said with some disappointment in her voice. “Usually we know more, but not this time.”

It was a tenuous lead, but at least it was a lead. I felt a flare of hope. They seemed like such nice people. I looked up at the painting. They were both smiling in the portrait and they looked much younger, but sometimes portrait painters made their subjects look better in paint. “How long ago was the portrait done?”

“Oh, years ago,” Paulina said. “Although it was based on a photo even older, taken when we were still working at the university. Where is that one, Misha?”

“Oh, here.” He got up from his chair and went to a shelf that was crowded with photos in frames. He pulled one out and brought it to show me. “The painter of course didn’t put in all the students, just us.”

My breath caught and my throat felt like it was closing. The photo showed a group of people, Paulina and Michel in the center, looking young in their swapped clothes, but there were a few others in the shot. One of them was a tall man who had moved his head at the moment the picture was taken, so his face was blurred. One couldn’t be sure of his features, but his posture, his frame, the set of his shoulders…

It looked like James. It had to be him.

The two of them seemed to be holding their breaths, too. I tried to think of what to say.

Paulina took the frame gently from my hands.

“We miss him, too,” was all she said, before she put it back among the crowd of others, obscuring it again.

“When will you move in?” Michel asked.

My head was still spinning from the sudden revelation that these two were something more than fans, that they knew what he looked like without a mask, that they
knew
him. At least they had known him years ago. It seemed that he was hiding from them, too. “Well, I guess I should try to get the bed and dresser cleared off before I attempt to,” I said, trying to bring my mind back to the task at hand.

“No time like the present,” Paulina chirped, looking hopeful.

“I’ll help, if you like,” Michel offered.

“No, no, I’ll get started. There isn’t room in there for more than one person anyway,” I said. “I’ll go get my stuff from the hotel a bit later.”

“I need to go out in a bit anyway,” Paulina said. “I’ll come with you to help move your things.”

“I don’t have that much stuff.” I couldn’t help but grin, though. “Just one suitcase and a computer bag. But I wouldn’t mind company.”

“That’s settled then. I’ll come up and see how your progress is going in a few hours,” she said. “Misha, the dishes are yours.”

“Yes, dear,” he said with a sigh. “She’s a fantastic cook, you know, but this is the price she exacts. When she cooks, I clean.”

He went into the kitchen, and I went upstairs, while Paulina settled by the fireplace with a book, sipping what was left of the tea. If I hadn’t been sure before, now I was quite convinced that I was in for an interesting summer.

I
t was a good thing I wasn’t supposed to give that tour until the evening. Jet lag kept me up all night, though at least I put it to good use reading the catalog, and then I slept through the morning. When I woke up in the early afternoon, at first I couldn’t remember where I was, and the tiny bed surrounded by books seemed like something out of a dream. Then I remembered Paulina and Michel and our late-evening run to the hotel to get my things. The clerk seemed very skeptical of me checking out at eleven o’clock at night, as if the two of them were some kind of disreputable characters who might be kidnapping me.

Maybe they were, artists kidnapping me off to art fairyland.

After I woke up, Paulina made me breakfast and helped me iron my blazer so I would look presentable. I had bought the jacket to wear to job interviews, and once the wrinkles were out of it, I looked sharp and smart, I thought.

Martindale thought so, too. “Ah, you look perfect,” he said as he ushered me into his office. “Thank you for being willing to do this after hours.”

“Oh, of course, whatever you need,” I said.

“Many of the donors have no difficulty passing through the crowds, but there are some who prefer not to appear in such public venues. Tonight’s guest is in that category. We should meet his party shortly. But before they arrive, let’s look at that package again.”

He sat behind his desk and took out James’s photographs, still in the same envelope they had been mailed in. He passed the small item to me.

It didn’t have a postmark on it, but instead of stamps it had a label that had clearly been generated at the post office for the correct postage amount. The label had various numbers and letters on it. “Do you know what these mean? Could they be used to track the package?”

He peered across the desk where I was holding up the envelope. “I don’t rightly know.”

“Do you think we could look it up on the Internet?”

“I don’t know. Could we?” He turned toward the computer stand to one side of his desk, where a monitor and keyboard sat idle. “I admit I don’t know how to do much with this other than answer my e-mail.”

“Can I give it a try?”

“Please. Let’s switch chairs.” He got up and ceded his chair to me with a little bow.

The computer was on and the screen lit up as I jiggled the mouse. It wasn’t difficult to open a Web browser and I started to search. The Royal Mail website talked about the switch from postage to metered labels, which meant whoever mailed the package had gone to a mail counter to post it. That was a start. But I couldn’t find a directory that explained what the label codes were, only a tantalizing bit about how the codes were unique to each mailing branch.

“Well,” I told Martindale, “this would tell us where it was mailed from, if we could find out what the actual codes were. That doesn’t seem to be on the website.”

“Perhaps the police?” he suggested. “This seems the sort of thing they would be keenly interested in.”

“I’m betting if I keep digging I’ll find it,” I said.

“Well, best to continue it later. It’s nearly time for our appointment.”

I turned off the monitor and handed him back the photos, but he demurred. “Why don’t you hang on to them for a while?”

I slipped the envelope into my purse.

We took the short walk from the office building to the museum. The weather was lovely, cooling a little as the afternoon turned to evening, and there was a breeze from the direction of the river.

As we approached the back entrance, the driver got out of a limousine sitting at the curb, and I thought instantly of Stefan.

A moment later the driver had opened the passenger door, and a man in a sleek-looking suit with artfully tossed black hair stepped out. He was runway-model gorgeous, with the flat, disdainful look in his eye you see on the covers of magazines. Two women, one blonde and one brunette, with the same look about them followed.

I did a double take when Martindale led me right to them. I had been expecting rich art donors to be older, more like Martindale himself.

Instead, the man reminded me of James, and the two statuesque women of Lucinda, with their cool beauty. I had
 only
 met her
 
once, at that kinky party, but she had made an impression, poised and sexy, like so many of the people there. Self-possessed and confident, yet exuding a sort of erotic vibe—or maybe at this point for me that kind of self-possession
was
an erotic vibe. That was James all over, completely in control, knowing that he turned heads and left people drooling in his wake. That cool exterior hid a passionate, wicked core. I remembered the exacting efficiency with which he tied me up with ropes as well as the way he had trembled against me, barely able to stop himself from fucking me before I was ready…

Martindale brought me back to reality. “Mr. Damon George, this is Karina Casper. She’ll be showing you around the exhibit.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Casper.” The man took my hand briefly.

Martindale seemed to be waiting for him to introduce his companions, but he said nothing about them and they hung back, silent. Martindale cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let’s go in.”

A security guard met us at the doors to allow us inside. Martindale then led us through the back-entrance access hallways I had not been in before and into the galleries. The two women were wearing heels that seemed impossibly high, and we walked somewhat slowly, the sounds of their heels and our shoes loud in the empty museum.

“Pardon the dust from the construction,” he said, as we went past one of the areas where the major renovations were taking place.

“Why should I mind it?” Damon George said. “I’m paying for a lot of it, aren’t I?”

“Ha-ha, true,” Martindale agreed. “Now, here we are. I’ll leave you in Ms. Casper’s hands. Karina, when you’re done, pick up the phone here to let security know.”

“Yes, Mr. Martindale,” I said, wondering if I should curtsy. I didn’t. He gave me a little wave good-bye and then left.

The lights were already on full brightness as we stepped into the first gallery.

I took a deep breath, preparing to launch into a speech about the founding of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, but he stopped me before I could start.

“Karina Casper,” he said. “May I call you Karina? You can call me Damon instead of Mr. George.”

“Um, sure.” I tried to guess his age. Thirty, maybe? “Is there something in particular you want to know about the Pre-Raphaelites?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I merely wish to commune with the art.” He clucked his tongue and walked down the first row of paintings, the two women trailing behind him like obedient pets.

Given that they reminded me of the people I’d seen and met at that kinky ball, I wondered if they were under an order of silence.

Maybe I was too after that comment about communing with the art. He was clearly as arrogant as they came. I reminded myself that he was a major donor and kissing his ass was my job.

So I followed along like one of his pets. He said nothing until we came to the famous image of Ophelia drowning herself. “Surely you see that this painting is about violence against women,” he said. “How dare they show it in public?”

I nearly rose to the bait, except that it was so obvious he was saying something outrageous to get a rise out of me, and I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. “Our mission is to preserve and display the art,” I said in my best tour guide voice. “Not to condone any particular interpretation of it. Any work of great art will have multiple interpretations. In fact, I’d say the greater the art, the more interpretations there will be.”

He sniggered. “Very politically correct, my dear.”

What wouldn’t have been politic would be to say what I was really thinking, which is that I didn’t give a damn what his opinions were on art. Or anything. Arrogant prick. But I gave him my “waitress” smile and we moved on. He didn’t linger over many of the paintings, skimming along until we came to the final gallery.

“Now, here are the really sexy ones,” he said, opening his arms wide as if he were going to give the nudes of Andromeda a hug.

I should have known those would be his favorite paintings. Andromeda was the only nude in the whole exhibit. Depicted in three large paintings by Burne-Jones, Andromeda is rescued by Perseus from the sea serpent that is about to eat her. In the first, there’s a kind of love-at-first-sight moment, where she’s naked against the rocks and he takes off his helmet to look at her. In the second, we see her back turned while Perseus wrestles with the black coils of the sea serpent. In the last, she is clothed and they are bending over a font together so Perseus may show her the head of Medusa in the reflection.

It struck me suddenly that Andromeda’s dress in the final painting was strikingly similar to the one worn by the Beggar Maid. I stepped closer to examine it.

“You have it backward, you know,” Damon said, stepping close and talking quietly into my ear, the way you would if the gallery were crowded with people. Since it wasn’t, I stepped aside, but he kept going. “You read it right to left, but the real story is the other direction.”

“What are you talking about?” I frowned, wondering what nonsense he was spouting this time. Was he trying to get a rise out of me again? “It follows the mythical tale.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing. You’re supposed to see it as the great and mighty Perseus is tamed and domesticated by the beautiful girl. The first thing he does? Uncover his head, then cut off the head of a snake, and then in the end show her how safe and tame the snake-head of Medusa is. In other words, he emasculates himself for her—the snake, the head, and the sword all being phallic symbols.”

“So? That’s still reading it left to right.”

“I know. That was the acceptable story to Victorians. But the real story is the other way. It’s that he begins tame, fools her into thinking he’s safe, and by the end is about to put his helmet on and ravish her.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Ancient Greek was read from right to left, not left to right,” he said smugly.

I racked my brain, trying to remember everything I knew about the paintings. I was fairly sure that Burne-Jones had painted three or four more of Perseus, and if only I knew the dates I could probably prove him wrong, but since these hadn’t figured into my thesis, I didn’t know the dates off the top of my head. “How do you know so much about Greek culture anyway?”

He laughed and turned to face me in front of the painting. “Don’t you think there’s a resemblance?”

The crazy thing is, there was. He could have been Perseus come to life, but with a much more annoying smirk. I still didn’t make the connection, though.

“George is anglicized from Georgiades,” he said. “So let’s just say…I know my Greek.”

Fine. “A very interesting theory, Mr. Georgiades.”

“Damon, please.” His eyebrow arched with mischief, and I knew he was about to say something else designed to get a rise out of me. “I only enjoy formality with those I’m fucking.”

I knew it. Well, if he thought he was going to shock me, he was wrong. “Is that why your companions don’t speak?” I asked. “And don’t have names?”

His grin widened with delight. “You’re very perceptive, Karina! I wouldn’t have guessed you for the type, but then…people never do. I suppose you went through the whole slap and tickle nightclub scene in New York?”

“No,” I said coldly. “Not really.”

“Hmm.” He merely gave me a nod and then turned back to the painting behind him.

He snapped his fingers, and the two women fell into a sudden embrace, kissing each other. I took a step back.

“You’re welcome to stay and watch, Karina, but if it’s too much for you, all I ask 
for 
is, oh, about seven minutes of privacy.”

“Are you kidding me? I can’t leave you alone with these paintings!” That was a much more shocking idea than that he had two sex slaves following him around. Oh. It dawned on me then that he’d brought them to the gallery specifically to get off. No wonder he paid a huge sum to have a private, after-hours viewing of the art.

“Even if I promise we won’t touch them?” At the word
touch,
he rubbed the length of his cock through his trousers.

I wasn’t about to let that distract me. “I’m sorry, Mr. George, but I don’t know you well enough to trust your promise. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re honorable.”

He bowed his head. “All too true. I suppose you’ll have to stay, then.” Before I could argue further, he snapped his fingers again and said, “Present.”

The two women disengaged instantly and struck poses with almost military precision, feet apart, hands behind their backs, thrusting their chests forward. Damon circled them, examining their bodies first with his eyes, then running his hands over the breasts of one, feeling the hardness of her nipples where they stood out against her blouse. He then ran his hand down the other one’s mound and hiked up her skirt. From where I was standing behind them I couldn’t quite see, but I was betting she had no panties on. She made a sound as—I guessed—he put his finger inside her.

“So ripe, so ready,” he murmured, as he lifted his hand to her face. She licked his finger.

He stood facing me then, one hand up the skirt of each woman. They struggled to stay silent as he played with their privates. I remembered struggling like that, trying to hide the fact that James was getting me off under a restaurant table. Damon’s grin was wicked, his eyes locked on me as he tormented and pleasured the two women. I couldn’t help but try to guess what he was doing. When one of them stifled a yelp, had he pinched her clit? Put a second finger into her? When the other bent her knees to steady herself and caught her breath, was she close to coming? I could hear the wet sucking sound of one of his hands penetrating her over and over.

I tried not to move, but I wanted to press my own legs together and tamp down the arousal I was feeling at the sight.

Both women were barely staying balanced on their high heels as they shook with desire. I wondered if he was going to get them off right there in front of me.