Page 3 of Iron Blade

They could have dropped dead at that moment and I wouldn’t have cared.

I was reveling in what I saw. If they got a smidge of what I was feeling, then maybe art school hadn’t been a complete waste after all.

“This is a master,” I said, commenting on the artist.

A slow clap punctuated the air like a gunshot: slow, rhythmic and condescending. How that was possible, I wasn’t sure.

I turned, wondering what on earth was happening when my gaze landed on a walking Ken doll. He was tall, over six feet, in a navy-blue pinstriped suit and gray silk shirt. On his wrist was a gold George Daniels Co-Axial watch with a brown leather band. The man’s face was square, clean-shaven, and so conventionally handsome that it was hard to believe he wasn’t made of plastic. Only one imperfection existed - if you could even call it an imperfection - his eyes were a frightening shade of black.

He smirked; his devilish eyes boring into me. Behind him were barrel-chested men in black Hugo Boss suits. Three of them. They looked like bodyguards. Or minions. Whatever they were, they were blank-faced, and probably packing heat under those boxy blazers.

“Can I help you?” I bristled, feeling his judgment crawl over my skin.

“Nah, you’re grand.” He surprised me with a strong, deep Irish accent. “You’re not a complete dilettante after all.”

The women in the audience tittered. One of them even licked her lips as she eyed him up and down. At least a few preened in his presence, hoping to catch his eye. But they all failed, because those black eyes were focused right on me. Who was this man?

He gave me a dashing smile, his black eyes full of mirth. “I’m Eoghan Green. Your master.”

Chapter two

Vlad the Impaler

Eoghan

Miss Kekoa. Kira Kekoa. I tapped my finger on the white linen tablecloth as I daydreamed about the smart-mouthed woman who led the procession of art dilettantes by the nose at Gallery Four.

Even the rhythm of her name haunted me. Kira Kekoa.

If I had been alone, I would have whispered her name out loud, just to feel the syllables on my tongue.

She was fucking delicious.

Everything from her high-heeled shoes with the red soles, the curved calves in her black tights with the black line down the back, accentuating her body’s fullness, to the pencil skirt and black blouse… it was utter perfection.

Had I admired her arse before I listened to her voice? Maybe. I’m an artist, and at heart, a visual creature. But then, her words… well, that was what sealed the deal.

She was a vision. I wanted to take her slicked back bun and unravel it in my hands. I bet that full head of hair would cascade down to that curvy waist.

A true femme fatale.

I clenched my fist, imagining the feel of her hair wrapped around my hand as I pummeled myself inside her from behind. I bet that round arse would be the perfect pillow for my pistoning hips.

From painting to painting, they had hung on her every word like she was the fucking pied piper. I thought she was just a magician, doing things with razzle-dazzle words and a sleight of hand that amounted to nothing.

That was, until she got to my painting, and I saw first-hand that she knew what she was talking about.

I was a damn good painter. A fucking artist in every sense of the word. That was a fact. But not everyone had the taste to see it.

Even now, I could still see the genuine, knowing wonder in her eyes as she looked at my work and declared it a masterpiece, and me, a master.

A week and several hundred miles spanned between us now, and yet she was still here, with me. Her voice, her presence. She followed me like a ghost.

Few people in the world could separate the art from the spectacle that comes with it.

“What was that education for, boyo?” My father gruffed over the grand dining room table.

The light from the chandelier cast shadows over his wrinkled, leathery skin, highlighting the hair that had turned white the day we found my mother’s bloody body on the driveway.

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