Page 3 of Forbidden Desires

All Dominique had told me of this meeting was that I should dress nicely, but not overtly sexy, and to give my name to the woman who would be at the ticket counter since my admission had already been paid for by Eric. To the woman’s credit, she didn’t seem too scrutinizing when I introduced myself. She was a vision of respectability as she looked through her notes, then nodded when she found my name seemingly on a list of pre-approved folk and told me to go on through.

The first low hurdle overcome, I was free to roam as I pleased while I waited for Eric Maxim to approach me based on the recent photo Dominique had sent to him, along with my other pertinent information. I didn’t have any such luxury and had no idea what he looked like.

This situation was an uncommon set up. Normally, if a client needed to meet me to see if we were compatible before moving forward with any arrangement, he would usually FaceTime me. ‘Compatible’ was often whether they found my face and voice attractive, and therefore, whether or not they could see themselves fucking me.

Often, the simplest of intentions were the easiest to navigate.

This Eric Maxim was somewhat of an enigma, however. As I wandered the mostly empty art exhibition hall, eyes drawn from one painting to another, to grand sculptures and puzzling abstract pieces, I wondered if maybe Eric Maxim was an eccentric type for having me out here by myself, simply waiting for his arrival. Maybe he fancied himself a Phantom of the Opera type, watching his unwitting Christine Daaé from the shadows.

The idea made me smile in amusement as I continued on. Though this was technically work and a job, I found myself easily forgetting it as so, and willingly enjoyed the atmosphere of this place which was quiet and unimposing.

Not knowing how long it would take for Eric to make his appearance, I immersed myself in the experience. It had been so long since I’d indulged in any art. The scent of dried paint—oils differing from acrylics, differing from watercolors—was as welcoming as the notion of reuniting with an old friend.

I had not expected to feel so nostalgic. To have the tingle in my palms as though my body knew that it wanted to be once more in the presence of paint brushes, ink pots, and grainy art papers beneath my fingertips. Or the way colors splashed in monochrome or vibrant mixes of pigments, how hard and soft mediums came together to create beautiful, dynamic sculptures.

My browsing brought me to a particular painting and forced me to stop in front of it and move closer with curiosity. It was a naked woman, bathed in a series of decaying flowers. They flowed over her naked form, the desaturated, muted colors of theflowers contrasting beautifully with the rich depth of her brown skin and ringlet curls fanned out around her head. It was almost like the life in those flowers had transferred their vitality into her.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?”

I was startled by the sudden male voice that spoke beside me, but I found myself too enraptured by the painting to look away. “It is. Whoever did the coloring is an expert at blending and contrast. Even the imperfections could be called perfect.”

“Imperfections?” he questioned, his voice as smooth as fine bourbon.

Still enthralled by the exquisite piece of art, I pointed to a particular area and explained what I meant. “The artist uses chrysanthemums, spider lilies, and popover poppies for the flowers. Each has a specific color palette corresponding with it, yet once you start getting to the bottom half of the painting, the color palettes shift just so from the exact hues of the flowers in the upper half, which suggests that the artist probably mixes their own paint colors—the original batch likely ran out, so they replenished with a new batch of mixed paint. The artist got insanely close to the original hue that they used, which is impressive with custom paint colors unless a painter is precisely measuring their paint ratios. The fact that they probably mix their own paint explains why the skin tone is so rich; it’s hard to get that straight from the tube. But it’s also why an imperfection like a mismatched color is actually quite charming. It’s a detail most people would miss otherwise.”

“And yet you caught it immediately, Miss Greene.”

My back straightened with the unexpected use of my name. A shocked shiver ran up my spine, and I turned toward the source.

A man towered over me, even as his eyes remained fixated on the painting in front of us.Toweredwas not putting it lightly. He was one of the tallest people I had ever seen, with a golden tan toperfectly smooth, well cared for skin that beautifully contrasted with the tailored black suit that he wore. Tailored, I knew for a fact, because nowhere on his sculpted body was the three piece ill-fitted. All of it came together in a picture-perfect rendition of a man and a life well lived if the salt and pepper hair—erring more on the side of pepper than salt—was any indication.

It was when he glanced down at me, though, that I swallowed hard as my heart took flight in my chest. His thick, soft looking hair was styled back from his face, leaving nothing to take away from the clarity of the palest blue eyes I had ever seen.

Fuck…he was breathtakingly gorgeous.

Was this Eric Maxim? Had to be, didn’t it? No one else, aside from the receptionist who’d allowed my admittance, could possibly have guessed my name out of the blue.

Damn. Of all the things Dominique had said about Eric, she did not prepare me for how beautiful a man he would be. Even if you’ve spent years—or your whole life—escorting, it rarely diminished the effect of someone who looked like they were carved from the finest marble with loving sculptor’s hands.

“Mr. Maxim, I presume?” I managed to say after a moment.

I was, of course, a professional, and if I couldn’t even carry on a conversation with a client first meeting, then I had no business trying to carry on a whole evening event with them, either. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, especially not in front of a man Dominique already told me was very particular.

He inclined his head. “Eric,” was his polite correction. “Just Eric. There’s no need to be so formal. We were speaking about the painting. I’m not sure I’d call them imperfections when you have such a high opinion on the outcome.”

I raised a brow and easily slipped right back into our previous discussion. “Imperfections aren’t necessarily things that need to have low opinions. Or fixing. Imperfection is a general state of art. There is art that is perfect, and art that is not.I would say that imperfect art is superior, but I think that would piss off a lot of artists telling them that to their faces.”

He stared down at me for a long, unnerving moment. “You seem to know a lot about the finer details of artwork.”

The way he spoke was direct. Controlled. Almost like there was a comment that he was holding back. Was his statement genuine, or was he mocking me? It was hard to tell.

I returned my attention to the painting. “I know enough to hold a conversation,” I hedged with a smile. “Enough to know about mixing paint and how the flowers used in this painting symbolize death.”

“Ironic, given the subject herself is so lively,” he murmured, his deep voice doing ridiculously arousing things to my body. “That you caught the symbolism is impressive.”

I ignored the latter part of his statement, which almost felt…derogatory. “I imagine she’s taken the flowers’ vitality for herself. She’s so tranquil laying among them even as they’re dying. Like she knows she’s going to be alright.”

“A floral succubus?” he mused.

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