Page 5 of A Touch of Dark
She catches me staring and winks. “I felt the same way the first time I saw one of his works. Enjoy.” She scurries off, leaving me to survey the rest of the gallery alone.
Twenty women join the first, trapped in their own worlds of darkness and roses. Observed together, they rip me from the elegant setting, dragging me into each brutal scene. Flowers. Passion. Death. Those are the recurring themes.
I’m no art connoisseur, but I can recognize talent—and this artist oozes it in every brushstroke, along with a million other tiny details. Such as his indifference to his subjects. The cruel attention given to the fear lurking in those blank irises. The cold, twisted elegance of lifeless limbs.
Each portrait pulls me in before I’m swept along to the next. Far too soon, I find myself before the first painting again, unable to toe the respectful distance every other spectator keeps. Curiosity yanks me closer against my will, step by step.
Finally, I reach out with a trembling finger—
Commotion.
I turn and find a gaggle of people huddling together in the center of the ballroom, jockeying for a glimpse of someone: a man whose sheer presence urges people from his path. Literally. The crowd parts like the Red Sea.
“It’s him,” I see a woman mouth to her companion, wide-eyed.
Him.The lone unaffected figure, I presume. A man who takes my breath away—the same way walking outside, butt-ass naked in the dead of winter would.
Suddenly and lethally.
My father is—was—a judge, and I’m more than used to imposing men. We had politicians who controlled the livelihoods of the entire state over for breakfast. I lived in the mayoral mansion for three years. Summered with the governor’s children.
Neither Daddy nor those in his orbit ever commanded a room as this man does. And for that, I count my blessings. Simon is terrifying enough to live in the shadow of—and he’s just a shadow.
This man is darkness. He stands tall, wearing black almost from head to toe: a tailored suit that screams of old money and careful taste—and brawn. The ebony material strains over broad shoulders and muscular forearms.
Trailing my gaze upward, I expect a face worthy of the intrigue, but he’s like one of these paintings: a mixture of handsome and strange. A stern jaw anchors what I can only assume are Romanesque features, mingled with a hint of the exotic, though a dark blindfold obscures most of them, hiding his eyes. It’s tied neatly over the bulk of a black ponytail that reaches down to his shoulders.
Such a strange accessory, though it doesn’t appear to hinder his confident stride.
“I can’t believe it’s him in the flesh,” a woman nearby whispers. “He doesn’t look like a kingpin.”
Is he a celebrity of some kind? Or maybe the artist himself? I browse the brochure in my grip, but it only contains representations of the paintings, never their creator.
When I look up again, he’s holding court in the back corner of the ballroom as men in black suits stand guard nearby, intimidating the crowd from coming too close. Beside the blindfolded man is the blond woman. Her gaze cuts in my direction as her lips move rapidly near his ear.
I turn back to the painting and try to shut the rest of the world out again. It’s surprisingly easy to, the longer I stare. No need for pills or booze. Just soulless eyes formed from intricate strokes of paint.
The woman could be me in the right lighting. Therefore, she’s the perfect canvas to project all my flaws onto. Alive, I bet she wore Versace and hated her birthday.
I bet she hated herself.
The longer I stare, the uncannier the resemblance seems. Am I seeing more of my reflection than the art? I brush my fingers against the glass, but I can’t decipher what’s paint and what’s reflection.
“Do not touch,por favor.” The deep voice accompanies the hand seizing my wrist without warning.
I shiver and whirl around. Then my brain stalls, spitting out a few disjointed thoughts before total malfunction.Handsome. Dark. Up close.
“The glass is fragile,” the blindfold-wearing man warns. His voice is deeper than I expected by looking at him. Suave, grated tones fall like off-notes from a piano. Jarringly out of place.
“Sorry,” I croak, wrenching my hand back. My heart races, surging beneath my skin. Strange. I press my fingers there, counting each frantic beat. Thump. Thump. Thump. “S-sorry,” I repeat.
His jaw tightens in an elegant display of rippling muscle. “You need to leave.”
“I…I’m sorry?” People are staring. Probably at me: openmouthed, my cheeks flaming. “I didn’t mean—”
“I’ll have my men escort you out.” He nods, beckoning one of the stern-faced bouncers closer.
“W-wait.”
