Page 6 of A Touch of Dark
Just leave, Juliana,a part of me urges. I have a birthday to conclude. Screams to smother. Dealing with some conceited prick should be an easy headache to tick off my to-do list. Or not.
“Are you the artist?” I ask.
At the sound of my voice, he grits his teeth. A silent denial? Or grudging acknowledgment?
“I…I’m interested in buying. I think.”
“Are you even familiar with the artist’s work?” A droll quality laces his tone. Amusement? No, something darker that makes me quiver in my heels before I can help it: hostility.
Another “admirer” of my family, perhaps? I bite my lip and resist the urge to kick myself for not taking Daddy’s advice to hire a bodyguard. To be fair, my reasoning made sense at the time. Why pay for someone who would always prove ineffective against the real monster?
“Are you?”
My cheeks heat when I realize I still haven’t answered him. “No,” I say. “I’ve actually never heard of him until tonight.”
“Oh?” He runs the edge of his thumb along his chin. I can’t shake the feeling that the act draws attention to his face on purpose. Again, I suspect he knows me as more than just a story from the tabloids. But I don’t know him. “And your thoughts?”
The change in subject is enough to give me whiplash. “Well…” I return my attention to the painting. Nice would be the polite word—or something along those lines. Something to strike up a conversation around. Any other day, I’d know what to say. Tonight, I’m filter-less. “I think…I think it’s terrible.”
“Terrible?” The man laughs. “How so?”
“I…” I shrug, once again compelled toward honesty. “Not in a bad way.”
“This isn’t the place for you.” His warm breath heats my earlobe and chills me to the core, making me jump. “I suggest you leave. Now.”
“Why?” I counter, surprised by how irritated I sound. “If you recognize me from the news, I’m not drawing attention to myself.”
“If?” he wonders, his tone dangerously soft. “Perhaps you’ve recognized me from the ‘news’?”
“No.” I feel like I’ve missed something. Maybe he is a celebrity—some pompous prick with his head so far up his ass that he can’t stand not being recognized. “I think I’d remember you,” I say.
A shadow flickers over the glass in front of me as I sense him looming over my position from behind. He smells strange up this close. My flared nostrils gobble up the scent but I can’t place it.
“One would thinkyouwould.”
I know he’s gone without having to turn around, but the aftermath of his tone ricochets through me. I should do what he said: leave. But before I can take a step, my gaze returns to the painting and I’m riveted once more. It’s as if the woman’s dead stare perfectly sees through everything I try to hide and, unlike the rest of the world, she gives it to me straight.
You’ll never fit in.
“Excuse me, miss.”
The blond woman from the door yanks me from my reverie for the second time. She’s lost her clipboard, clutching a stack of brochures in her hands instead.
“I’ll leave in a minute,” I insist.
“Oh, but I’m sorry. The gallery is closing.” She gestures behind her. Sure enough, the crowd has dissipated. I’m the only guest remaining.
“Oh.”
A tendril of anxiety gnaws away at the lining of my stomach. No, not yet. Five more minutes. Or maybe longer.
“How much is this one?” The question is out before I can reel it back in.
Impulsivity. It’s one of the many traits my therapist urged me to work on. Acting on impulse led me to alcohol. Bad decisions. Oopsies. Mistakes.
“How much?” The woman blinks. “I-I’m not sure, but Mr. Sampson’s work has sold in the tens of thousands before—”
“What about twenty?”
