AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m not telling you,” Connie’s voice cracked, but she held his gaze with defiance.
Duncan shook his head and made a disappointed face. “You will,” he said with an edge of menace, then grinned. It twisted his mouth. “Because if you don’t, I will phone the bank and cut off your mother’s nursing home money. Then I will have you thrown out of the apartment I am paying for, then I will –”
Connie wheeled on him, her face suddenly a snarl. She thrust out a finger of accusation at him and Duncan flinched. He had seen her eyes and been shocked at what they had revealed. There had been a blaze of pure hatred unveiled – an inscrutable and merciless glare that he had not expected. It was gone in an instant, hidden so swiftly that it might have been an illusion.
“No!” Connie hissed. “No more threats, Duncan. No more, not ever again. Tonight it is my turn to threaten you,” she bristled.
Duncan set down the glass, all pretense of urbane charm burned away. He stood, mocking and belligerent, swaying on the balls of his feet. “Give it your best shot,” he said.
Connie went to the table and opened the briefcase. She laid down the first, smallest painting, and pushed it towards him so that it glided across the smooth surface. Duncan glanced at it – and froze.
He shot a glare at Connie. “You found others?”
Connie nodded carefully. “I bought the last two seascapes available,” she said. “This one I am giving to you, Duncan… in exchange for a waiver of all debts between us, all responsibilities, all sense of obligation. You get the painting, and I get to walk away from you and my guilt. No more will I have to cringe under your touch or feel revolted when you are too close to me. You take this painting and everything personal that existed between us is dissolved.”
Duncan narrowed his eyes. He picked up the painting carefully and saw the signature, then turned it over and read the handwritten message that had been penciled on the back of the canvas. He turned to Connie and his eyes were monstrous.
“You found him!”
Connie said nothing. Duncan spun on his heel and went pacing across the boardroom, prowling like a lion. His jaws were chewing thoughtfully and there was a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead. He came back to Connie at last, and gripped at her hands.
“Work with me!” he said, gazing into her eyes, suddenly brimming with enthusiasm and charm. His voice was filled with an effusive passion that seemed to light the dark corners of the room. “Think of it, Connie!” he exclaimed. “It would be the exhibition to end all exhibitions. Imagine the publicity. A new Blake McGrath show. Together – you and me – we could make it happen.”
Connie’s face filled with loathing. “Go to hell,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “And for the record, Duncan, that dedication is dated five years ago. That’s no proof Blake McGrath is still alive, or that I found him.”
“Liar!” Duncan roared. He lashed out and slapped Connie across her face with his open hand. “I don’t need proof,” he roared maliciously. “It’s in your eyes!”
Connie’s head snapped to the side and a livid red mark burned on her cheek. She was pale with shock. She felt the sting of tears prickle in her eyes. Duncan stood over her, breathing hard, his rage seething. He clenched his hands, and then hammered his fists on the desk.
Slowly, carefully measuring each step, Connie went silently back to the brief case. “Do we have a deal for the painting?” she asked. Her voice had turned to ice.
Duncan threw his head back. She could see the veins in his neck standing thick as corded rope and his skin seemed to burn until it was red and swollen. “Yes,” he snapped.
Connie nodded. She wanted to press her hand to her cheek, to salve the sting with the cool of her palm, but instead she reached into the briefcase again, and Duncan’s eyes suddenly slammed back into focus.
“There is another painting,” Connie said simply. “I am offering it to you for purchase.” She set the second painting down on the table and closed the lid of the briefcase. “If you do not agree to my terms immediately, I will not hesitate to take it to another gallery in the morning.”
There were little bubbles of spittle at the corner of Duncan’s lips. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and took a long deep breath to compose himself. He reached for the canvas, and his eyes became as sensual as a lover’s caress. The painting was breathtaking. Duncan felt a fierce bewitched rise of passion and knew that he must own it – at any price.
“What do you want?” he growled.
“I want the sum of two hundred and ninety thousand dollars transferred into the account for my mother’s ongoing care, and I want a further five thousand, five hundred dollars in cash. Right now.”
Duncan’s face registered his disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious,” Connie said. “It’s a fair price. The painting is signed, and it’s the first new original work by the artist to come onto the market in a year.” To demonstrate her resolve, she reached for the painting to take it away from him, but Duncan could not bear to be parted from it. He slammed his hand down impulsively. “Alright!” he spat.
Connie stood quite still. For several seconds she did not move and there was just the sound of Duncan’s hoarse rasping breath. “I said now,” Connie prodded him like antagonizing a dangerous wounded animal.
Duncan flinched. Cold hateful retribution blazed in his eyes, but he stalked to a phone and stabbed at the numbers. He gave instructions to his secretary to issue the payment to the nursing home account, and then flung open a drawer of the liquor cabinet so violently that the bottles clinked and teetered. He threw three bundles of cash carelessly across the big table. “There’s six thousand,” he said and his eyes lit with cruelty. “Not a lot of cash for a whore.”
Connie put the money in the briefcase. Her hands were shaking, and a rise of nausea and relief washed over her like the burn of a fever. She felt herself sway with vertigo.
Duncan was watching her carefully. “Tell me,” he taunted in a wheedling voice. “Now that we’ve completed our transaction… how did you get the paintings?”
Connie shook her head, and her dark hair swished across her shoulders. “We haven’t completed our transaction until I confirm the money is in the nursing home account. That’s when you will get the second painting.”
Duncan stood back, gestured at the phone. He had composed himself now. His voice was deceptively calm, but Connie had lived through so many of his temper-driven storms she knew the respite would be brief. “Call,” he invited.
Connie went warily to the phone and dialed her sister’s number. She waited, grim-faced, until she heard Jean’s voice.
“Jean. It’s Connie. I need you to check the account balance for the nursing home,” she said. There was a brief pause, and then Connie’s voice became insistent. “Just do it – please.”
Connie stared at Duncan, watching the man as he pored over the painting, his face a mask of rapture. After another long moment she nodded her head and hung up, Jean’s joyous voice of incredulous amazement ringing like an echo in her ears.
“Satisfied?” Duncan looked up at her and asked. “Now, tell me where you got the paintings.”
“I bought them.”
He laughed cruelly. “I bet you did,” he drew his eyes cynically down her body and the wrench of his lips became lazy disdain. “What did you use to pay for them? You don’t have any money. Did you whore yourself out – spread your legs and close your eyes while he grunted on top of you?” He looked at her with contempt, like she was cast-off and somehow sullied. “Did you show him some of the tricks I taught you – thrill him with that talented mouth and body?”
Connie felt the scald of her revulsion burn the back of her throat. “Not every man has the same low gutter morals that you do, Duncan. Some men with honor still exist.”
She spun on her heel, desperate for the door, and snatched up the briefcase. Duncan’s voice called after her, rising strident with his fury. “You’re finished in New
York!” he screamed. “Finished! You’ll never work in this town again.”
Connie stopped in the doorway, turned back and forced an enigmatic smile to her lips that she knew would infuriate the man more than anything. “That’s fine,” she said. “I don’t plan on being in New York for more than another day anyhow.”
Connie pulled the boardroom door quietly closed behind her and strode to the elevator. The steel doors whispered shut, and as they did, she slumped down to the cold floor, weak, exhausted, and vulnerable. She was trembling with relief. Her shoulders began to shake uncontrollably, and at last the tears she had fought so hard to hold back came spilling down her cheeks, scalding her eyes.
