AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Except patrons, some teensy, obnoxiously logical voice reminded her. You are looking for someone exactly like this man.
He patted the front of his jacket, smoothing it elegantly. “Three thousand dollars,” he corrected in precise British English. Since preciseness was obviously high on his priority list. His smile widened, one dark hand poised against his jacket in explanation. “Savile Row.”
“I love London.” She sighed dreamily in response, unable to help herself from the demiswoon. It was, after all, her favorite city on all of God’s good earth.
“London.” He sighed in kind, clearly indulging her appreciation. “It is my home.” He gave another little nonbow, making her blink to be sure she’d not imagined it. “I could take you there. Perhaps. If we arrive at a mutually beneficial arrangement. I believe you would appreciate such a journey.”
She stood taller and stared shrewder. “Look, how can I help you?” She gestured over her shoulder toward the workshop’s interior. “I’m kinda busy, you know. Clients to please, jobs to do.”
His smile faded, and his tone became businesslike. “None as important as mine.”
“You’re awfully vain.” Damn, why had she swooned over London? Talk about credibility erosion.
“Your task remains incomplete. This haunts you. Especially at night. When you dream.” His voice was low, as hypnotic as the noise machine she used in an effort to hold the nightmares at bay. “I bring a solution.”
He dangled the pouch higher, forcing her gaze to its heavy velvet. Blood crimson, like liquid rubies, the color magnetized her gaze—when it wasn’t slipping upward to meet his own moody eyes, smoke blue and turning down at the corners in a perpetually melancholy expression.
She stood in the open doorway, blinking at the bright Charleston sunlight. Two blocks off the river and the midday sky reflected bright, piercing rays. She’d spent the morning huddled over her worktable, squinting under artificial illumination as she worked her saw, swirling a pattern she called “sea wave” into her latest box. Close as she’d get to the ocean this summer, at least with as hard as she perpetually worked. She’d finished the painting itself last week, but it was the cutting of the pieces that could be most problematic.
“So, Mister Savile Row, what do you want with a lowly artist like me?”
“You have no idea what I have here, do you?” He seemed affronted, shocked that so far his sideshow temptations hadn’t lured her into his scheme.
She gave an offhand shrug. “Starbucks? If I’m lucky.” She pointed at the crimson-colored pouch. “But I don’t think they’ve figured out how to pour liquid coffee into a little satchel like you’ve got there. Caffeine-laced scones would work, though.”
“Didn’t bring any with me from England, I’m afraid,” he replied, the edges of his thin lips turning up slightly. So did the edges of his crisp accent, just enough to betray impatience. An indication that despite all his heady promises, he considered her simply a means to an end. A trifling, pesky insect that he couldn’t quite be bothered to squash.
“Then I’ve got it.” She leaned against the door frame, propping her wire-rimmed glasses atop her head. “And I know, it’s a really genius leap on my part, but . . . you’re a puzzle collector.”
His too-thin smile expanded and he moved closer, the movement as languid as his graceful way of speaking. Lifting his fingertips, he swung his velvet pouch closer and closer to her eyes, the motion counting off time itself like a cosmic metronome.
His voice was husky low as he said, “I’ve brought you what every poor Artistry Union member craves.”
Her gaze flicked back and forth, tracking the bag’s motion; her throat tightened compulsively. Sanity demanded that she break the spell; temptation dragged her deeper beneath the undertow of the man’s magic.
She swallowed again, trying to blink. “I’m not . . . that poor.”
Back and forth, heavy. Filled. Weighty. “Not that rich, either, Anna.” A hint of Middle Eastern colored his pronunciation of her name. A touch of it; one red drop of paint falling into clean white. A total alteration to the purity of the hue.
He moved right up against her, the heat of his body radiant. “But not rich enough for what you’ve been chasing, either. Not for what I can provide freely. Abundantly.” He leaned two inches closer, lowering his melodic voice. “You can almost touch him, can’t you, Anna.”
She reached a shaking hand, ready to seize hold of the velvet satchel, but it swung right out of her grasp, vanishing. She searched the ground, his hands, but saw nothing. Desperation swamped her in a heartbeat. “I want it,” she admitted in a rush, almost ashamed, but not quite. “Yes, you’re right. I need it. Very much.”
His white teeth flashed in a sudden broad smile, a rich contrast to his moody skin. Beautiful. He was absolutely stunning, just like that bag of his.
“Hold out your hand, Anna,” he mur
mured, and she didn’t bother to wonder—just as she hadn’t earlier—how he knew her name. Or why he felt he could pronounce it with that bedroom voice and feline gaze. Then again, he’d come to her workshop, received her application. That had to be the reason he seemed so familiar with so many details about her, didn’t it?
She complied, extending a palm with almost childlike obedience. At once, her hand was filled, the heavy sack even weightier than she’d imagined.
She laughed, staring at the satchel in pure wonder. “This can’t be. Nobody’s had access to this stuff for years.” Despite her demurral, she could feel the solid, burning strength of the metal slipping inside the velvet, the way it coiled and moved like a living thing. A snake hissing its twin temptations of beauty and knowledge. She shifted the bag, yearning to feel the substance of it, her fingertips already painting, swirling, designing . . . even though she wasn’t at her easel yet.
“Those with enough money have always held it in their hands.” He took hold of her palm and very deliberately ladled the heavy pouch’s contents into her palm. The slithering, living gold came more alive the moment it made contact with her skin.
“Feel it. This is only a small quantity. I can provide this and more, as much of it as you require. As much as you’d ever dream of wielding with your brush or tasting with your artist’s tongue.”
She allowed the substance to coil about her palm, loop about her wrist, to twine between her fingers.
