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I sigh as Jen trots off to hang my coat in a closet near the entrance. No, there will be no blending in amid the sea of black-on-black in the room.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Margot instructs me optimistically. “I need to go mingle for a little while, but I’ll swing back around to find you. Have fun, okay? And have some champagne. We had cases of it brought in tonight.”
She melts into the throng, and I’m left to my own devices on the peripheral of the crowd. My first stop is the bartender where I pick up a glass of champagne and knock it back in a couple of swallows. The liquid courage helps, so I take another flute and carry it with me as I begin a slow circuit of the room.
Dominion’s reputation has been built on its eclectic offerings and a willingness to take risks when it comes to the artists they showcase. I see that on display in full force ton
ight. All of the new exhibits feature unconventional, avant garde paintings or unusual photographs. Some of the themes are violent and disturbing, scenes of pain and neglect and fear, all conjured or captured by an unflinching eye.
Other displays—like the one where my handful of meticulous, if tame, cityscapes had hung until a couple of days ago—hold collections of abstract works, formless images comprised of a confusion of bruising, clashing colors rendered in aggressive brush strokes and chaotic lines. I pause there long enough to finish my second glass of champagne before moving on to another area of the gallery.
Half a dozen people are clustered in front of another display where a single painting—one marked “Dominion Private Collection - Not For Sale”—dominates the wall. I stand behind the small crowd and look at the full-body portrait of a nude woman whose painted image is reflected on shards of broken, mirrored glass.
She’s an odd choice for a model with her short, thinning hair and small, deflated breasts on a body that looks decades older than her haunted, but defiant, dark gaze. Her head is tipped back slightly, one hand raised and resting at the base of her throat. Her pale, cracked lips are parted on what looks to be a deep, anguished sigh.
More than a sigh, I realize almost instantly, my eyes following the line of her other arm, where her hand is buried between her naked thighs.
She’s shattered into easily hundreds of jagged, glittering pieces on the canvas—both in the depiction of her orgasm and from the ravages of the disease that’s destroying her. Yet she’s standing, seizing pleasure. She’s shining and defiant. Her spirit is unbroken.
Beauty, the unnamed artist has simply, tenderly—perfectly—titled this painting.
Emotion swamps me without warning, and I pull in a shallow, shaky breath. What the hell is wrong with me? I am not a crier. I haven’t shed a tear since the day my mother was sent away for the remainder of her life to Muncy State Prison.
And even though my eyes are only prickling with the threat of tears now, the fact that I would feel such an unexpected reaction toward a painting—in public, no less—is unnerving. It’s embarrassing.
Evidently, I’ve drunk too much champagne too fast with too little food. I blink and start to turn away from the other people gathered near me, deciding it’ll be a good idea to cushion the alcohol with some of the finger sandwiches and other catered appetizers laid out on the other side of the gallery.
I no more pivot to leave when I crash into a wall of muscle and bone that I should not recognize but do.
Oh, God. I so do.
Like some mortifying replay of the other night in the high-rise lobby, I lift my head and find myself immobilized by the searing, clear blue gaze that’s been burned into my memory ever since.
Except, unlike a few nights ago, instead of catching myself before I collide into him, this time my reflexes are dulled by the drinks and there’s no stopping my forward momentum.
My hands come up between us, one palm splayed against the heated solidity of his chest, my other hand wrapped around my empty champagne flute. There’s not even an inch of space separating our torsos, and for an electrifying instant, my thighs brush intimately against his powerful legs.
My stomach flips, arousal igniting on contact with him. My nipples tighten where my breasts are crushed against the hard slabs of his chest. I register the warm outline of his hand on the small of my back, his strong fingers resting there as if to steady me even though neither of us are moving now.
Wet heat licks through every fiber of my being, and I know damn well I can’t blame that on the alcohol.
I swallow and struggle to find my voice. When I finally do, his name tumbles out of my mouth on a breathless gasp. “Mr. Baine.”
Chapter 7
“Do you always charge forward without looking to see what’s in front of you? Or am I just the lucky one?”
His voice is even deeper than I’d imagined it, smooth and polished, but dark. I sense a challenge in the rough-edged growl, one that vibrates through me like a caress on bare skin.
He doesn’t smile as he says it. Not so much as a quirk in the sculpted line of his mouth. Nor does he do anything to make me feel at ease as I stare up at him in awkward, slightly tipsy, silence. Then again, all this man’s presence has done is unsettle me since I first laid eyes on him.
“Um,” I stammer belatedly. “Neither.”
His eyes don’t let me go. “Yet here we are. Déjà vu all over again, as they say.”
It takes me a moment to realize that he hasn’t removed his hand from my back. His touch lingers possessively and far too intimately for my liking¸ let alone for our surroundings.
And yet I do like it. I can’t seem to ignore the scorching presence of his palm where it rests just above the waistband of my jeans. I can feel everything—the breadth of his large hand and the strong lines of his fingers splayed across my lower spine branding me through the thick layer of my sweater. Each second of contact with him makes my nerve endings come alive, tingling with the need for more of his touch . . . to feel it everywhere on me.
