AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I knew she was hiding something. All those dark waves—how could she not be?It’s in my head. It’s all that ends up on the canvas.She was talking about the ocean. Her secrets. I never imagined they would look like this. My heart races. Her wide, dark eyes are too innocent for a scene like this.
Or perhaps they’re not.
Need cuts into me like the crimson slashes on the canvas. In this case, her art obscures. Whatever this is, I want to hear it from her. Drag it out of her body in tears and shudders.At first it was some commentary about how the water hides things, and how it’s never the same twice.No. Her painting is what hides her. Daphne’s art reveals only the surface, but it pretends it’s telling you everything. I discover both hands are over my mouth and put them back into my pockets.
“This piece is mine,” I tell the attendant for Daphne’s piece. He leans in, his expression neutral. “I’m buying it under my corporation.” The name I give him is an anonymous shell. I don’t care if this painting skyrockets in value—Daphne is priceless. What I care about is buying myself some time. This piece is too personal to announce I’ve bought it without some consideration. “Anyone meets my bid, raise it by five thousand dollars. It’s mine at the end of the night. Do you understand?”
“I do, Mr. Leblanc.” He understands enough to stand perfectly still while I tuck a thousand dollars into the front pocket of his suit jacket.
“Emerson,” someone says. They’re circling now. Waiting to see which pieces I pay attention to.
“No.”
I don’t stop to see whether they’re taken aback or not. I want her in my sight. All the cryptic text messages. The worried tone seeping through the words on the screen. This painting.
Daphne Morelli is not all right.
All my attention goes to finding her. She is the guest of honor at this event. She’ll be where the important people are. The richest bastards among us. My head aches from staying aware of all the people in the space while I look for her. It’s the worst of all worlds. The renovations have made the carved-out rooms too large, but they’re still too crowded.
I find her in a ritzy gathering in front of a low stage that won’t be used until it’s time to announce the winners of the silent auction.
I find her with a man.
A boy, my mind supplies. A fucking boy. Someone who has recently graduated, if I were to guess.
Someone who has his hands on my little painter.
They’re standing near a clutch of people, none of whom seem to notice that Daphne doesn’t want to be touched.
He turns his head, and I recognize him. Peter Clay. My mind lights up with the memory of Daphne’s face as she described his work. A flat expression. Narrowed eyes. She doesn’t like him. Doesn’t want to be near him.
But he’s leaning in, one hand on her waist, and as I approach them, he pulls her closer to his body.
And she—
Resists.
It’s as subtle as I would have expected. A stiffness in her shoulders. A slight turn of her face away from his. Her dark eyes blank. Distant. It makes my blood roar in my ears. My hatred for this unbelievable fuck is spilling out of the canvas, breaking free. It’s only countered by an intense awareness of how many other people are in the room. It’s impossible to know what they’ll do if I react the way I want to, which is to kill him.
Too many people in the space. Too many witnesses. And Daphne. Calculations sprint through my mind. They lay themselves over the fury simmering in my blood. They try to hold it back. Hold it down. I want to hurt Peter Clay. I won’t do it where Daphne can see. I won’t do it where anyone else can see her and draw their own conclusions. About my little painter. About me. Fifteen feet away. Ten feet. Five. His hand is still at her waist.
My skin is on fire with the need to touch her. I take his hand instead. Wrench it away from her body and into mine.
“Peter Clay.” I turn my grip into a crushing handshake and push him away from her. Anger flashes in his eyes, but then they widen with surprise. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Mr. Leblanc.” He twists his hand out of mine and manages not to rub at it. “You’re the famous one. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” It’s been five seconds, and he’s already forgotten about Daphne. His dull gray eyes glint with opportunity. Greed. “Did you happen to see the pieces in the gallery? I was hoping to get your opinion on mine.”
It was garbage, I bite back. I can’t stand in this crowd for ten minutes without everyone watching. It’s a fine line, now. Too much longer and they’ll assume I give a fuck about him. They’ll all assume his paintings are worth something. “I’ve seen them. But now isn’t the place to discuss work like that. Where is your studio?”
He sticks his hands in his pockets and feigns nonchalance. “I have a space above Worth-Kelley in Chelsea. I’m there most weekdays, if you—”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I announce. “I only attend private showings.”
Peter Clay’s eyebrows go up. This is more than he ever could have hoped for. “I’m sure we can accommodate that.”
We. As if he owns the gallery. He doesn’t. “Tell them I’ll be there at two.”
“Of course.” His eyes dart back behind me. “Of course I’ll do that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leblanc.”
