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After taking several deep breaths, the vision began to fade, but the tingling sensations remained.
I laughed to myself, admonishing my ridiculous behavior as I turned on the lights for the gallery, tossing my things into my office. Then I returned to the smaller room of the gallery, the one where Talon’s darkest paintings were positioned. As I stood in front of one, my mouth was dry, my throat closing.
The man holding the whip in the painting reminded me of Zorro, the mask almost exactly the same, the dark clothing close enough they could be twins. And there was no doubt the female depicted on the canvas was writhing in agony, welts painted in hues of crimson.
As if the woman’s master had drawn blood.
Exhaling, I backed away, uncertain the public was ready for this kind of art, even if there were dozens of kinky artists in New Orleans. I barely looked at the other paintings before walking out of the room, turning on the lights directed at the various works of art.
When I noticed a courier waiting patiently outside, I was surprised. Perhaps the artist primed for his first gallery showing had another piece he was sending me. Great. His paintings already engulfed every wall and floorspace. I’d need to get creative in order to find a place.
“Hey, Dan. You’re early today,” I told him as I opened the door, watching as he lugged the crated piece of art inside, immediately yanking the oversized iPhone into his hand.
“The sender was insistent this be delivered early this morning. He paid a pretty penny to make that happen too.”
“Oh, really?” My curiosity was piqued. The artist whose works adorned the walls didn’t seem to have a penny to rub together given every time I’d had a meeting with him, he’d been in the same clothes. Maybe that was how artists created their masterpieces.
“Nice tipper too.” He winked as he did so often, a gesture some women might find chauvinist, but Dan was the kind of man who didn’t take life too seriously.
As he held his phone out to me for a signature, he took a quick scan of the gallery. Dan had been delivering priceless works of art to my gallery for the entire year and a half I’d been open. While he’d never uttered a word in repulsion about the artwork inside, I noticed his eyes were opened wider than normal. I had the feeling several of the conservative guests I’d invited to Talon’s gala would have the same reaction.
Disgust mixed with envy, an undeniable desire to let go of every inhibition, including in the wickedness portrayed on canvas. Dan was a family man, proud to show off his four kids after some accomplishment.
“He’s a newcomer to town,” I said, indicating the artist, although I wasn’t certain if I was apologizing or encouraging his rare tendency to gawk.
“Talented.” The single word was said tritely and all I could do was smile as I took the phone from his hand, signing for the arrival.
“I guess we’ll see on Friday night. Just out of curiosity. Who sent the package?”
He snickered then shifted to another screen after retrieving the phone. “Some guy just named Zorro.”
As soon as he answered the question, my mind shifted to the night before.
When we do, I’ll require your surrender.
The dryness in my mouth returned, the hard beating of my heart for an entirely different reason. Was the man stalking me?
The words hadn’t gone far from my mind for hours, the reason for the provocative dream. Maybe I should call it a nightmare. I wasn’t that kind of girl. No man would ever convince me to submit to his domination. A heated set of tremors trickled into every muscle, my pulse in my throat. How the hell did the stranger know who I was? The senator. Of course. They seemed to be at least trusted acquaintances.
However, the apprehension remained. I couldn’t lose this life.
Get control. He’s no one to be concerned about.
“Fascinating,” I said under my breath.
“It is New Orleans, the Day of the Dead.” His laugh was genuine, and he took another look before heading for the door.
“Let me get you a tip.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Zorro made certain I was taken care of. It’s not often I get a five-hundred-dollar tip.”
Five hundred dollars? Either the asshole was made of money, or he knew the courier would tell me. An attempt to impress. I couldn’t care less about money. “Wow. Well, I’m glad. You deserve it.”
“Have a wonderful event, Ms. Brusillo.”
“Dan. I’ve told you before. Call me Eden.”
His grin could always put a smile on my face, the man forever prim and proper while I wallowed in pure sin in my business.
