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“This is hard to process,” I admit, practically salivating at the idea of spending time in here. What I could make—the things I could paint—
But I have to get it together.
It’s a beautiful space. A dream space, really, but it’s also a cage, and there are dozens of invisible strings that I can’t quite see yet, but I know Erick will make clear very soon.
I can’t let him seduce me.
No, not when he drugged me, dragged me here against my will, and talked about making me work to pay off my father’s debt.
And also laughed at the idea of sleeping with me.
My cheeks turn red and I ball my hands into fists to keep myself from feeling embarrassed.
“This is your job.” He drifts into the studio, looking around at everything. “It took a lot of effort to put this together, but I believe you will have what you need.”
“I don’t understand. You own one of the biggest casinos in Vegas. What the heck do you need with some nobody painter like me? You can buy whatever art you need.”
“No,” he says, holding up a finger. “You’re wrong.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I’m missing something. I close it again, thinking.
What could I paint for him that would hold value? My work is good—I’ve had a few gallery shows, most of them small and local, and I’ve sold some decent stuff online—but I’m nowherenearpopular enough to be worth kidnapping.
None of this makes sense.
Until he walks over to the row of books, selects one, and pulls it out. He flips it open until he lands on a particular image: a red brick building, tall on the right, sky on the left, a woman bending over something in an alley, another woman sitting in a doorway, cobbled streets, the hint of a tree.
“Vermeer,” I say, mystified.
“The Little Street,” he says, pointing at the title. “You’ll paint this.”
I narrow my eyes, staring at him. “I’ll do what now?”
“You will paint this. You will make it perfect in every way, indistinguishable from the original. I don’t care what it takes, but you will make it happen. That’s how you’ll pay off your debt.”
I take two steps away from him as his plan clicks into place. “You want me to forge art.”
“I want you to paint masterpieces.” His gaze burns into mine. “I’ve seen your own, Hellie. You’re talented. Extremely talented. I want you to paint for me.”
I shake my head. I want to laugh, but he’s not kidding. This is a joke, a travesty, a nightmare all wrapped into one.
He wants me to paint for him?
No, he wants me to commit fraud, to cross the line I swore I’d never cross.
“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head.
“You have the technique. I know you do. It might take some time to perfect it, but we have everything you’ll need, and anything else can be found. Material is no problem.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“If you think it’s skill, then don’t worry. Like I said, I’ve seen your work, and you’re talented. You can do this.”
I rub my face. This is crazy. Even if he’s right and I’m good enough to make a proper copy of the old masters, there’s no way in hell I can do it.
“You don’t understand,” I say, desperation oozing from my pores, because some part of me wants to accept this challenge. Some part of me wants to stay in this beautiful room for the rest of my life and paint forever. “I won’t break the law.”
He leans back, lips pressed into a line. “You won’t what?”
