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Everyone knew Quill had been a perfectionist to an obsessive degree that, had it not come wrapped in such talent, surely would have gained him entrance to a mental institution. Niche knowing this fact about the artist wasn’t nearly enough for her to accept something so impossible.
“If you expect me to believe you’re Joseph Quill... He died. What’s more, I met him in person, and you’re nothing like him.”
“No, Saskia, you met my assistant, Derick. I was trying to run a family-friendly tech business that had a real shot at financial success. Initially, the art didn’t seem like a wise bet. The subject matter alone would have killed Niche Industries before it was off the ground. Joseph Quill was an alias I created, and my loner assistant agreed to pose as him in public. He signed non-disclosure agreements. He had no one in his life who would miss him.”
“You mean...”
His eyes widened a fraction, mirroring the horror she was sure her own face held.
“My God, Saskia, don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t have him killed. Why would I? For God’s sake. I was able to manage the business and paint. It was an ideal set-up, especially once I could afford to offload most of the day-to-day operations of the tech firm to someone else. I just meant there was no one who could say with authority that my assistantwasn’tJoseph Quill.”
“But the subjects of the paintings...”
“...All signed non-disclosure agreements and were each paid handsomely for their silence. And it isn’t as if I’ve been a media hound under this name, either. You didn’t recognize me as Lachlan Niche when we met. There are benefits to keeping my face out of the media and letting representatives speak on my behalf.”
All of that was true, but she’d also been so drunk it was amazing she’d been able to stand under her own steam. She wouldn’t have recognized the pope under those conditions.
“By the way,” he said, “I was there, blending into the crowd as a guest the night you met Derick. He was going to use who you thought he was to fuck you under false pretenses. I stopped him. You’re welcome.”
Had he recognized her when he’d bumped into her the night she’d been so drunk? Had the seeds of all this already been planted all the way back when she’d met his assistant posing as him? A lot of time had passed between those moments. No, that was crazy. He couldn’t have lain in wait that long. Could he? What waswrongwith this man? Even the idea that he could be so calculating on such an impossibly long timeline made him that much more of a threat to her.
Saskia couldn’t find a sarcastic retort. He could be lying. He probablywaslying. But somehow, when she thought back to her encounter with the man she’d thought was Quill, something hadn’t been right about any of it. She’d been starstruck and nervous because of how she’d admired his talent. He’d been quiet and shy and seemed more like an accountant than the commanding artist she’d envisioned him as—like he’d be far more comfortable locked in a closet with numbers than pigments.
She’d imagined Joseph Quill would be frightening in person. Much as Lachlan was. And she believed without any doubt Lachlan could strip a woman bare and paint her in such a way that you couldn’t look away from her eyes. The idea of Quill was far less dangerous than the reality. She would have gone to bed with Derick—lying to herself the whole way—because he wasn’t a threat to any piece of her.
Not like the real thing.
“Iwillpaint you, of course.”
Her breath hitched, and all the foolish fantasies of Joseph Quill came rushing back. Except this time, there was a face and body to go with them. She’d never questioned why, even after meeting who she’d thought was the artist, the fantasy had remained vague—a faceless, nameless stranger. It was as if her subconscious had known all along and refused to participate in the ruse of that man being Quill.
“How can you let the world think you dead and never share your art again?” On balance, that might be the biggest crime here. She was no less terrified of him than she’d been before, but she also felt the pull of the artist she’d so deeply worshiped.
“Something you must learn now, Saskia, before your heart is broken... People prefer their artists dead. They don’t want a real flesh and blood human interrupting their hedonistic consumption of the work. Nor do they want someone who can talk back. Though talking back won’t be your problem when I’m finished with you. So you may just have a shot out there after all.”
Saskia shivered.
She stared at the gentle ripple of the pool water. The birds chirped in the distance while the Mediterranean sun beat down, interrupted only by the warm, soothing breeze. There should be thunder and lightning and a sky so grim and black that the only relief would be the cool rain of a torrential downpour.
The day outside didn’t match the storms churning within her. It didn’t fit with what Lachlan or Quill or... “What am I supposed to call you?”
“You will call me Master.”
Oh, hell no.
This was her fantasy—the exact thing wrapped with a bow. And despite all her protests, the actual living in-the-flesh Joseph Quill exceeded all expectations. But up close... no, she couldn’t. She’d actually mourned this asshole back when she’d thought the artist dead. To resurrect him and play out this sordid... no. Just... no.
She knew it wouldn’t matter what she called him. Now that she knew the truth, she couldn’t think of him as anyone other than Quill. It didn’t matter that Lachlan was his real name. That name meant nothing to her.
What came after denial? Bargaining? “W-what if I stole the painting for you? Really, this time? Couldn’t we call it even and forget this?”
As if she could bring herself to steal anything out of Eric’s family home. Even for Quill.
He leaned back in the chair and regarded her as if considering it, but she knew from the way the side of his mouth quirked in pleasure that the offer was no longer on the table—if it ever had been at all.
“Miss Roth.”
Her name hung there on the air, open, exposed... naked. He was her judge, jury, and executioner. Everything paused as she awaited her sentencing.
