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The jet landed at six o’clock in the morning. It was still dark out. They ate a large breakfast on the plane and then Quill finally allowed Saskia to put some clothes on before disembarking. To her further surprise, he let her wear jeans and a black, thin-strapped tank-top. She suspected it would be the last bit of comfort and modesty she’d get except for when they were in public.
She still couldn’t believe he planned to let her go out in public. Didn’t he consider it a risk? In the strictest sense—despite the way he’d presented it—if not kidnapping, it was at least blackmail and false imprisonment. She wasn’t an idiot. They both knew what he was doing was criminal—no less criminal than what she’d done. Maybe more. After all, all she’d stolen was money. He’d stolen a human being’s freedom. They weren’t even in the same category of offense. Yet, somehow she was sure she felt more guilt for what she’d taken than Quill did for taking her.
She’d slept so much and so well on the plane that she didn’t even feel jet-lagged. If anything, it might be hard for her to fall asleep tonight when it was time.
She looked in the bathroom mirror one last time, her fingers trailing over the black diamonds of the collar. Maybe it was the lighting he’d chosen in this room, but she thought the stones sparkled plenty. He was right, though. It was understated. It looked just as good with jeans as it would look paired with an evening gown. Did he plan to take her to more art events? Gallery openings?
Would she actually be mingling in the art world at the side of Joseph Quill, being one of only a select few who knew his secret? Either he was exactly the smug, arrogant bastard she’d always thought Lachlan to be, or he was trusting her. She felt honored by even the idea he’d include her in his private world.
Saskia shook herself. She was well aware that her school-girl crush on this man would be her undoing. She could imagine herself forgiving him so many things she’d never forgive another man for. As Lachlan, barely touching her cheek had elicited outrage and restraining order fantasies. As Quill, he could lock her in a cage and come on her. It was horrifying that neither scenario was theoretical. She looked away from the mirror before she could catch the red she was sure burst into her cheeks at those thoughts.
When she emerged, Quill led her to the Bentley, his hand resting possessively on her lower back. The last time she’d been alone in this car with him, he’d been throwing a purse filled with crab puffs at her. He opened the passenger door with a sweeping flourish, ever the gentleman.
The drive was silent for the most part, except for the sound of windshield wipers when a light rain began to fall. Saskia watched the passing landscape out the window, her stomach tightening in greater apprehension with each mile they drove closer to his home.
When his hand strayed to her knee, she didn’t pull away. Instead of hoping he’d stop touching her, she hoped his hand would inch up the inside of her thigh. She wished now that she hadn’t worn jeans.
The rain had let up by the time they reached the estate, the sun peering out from behind now-fluffy clouds. At least Marcus wouldn’t be home yet. Going commercial, there would have been a layover somewhere. If she was lucky, it would be a few hours before she had to deal with his snide distaste.
“Let me show you where you’ll be staying,” Quill said. Somehow, despite the wording, the phrase came out as a command.
Her things would be delayed. When the jet landed they’d been loaded onto a small white van that was waiting for them on the tarmac. Marcus would drive it home when he arrived at the airport later.
She followed Quill through the main part of the house and out a glass door at the back. There was a large pool, hot tub, and terrace—and then a partially covered and partially open outdoor living space with a bar and an impressive set-up for grilling.
Saskia had never seen the back side of the estate before. The first few times she’d been there, her mission had been to get in and get out before he got any ideas—or at least before he tried to act on them. And the last time, it had been the middle of the night.
Beyond this outdoor living space, lay a few acres of open land, the center of which had been transformed into a rose garden filled with large bushes of white blooms and paths that carefully wound in and around them. She half-expected to catch someone painting the roses red or for a white rabbit to race past.
But nothing out of the ordinary happened, and Quill led her through the fragrant rose garden without incident. On the other side of the garden stood a broad stone building with skylights and ivy crawling all over it. The structure was enclosed on one side by the rose bushes and on the other by well-packed, tall evergreens. Saskia caught glimpses of a high fence beyond the trees. The extreme privacy of this space, made her wonder if he was hiding some sort of contraband.
“Saskia? This way.”
The main part of the building was an enormous gallery, with a single large circular skylight in the center. There was a cage on the marble floor beneath the skylight, much like the one she’d slept in on the plane. Saskia didn’t want to think about that, but she couldn’t hide her disappointment that he might isolate her out here alone at night.
As if reading her mind, Quill said, “I told you, you must earn a spot in my bed. This is your room and where you will sleep until that time.”
Saskia looked away from the cage, determined to think about it later. Not now.
The room seemed propped up and held together by white Greek columns, many of which had chains attached to them. Scattered about the gallery were several pieces of kinky sex furniture and equipment—as if they were art installations, statement pieces.
The walls were covered in his work—each piece behind protective glass. Paintings she’d never seen. Paintings which had never hung in a museum or gallery. His private collection—the things he created only for himself.
“You will hang in this gallery soon,” Quill said.
Given the chains on the columns, she wasn’t sure which way he meant that. Given what she knew about him, probably both.
“This way,” he said.
She followed him through the gallery to a door hidden at one end. On the other side was a glassed-in room. It looked like a greenhouse, except that there were no plants. Instead, the room was filled with easels, canvas, brushes, paints, drawing paper, and charcoal. Like the gallery, this room also contained fetish furniture as well as a few elegant chaise lounges for the more subtle series of nudes he painted. All the furniture was covered in protective plastic, on top of which lay a thin layer of dust.
The room seemed dead, as if it had fallen into hibernation one winter and never awakened when the spring came.
“This will be your studio. You will work here. I work here occasionally, but I like to paint in the gallery as well. Or... I did.”
“Why did you stop?”
Quill looked pained. “Saskia, you know why.”
