AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It would be much easier to surrender her freedom and tell Anwar the truth. But she would never yield to his wealth for fear of being controlled, a prisoner to his precarious pleasure.
She would find a way to make her own fortune and provide for her son. Last night, Anwar, without realizing it, had already helped her make a good start. A perfect start. She was no longer a starving artist. For the next six months, anyway. Her commission earned from the exhibition assured that. And then, who knew what the future held?
“I want to show you something,” Anwar said.
“What?”
“I don’t want to tell you something. I want toshowyou something,” he commanded.
Lucy straightened and stared at him.
“How did you find out where I lived?”
“Are you coming?”
“No. I have stuff to do." She could not possibly go anywhere with him even if she wanted to.
“Let me drive you,” he said, his gaze lingering over the thin cotton that clung to Lucy’s erect nipples.
“You?”
“My chauffeur,” he corrected.
Resistance, she knew, would be futile. What Anwar wanted, Anwar always got.Always.
“I need to finish getting dressed. I’ve just got out of the shower.”
“I know,” he said.
Why was he smirking? She wondered as she padded back to the bathroom and ran the dryer through her hair.
She tried to shrug off the feelings of foreboding as she finished getting dressed and thrust her feet into a pair of sparkly open-toe sandals.
“You didn’t say where we were going,” she remarked questioningly as they walked along the corridor and down the three flights of stairs to street level.
His mouth quirked teasingly. “Somewhere uniquely special. I think you owe me one surprise.”
“Do I?” she said as they climbed into Anwar’s waiting limousine. "Why the mystery?"
His gaze drifted past her and fell upon the graffiti covering her apartment’s exterior walls. The once pristine facade now bore a creation by the infamous artist Jean-Michel Basquiat. The artist's signature chaotic style mirrored the turmoil that flooded her body as Anwar’s eyes darkened.
His lips formed a contemptuous line as he turned to her. “What is that desecration?”
“Art,” Lucy replied.
“Not in my culture,” he said. “Such horrors are symbolic of disrespect and disregard.”
Yes, she thought. How could he possibly understand the passion and purpose street artists poured into their works? Basquiat was the epitome of everything the Anwar detested. With his rebellious nature and disregard for societal norms, the artist was celebrated in the art world for his unique vision. But to Anwar, Basquiat’s drug-fueled, child-like scrawls were nothing more than the mark-making of a common criminal intent on defiling property with his defiance.
Was that what Anwar would think of her when he discovered the truth of her resistance to do what was expected of her? She wondered with concern as she saw the Sheikh's infuriated expression.
With a clenched fist, Anwar summoned his driver to begin their journey. “Let’s get out of this wretched place.”
“Why won’t you tell me where we are going?” Lucy said as they crawled through the gridlocked Manhattan streets.
“I told you. I’m showing you something.”
“Something where?” she asked as they crossed the Hudson River.
