When the doors of the elevator slowly open, I step out tentatively into a silent hallway.
After being accompanied literally from my front door, it feels odd to finally be left on my own.
The sparse white wall stretches on in both directions.
What’s the point of a hallway if there are no doors?
I look to the left but it seems to lead nowhere, turning at a large picture window. I look the other way and spy a small desk near a set of glass double doors.
As I get closer the doors open and an immaculately dressed blonde emerges. Her long blonde hair falls just past her slim shoulders and she’s wearing a muted, but figure hugging, light blue business suit.
When she sees me, her grey eyes widen for a second before narrowing as she looks me up and down.
“You must be Miss Snow,” her voice is cool and soft and seems to fit perfectly with the space made up of white paint and glass.
“Yes,” I try to make my own voice sound as cool but I don’t think I succeed.
“Mr. Blake asked if you would mind waiting.”
She points to a long white leather sofa with one perfectly manicured finger, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No thank you.”
I sit and she takes her place at her desk.
The only sound is that of her gently clacking nails on the keyboard but even that echoes slightly.
After about ten minutes, I start to regret not accepting a drink, at least then I would have something to do with my hands. I’m left sitting very still trying hard not to fidget as the minutes roll past.
I’m just about to pull out my phone to send a message to Olivia when a chime tones on the woman’s desk and an inaudible voice follows. The woman looks up at me with a pasted on smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and says, “He’ll see you now, Miss Snow.”
It takes all my willpower not to jump to my feet.
Instead I stand smoothly, with only a slight wobble on my five-inch heels, take a breath, and walk slowly and carefully towards the doors.
As I pass his assistant, I suddenly realize what it is making me feel so uncomfortable.
I clash with everything.
The whole space, including the only other person in it, is made up of light creams, cool blues and pinks, and glass. Everything is controlled and functional and not remotely decorative.
I, on the other hand, am clad in black, red and white with my dark hair flowing in unruly waves. I feel like a poisonous thorn.
Sigh.
Grasping the cold handle, I push and enter the spacious office.
On first inspection I think I’m alone.
Plush cream carpet begs me to kick my shoes off and wriggle my toes in it but a figure by the window stops me.
The window stretches across the entire office and even from here I can see that it offers an incredible view of the New York skyline.
The man, I assume he’s Mr. Blake, is standing very still with his back to me, staring out the window.
I open my mouth to let him know I’m here but the words catch in my throat. There’s something about the stillness of his silhouette that’s captivating.
I feel as though if I spoke right now he might shatter.
Instead I turn to look around the office.
The color of the carpet matches the walls so perfectly it was difficult to tell where they meet.
It was a disarming effect.
On the far wall is a white canvas four or five feet across and not much less down.
Stark white and covered with long, rough black strokes.
It feels violent but at the same time familiar.
Maybe I’ve seen other pieces like it in a gallery. I suppose it wouldn’t be so strange to find the art of someone famous on these walls.
“What do you see?” the smooth voice is so close behind me I jump and move to turn.
“Don’t turn around. Look at the painting.”
It’s not a request. It’s an order.
I can feel him behind me. It’s like I can feel the heat and energy radiating off his body and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“What do you see?” he asks again, his voice softer but his mouth closer to my ear.
“Black lines,” I reply.
I search my mind for something more interesting.
Damn.
I could have easily taken an art appreciation class as an elective back in college.
“It feels angry as though the lines were slashed onto the canvas.”
He makes an approving sound - a sort of deep chested hum, “That’s very interesting. May I?”
Before I can respond his hands are resting on either side of my face and I gasp in a breath but don’t move until he gently tips my head to the side. My back is just touching his front and I am suddenly very aware of how close and how much bigger he is than me.
“Now look.”
His voice is a whisper but it is so close to my ear, I can feel his warm breath.
Is this how he deals with all his business acquaintances?
And what’s going on with me?
My whole body feels electric with him so close and I can’t seem to get enough air. If this is how I react to him before I’ve even seen his face how am I ever going to be able to negotiate a business deal?
“Are you looking?” his voice is seductive.
“Yes.”
I blink and focus on the black slashes and my mouth goes dry.
No longer are the black lines a random slashing as I stare at them I can see patterns, familiar shapes standing out from the angles and lines.
I get a sudden visual flash of a woman on her knees in front of a man holding a belt. The image should be disturbing but I feel my heart pounding almost painfully against my chest and I’m afraid my whole body might combust as arousal pools in my lower belly and makes my thighs tremble.
His finger strokes a sensitive point between my throat and shoulder.
“Your pulse is going crazy and your body temperature just spiked.”
He chuckles and it vibrates through my whole body.
“Why are you showing me this?” my voice is breathless.
I should move away but his hands are on my shoulders now.
It’s not that he’s forcing me to stay - I don’t want to move.
“Have you ever heard of a Rorschach test?”
“Ink blot pictures, aren’t they? Used for psychological analysis.”
I look at the painting again. It’s just a bunch of black lines on a canvas.
Was he testing me? Did he test everyone who entered his office? And for what? Mental stability?
I can feel my temperature spike but I bite my tongue and carefully pull away. I immediately feel chilled by the loss of his hands on my skin.
I stride towards his desk and take a seat, “Mr. Blake, I understand that you are a very busy man so maybe we should focus on the reason I’m here.”
“Of course, forgive me,” his voice is soft and quite with a slight accent that I can’t help finding familiar.
He takes his seat and I think my mouth falls open.
Oh no.
His voice is familiar because I’ve heard it before.
Because we met yesterday when I fell at his feet…