Chapter 1
NOW
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”
The gallery was buzzing with tipsy art lovers chatting about their latest acquisitions when someone clinked on their champagne glass. Voices hushed, their attention drawn to that of Maximus Kline, the current artist exhibiting his collection at the Pierson Gallery. He was a photographer who’d spent every day and night with his beautiful muse over the four seasons capturing the array of human emotions. From his tens of thousands of images, he had selected only fifteen of his finest—ones that ranged from euphoria to intense grief, humbleness to spite. Humans were a complex creature, and his raven-haired muse with the large pale blue eyes was a patient woman.
Maximus stood in front of his most popular piece, dominating the entire wall it was fixed on. He twirled the end of his hipster mustache with one hand and raised his glass with the other.
“Thank you all so much for braving the sweltering New York City heat. I’m so pleased…”
“I can feel the sweat dripping down my ass crack with every breath.”
“Jesus, Charlie,” I groaned, cautious to not draw attention to us. “Too much!” I playfully reprimanded my assistant who despite his denials had consumed a perilous amount of Moët in a misguided effort to cool down under his heavy suit jacket.
“What was a drip, now feels like a steady stream,” he continued, oblivious to the annoyed frowns turning his way. “How are you not sweating?”
I delivered a sharp jab to the ribs in an effort to silence him, and scanned the crowd for my boss. David, who had been standing only a few bodies to the left, was now no longer in sight. He wasn’t hard to miss. Over six feet tall, chiseled jaw and startling blue eyes, he was appreciated by most women, and men for that matter.
Beside me, Charlie removed his jacket to reveal a sweat-stained collared shirt.
“Are you feeling all right?” I asked, concerned he could suddenly pass out. Charlie was on the plump side, and I stood no chance in securing him a soft landing if he fell.
“Maybe I ate too much curry at lunch,” he admitted, swiping his sweaty brow before claiming somewhat of a defeat. “Or maybe the champagne is off.”
Shaking my head in amusement, I turned back to the proceedings. This was opening night, and Maximus Kline had been a huge acquisition for me in my role at the Pierson Gallery. It was the result of almost a year of negotiations, perseverance and late nights. So proud of it, in fact, I had assisted in hanging his smaller works myself, joyous in the sight of his work finally displayed on our walls.
“But mostly,” Maximus continued, his gaze resting on mine. “Mostly, I would like to thank gallery curator, Gemma Sinclair.” A soft applause sounded, and I returned his warm smile while raising my glass with his. “Miss Sinclair has accommodated my every wish, and I couldn’t have placed my trust in anyone else but her. If only all galleries ran as smoothly as this one does.”
I mouthed a thank you at his glowing praise as a voice whispered into my ear, his lips grazing the skin, the sensation causing a shiver to travel the length of my body.
“Good job, Sinclair,” David murmured. “If you can secure Renaldo Ruiz you might be looking at a promotion.”
When I could feel his body move away from mine, I exhaled. I had to tread carefully with David. As my boss, he couldn’t quite grasp the concept of personal space and always seemed eager to invade mine. I wanted to believe there was nothing more than sincerity behind his attention and compliments, but I wasn’t naïve.
He employed me, and I loved my job, so I wasn’t about to welcome his advances or reject too harshly. It was a delicate balance.
I couldn’t let him faze me. I’d been waiting to hear that one word for years. Promotion. This was what I had been tirelessly working toward. And now it was only one more artist away.
The crowd began to disperse, platters of hors-d'oeuvres and trays of champagne were offered. Patrons gravitated back toward their favorite works of art, critically analyzing every inch of the photograph and using obnoxious vocabulary that only existed within gallery walls. Overall, I couldn’t be happier with how the evening was panning out.
To my right, Charlie expertly swiped two champagnes and handed me one.
“To you, my darling Gem.” He raised his glass, and we clinked in celebration. “Onward and upward from here, and may nothing and no one bring you down.”
~
“Have you seen Charlie?” I asked the doorman at the gallery entrance, my heels echoing through the now empty halls. It was almost eleven, and my bed was definitely calling my name from across town.
“No, ma’am.”
“It’s fine,” David’s casual voice sounded behind me, his suit jacket now hooked over his shoulder. “I’ll walk Ms. Sinclair to her car.”
Damn.
“That’s not necessary. I—”
“Nonsense.” He stopped next to me, a smile twitching his lips. Sometimes I wondered if he could sense my discomfort and got off on it. “It’s far too late for you to be walking the streets by yourself.”
“I’m just down the road.”
“Me too.”
“Okay then,” I conceded. “That’s very kind.” We farewelled the doorman, who tipped his cap in response, and once we were on the street, the door lock slid shut. The night was still warm, and the humidity instantly dampened my skin. A heat wave was sweeping the city making even breathing a difficult task.
“I’m in basement parking down the street,” I said, breaking the awkward silence.
“Me also.” David smiled, placing a hand on the small of my back. We started walking, the only noise the clicking of my heels on the sidewalk and the honking of horns in the distance. It was David who continued the conversation.
“I really am impressed with your work ethic, Gemma. The Ronaldo case, however, I feel might be a challenging one.”
“Oh?”
David loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. “There are many gallery directors who have refused to work with him ever again. He’s burned a lot of bridges and his reputation isn’t great.”
This piqued my interest, and as long as we talked business, it reduced the chance of anything inappropriate. “What’s he done?”
“Ronaldo’s a known diva who expects everything and gives nothing in return. He’s often quite vocal about any shortcomings. Usually, I would shy away from high-maintenance artists like that, but Ronaldo Ruiz is like striking gold. The people love him, and his artworks have basically quadrupled in price in the past four years. I actually have one of his pieces hanging in my bedroom.”
A suggestive silence followed, and heat flushed my cheeks. I refused to take his bait, but it didn’t deter David. My discomfort was often the goal.
We came to a stop at the flight of dimly lit stairs that led down to the illuminated basement.
“I can assure you, David…” I said, getting the conversation back on track, “… if we do secure Ruiz, he and I will work side by side without a hitch.”
“Your negotiating skills would be better used in the UN, I’m sure of it.”
“You don’t have to worry. Look how well Maximus turned out, and he had some fairly interesting demands and expectations.”
David’s eyes softened, his hand lifting to tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear. His knuckles intentional or not brushed against my skin, and I pulled slightly away, cautious to not cause offense. He was a good-looking, self-assured man and I was certain he was rarely rejected, but I simply wasn’t interested in kissing my career goodbye.
“I should go,” I said, embarrassed. David was married to a beautiful woman. He had no business trying to get up in my business, but he was a man who wanted his cake so he could scarf it down too.
He nodded, undeterred by the deflection.
“Peter still in the picture?” he asked of my boyfriend of five months.
“Yes, he is,” I answered, ignoring his scrutinous stare. “He’s away a lot with work which is why he can’t join me at the openings.”
A shoe scuff on polished cement in the basement caught our attention. We both glanced down the stairwell at the well-built man who was silhouetted by the light. He stood motionless, wearing a thick hoody on a sweltering night. He appeared to be waiting for us to go down first before he could make his way up the narrowed staircase.
“Come,” David said, taking the lead. We were halfway down when the hooded man took to the steps two at a time meeting us in the middle. He by-passed David with ease given it was a tight squeeze but made little effort to avoid contact with me. His broad shoulder knocked mine in a deliberate barge. I was mid-step when thrown back onto the dirty step, my palms scraping the concrete.
“Hey!” I snapped at his blatant rudeness. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Offering no apology or assistance, the man turned left and disappeared from sight. The only thing that remained was the sweet, spicy scent of his cologne.
“Jesus, Gemma.” David turned, somewhat startled by the altercation. Gripping my elbow, he hauled me to my feet. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a grazed palm.” I grimaced while dusting myself off and smoothing out my dress. Offering a hand, David assisted me down the remainder of the stairs. “We’ve obviously disturbed him because it’s only our two cars left here.”
“You think he was trying to steal a car?”
“Quite possibly.
“Are you okay to get home?” he asked, genuinely concerned as we stopped next to my Audi.
“I’m fine, truly. It was Charlie who guzzled most of the champagne.”
“Well,” David beamed. “Speaking of champagne, be sure you’re free on Friday night.”
Anxiety returned. What had he planned? Or more to the point, what was he trying to get me into?
“David, I’m not sure—”
“Relax…” he said, raising his hands in defense. David winked and smiled playfully while walking backward to his own car, “… everyone will be there. Not just me.”
I felt foolish and ashamed I was so quick to judge everything the man did.
“Sure,” I agreed, hoping it would get the conversation back on track without the awkwardness. “I’m free.”
“That’s my girl,” David said, winking once more before he pivoted on his heel, whistling the rest of the journey to his brand-new Mercedes. Sinking into the driver’s seat, I exhaled heavily, exhausted from the hectic day and still just a little shaken from the stairwell encounter.
A fragrance lingered. It was on my clothes. It was on my skin. It was a sweet, spicy scent belonging to the hooded man.
My stomach churned, and my eyes anxiously searched the rear and side mirrors.
I could have been overreacting.
I could have easily mistaken the situation.
I hadn’t smelled that scent in a very long time, over a decade, in fact. It and the memories it incurred were buried in my past, and that’s where I needed them to stay.
So why did I have the feeling my nightmares were returning to haunt me?