For 100 Days Page 4
“I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
“Okay, Momma. I love you.”
She starts to tell me she loves me too, but the prison call timer runs out and our conversation is cut off before I can hear all of the words.
Chapter 6
I made good on my promise to my landlord. Leo had practically choked when I showed up at his office that same day to inform him that I had vacated the apartment of my few belongings and then proceeded to pay my back rent—all twelve-hundred dollars and change—in cash.
My windfall from Claire is significantly lighter now, but so is my conscience.
And as I wake up on my second morning in Apartment 501 on Park Avenue, I am struck by a feeling of calm that I haven’t known in a long time. Maybe never.
I am free.
For the next four months, at least, I am free. Released from the worry of shelter or money.
It’s a start. And maybe a new start is all I need right now.
With that hopeful thought filling my sails, I take a shower, then head out the door before noon. I’m determined to spend my day off from Vendange—my first truly free Sunday—exploring and enjoying the city.
After a coffee and a bagel at one of the delis that Manny recommends to me a few blocks down from the building, I aimlessly meander the Upper East Side on foot. It’s brisk but sunny, and I relish the fact that I have nowhere I need to be and no pressure do anything at all. For the next few hours, I content myself with people-watching and browsing the upscale shops and designer boutiques on Fifth Avenue.
While I stroll the area, Claire calls from Tokyo to check in as promised and make sure I have everything I need at the apartment. I’m so upbeat and excited, I’m pretty sure I blather on for ten minutes straight about how incredible her building is and how much I would love to paint the view from her living room windows. She takes my gushing in stride, instructing me to make myself at home while she’s gone.
“If you need anything at all, just ask Manny. He knows the building inside out, and he’s a peach of a guy.”
“Yes, he is,” I agree. “He’s already told me where to get the best coffee and breakfast, and he’s been nothing but kind.”
As I say that, my mind conjures a different face from the affable doorman’s. One that I can’t describe as kind. What fills my vision are piercing, bright blue eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones. A broad, sensual mouth that makes my pulse kick a little faster just recalling it now.
I don’t ask Claire about him—Mr. Baine—no matter how much the question burns the tip of my tongue. After all, it doesn’t matter who he is or what she might know about him. I’m staying at her place to do a job, not ogle her neighbors.
We end our call and I continue my casual tour of the Upper East Side and its intriguing shops and landmarks. I hadn’t intended to visit the gallery when I set out earlier today, but as the afternoon winds down toward twilight, I realize I’m little more than a block from Dominion.
I’ve been meaning to call Margot for days just to say hi and let her know how I’m doing. It bothers me, the way I ended our call the other night when she was trying so hard to cushion the blow about my art’s rejection. I was abrupt when we spoke. She needs to understand that I’ll always be grateful for her trying to give me a shot at the gallery.
And despite her willingness to store my paintings for a while, my failure is not her burden to bear. God knows, there’s certainly enough room for all of my unsold pieces in Claire’s apartment. Hell, maybe I’ll pack them into a taxi and take them back with me today.
I cross the wide avenue at the traffic light and head toward Dominion’s understated storefront on the other side of the street. Soft light glows from within the deep space. I can see groups of people inside, browsing the collections and displays.
It looks busy for a Sunday evening, and it’s not until I’m at the door that I see the gallery is hosting some kind of reception inside. Several dozen people fill the space—obviously more than to be expected on any normal day. Through the window, I spot Margot’s petite form near the front of the gallery. She’s chatting with a stylish older couple at one of the gallery’s premier displays, all three of them engrossed in conversation and sipping from flutes of sparkling champagne.
Loath to intrude on a private event, I immediately start to retreat.
I’m not even half a dozen steps away before I hear her call out from behind me.
“Avery?” Soft classical music and the drone of muffled conversation spills out of the gallery’s open door as she comes outside. “Avery! I thought that was you.”
And now she’s walking after me, leaving me no choice but to abort my escape. I turn around and meet her confused look. She’s dressed in classic New York black, from her chic long-sleeved blouse and ankle-length skirt, to her black stiletto-heeled boots. The look might be intimidating on anyone else, but with her petite Asian beauty, she’s as delicate as a doll, even garbed in head-to-toe black.
“Where are you going?” Her brown eyes narrow as she stops in front of me on the sidewalk. She tilts her head, her sleek bob swishing against her chin. “I’m surprised to see you. What are you doing here?”
“It’s my day off, and I happened to be in the area, so . . .” I shrug. “I thought it might be a good time to take my paintings off your hands.”
She frowns. “I told you that wasn’t necessary.”
“I know, and I appreciate that.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called first. I didn’t realize there was something going on today. We can talk another time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She reaches out to take my hand. “It’s an informal open house for some of the new artists and our best patrons before we open to the public. Very casual and low-key. And you’re always going to be welcome at Dominion so long as I have anything to say about it.”
I trudge behind her hesitantly. I can think of a hundred things I’d rather do than skulk around the gallery like a scorned lover who refuses to accept defeat. But Margot’s tug on my hand is insistent, and I can’t deny that I’m more than a little curious to get a look at the artist’s work that replaced mine in the new displays.
Margot brings me inside and motions for her assistant. “Jen, will you take Avery’s coat for her, please?”
The perky young brunette nods and holds out her hands with a polite smile. I don’t move right away. In fact, I’m tempted to refuse to take my coat off if not for the fact that the combined body heat inside the gallery is several shades past balmy. No one else is wearing theirs, and if I’m hoping to be inconspicuous as an uninvited guest at this gathering, passing out from heat stroke in front of everyone surely isn’t going to help my cause.
Reluctantly, I take my coat off and hand it over to Margot’s assistant. Ordinarily, my day-off clothing choices don’t need to take me anywhere more fashionable than the grocery store or an occasional meal out. Standing in the packed gallery now, I struggle not to feel awkward in my distressed skinny jeans and brown knee-high boots. My slouchy oatmeal-colored sweater and the yards of gauzy white scarf draped around my neck are far more comfortable than chic.
I sigh as Jen trots off to hang my coat in a closet near the entrance. No, there will be no blending in amid the sea of black-on-black in the room.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Margot instructs me optimistically. “I need to go mingle for a little while, but I’ll swing back around to find you. Have fun, okay? And have some champagne. We had cases of it brought in tonight.”
She melts into the throng, and I’m left to my own devices on the peripheral of the crowd. My first stop is the bartender where I pick up a glass of champagne and knock it back in a couple of swallows. The liquid courage helps, so I take another flute and carry it with me as I begin a slow circuit of the room.
Dominion’s reputation has been built on its eclectic offerings and a willingness to take risks when it comes to the artists they showcase. I see that on display in full force ton
ight. All of the new exhibits feature unconventional, avant garde paintings or unusual photographs. Some of the themes are violent and disturbing, scenes of pain and neglect and fear, all conjured or captured by an unflinching eye.
Other displays—like the one where my handful of meticulous, if tame, cityscapes had hung until a couple of days ago—hold collections of abstract works, formless images comprised of a confusion of bruising, clashing colors rendered in aggressive brush strokes and chaotic lines. I pause there long enough to finish my second glass of champagne before moving on to another area of the gallery.
Half a dozen people are clustered in front of another display where a single painting—one marked “Dominion Private Collection - Not For Sale”—dominates the wall. I stand behind the small crowd and look at the full-body portrait of a nude woman whose painted image is reflected on shards of broken, mirrored glass.
She’s an odd choice for a model with her short, thinning hair and small, deflated breasts on a body that looks decades older than her haunted, but defiant, dark gaze. Her head is tipped back slightly, one hand raised and resting at the base of her throat. Her pale, cracked lips are parted on what looks to be a deep, anguished sigh.
More than a sigh, I realize almost instantly, my eyes following the line of her other arm, where her hand is buried between her naked thighs.
She’s shattered into easily hundreds of jagged, glittering pieces on the canvas—both in the depiction of her orgasm and from the ravages of the disease that’s destroying her. Yet she’s standing, seizing pleasure. She’s shining and defiant. Her spirit is unbroken.
Beauty, the unnamed artist has simply, tenderly—perfectly—titled this painting.
Emotion swamps me without warning, and I pull in a shallow, shaky breath. What the hell is wrong with me? I am not a crier. I haven’t shed a tear since the day my mother was sent away for the remainder of her life to Muncy State Prison.
And even though my eyes are only prickling with the threat of tears now, the fact that I would feel such an unexpected reaction toward a painting—in public, no less—is unnerving. It’s embarrassing.
Evidently, I’ve drunk too much champagne too fast with too little food. I blink and start to turn away from the other people gathered near me, deciding it’ll be a good idea to cushion the alcohol with some of the finger sandwiches and other catered appetizers laid out on the other side of the gallery.
I no more pivot to leave when I crash into a wall of muscle and bone that I should not recognize but do.
Oh, God. I so do.
Like some mortifying replay of the other night in the high-rise lobby, I lift my head and find myself immobilized by the searing, clear blue gaze that’s been burned into my memory ever since.
Except, unlike a few nights ago, instead of catching myself before I collide into him, this time my reflexes are dulled by the drinks and there’s no stopping my forward momentum.
My hands come up between us, one palm splayed against the heated solidity of his chest, my other hand wrapped around my empty champagne flute. There’s not even an inch of space separating our torsos, and for an electrifying instant, my thighs brush intimately against his powerful legs.
My stomach flips, arousal igniting on contact with him. My nipples tighten where my breasts are crushed against the hard slabs of his chest. I register the warm outline of his hand on the small of my back, his strong fingers resting there as if to steady me even though neither of us are moving now.
Wet heat licks through every fiber of my being, and I know damn well I can’t blame that on the alcohol.
I swallow and struggle to find my voice. When I finally do, his name tumbles out of my mouth on a breathless gasp. “Mr. Baine.”
Chapter 7
“Do you always charge forward without looking to see what’s in front of you? Or am I just the lucky one?”
His voice is even deeper than I’d imagined it, smooth and polished, but dark. I sense a challenge in the rough-edged growl, one that vibrates through me like a caress on bare skin.
He doesn’t smile as he says it. Not so much as a quirk in the sculpted line of his mouth. Nor does he do anything to make me feel at ease as I stare up at him in awkward, slightly tipsy, silence. Then again, all this man’s presence has done is unsettle me since I first laid eyes on him.
“Um,” I stammer belatedly. “Neither.”
His eyes don’t let me go. “Yet here we are. Déjà vu all over again, as they say.”
It takes me a moment to realize that he hasn’t removed his hand from my back. His touch lingers possessively and far too intimately for my liking¸ let alone for our surroundings.
And yet I do like it. I can’t seem to ignore the scorching presence of his palm where it rests just above the waistband of my jeans. I can feel everything—the breadth of his large hand and the strong lines of his fingers splayed across my lower spine branding me through the thick layer of my sweater. Each second of contact with him makes my nerve endings come alive, tingling with the need for more of his touch . . . to feel it everywhere on me.
Shit. If he can incinerate my defenses with a hot stare and a casual touch in public, I’m afraid to think what this man can do to me if we were alone. Or, rather, I should be afraid.
The emotion that swamps me as the flood of erotic possibilities fills my head is anything but fearful. It’s desire, plain and simple. As I stare up at him with that realization, the ache for more blooms even deeper inside me.
He’s devastatingly handsome, no doubt about that. But it’s the raw sexual energy radiating off every square inch of him that renders me stupidly silent in his presence.
With effort, I manage to mentally shake myself out of my daze. Heat rushes into my cheeks as his gaze continues to hold me captive. The intensity of his focus on me is blatantly sensual. It makes the crowded room seem too small and much too warm. As much as I’d like to think my sudden blush is purely from embarrassment, I know better.
Judging from the shrewd gleam in Mr. Baine’s eyes, he knows better too.
I’m making a fool out of myself.
Again with this man.
I groan inwardly, cursing the champagne. The crystal flute clutched in my hand, I move aside, just far enough to break the contact. “No more charging forward without knowing what’s in front of me. Or rather, who.” I give him a little salute with the empty glass. “Sorry. I’ll be sure I’m more careful in the future. You have my word.”
I’ve given him the opportunity to move on, but he doesn’t. I decide it will probably be wise for me to go instead, and I start to take the first step away.
“No need to apologize,” he says. Without asking, he takes the champagne glass out of my grasp and hands it off to a passing caterer. It’s an inexplicably intimate gesture, presuming he can look after me as if we are familiar with each other. His expression is equally intimate as his gaze bores into mine. “A little recklessness isn’t a bad thing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a virtue.”
“I’m not reckless.” The denial blurts out of me on a frown.
Of all the foolish things I am or have ever been, reckless isn’t one of them. I never would have survived my childhood if I had been.
I pause, using the opportunity to take full measure of him in his crisp, long-sleeved black button-down shirt and dark, tailored pants. I already know he’s athletic, so I can only guess his body is as strictly disciplined as the rest of his flawless appearance. His chiseled face is clean-shaven, every inch of him impeccably groomed. Even those rebellious raven’s-wing waves seem tamed tonight.
And the way his piercing stare refuses to release me—just as his hand had lingered as if he had the right—I sense this man allows very little to escape his control.
Too late to keep the thought from turning carnal in my mind, I clear my throat and shrug as if he isn’t making me wonder what he’d be like in bed. I tilt my head to better assess him. “You don’t exactly strike me as the reckless type either, Mr. Baine.”
As much as I want to refuse to the temptation of touching him, I can’t. “Avery.” I say, slipping my hand into his firm clasp.
His eyes locked on me, he grunts in acknowledgment as our palms connect and his fingers engulf mine. That low, undeniably erotic rumble of his voice sends unbidden heat sizzling through my veins.
“Powerful, isn’t it?”
For a second, I think he could be referring to the current of electricity that’s crackling between us. But then he tilts his head in the direction of the painting on display behind me. I pivot to face the shattered beauty on the canvas and mutely nod.
“Incredibly powerful,” I agree. “Is she yours?”
“Do you mean the painting, or the model?”
Both, I want to say. Fortunately, I’m able to keep my tongue in check as I glance back at him. “I mean, are you the artist?”
“No. I don’t paint. Just an admirer.” He regards the piece for barely a moment before the full weight of his intense blue eyes lands on me once more. “And you?”
I silently consider Beauty and the rest of the paintings on display at Dominion tonight. I can’t pretend I’m not painfully aware that my half dozen rejects are hidden in gallery storage somewhere, deemed unfit to share wall space with any of these better works of art.
I shake my head. “An admirer, same as you.”
His stare holds mine, then he inclines his dark head in a nod. “What do you do, Avery, when you’re not plowing into innocent bystanders in elevators and art galleries, that is?”
“Innocent?” I laugh, practically choking on the idea. “Has anyone actually ever applied that word to you?”
“Of course.” He’s smiling now too. “I believe I was around five or six at the time.”
God, I like his smile.