Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (4 page)

M
y sexy inner self wanted something, but somehow I doubted she wanted anything like that. And yet---

Peter
Rostovich cleared his throat loudly, cutting my thoughts off mid-sentence. “You must be very hungry,” he remarked. “I’ve only seen expressions like that on people with severe blood sugar imbalances.” He stood directly in front of me, carrying a plastic cup of ice water in one hand, a paper plate of
hors d’oeuvres
in the other----loaded with Carr’s water crackers, a wedge of fine French brie, a watercress-and-cucumber sandwich, some grapes. I seized both and practically inhaled the food, barely tasting it.

“Whoa there,” he said, pulling a couple of
paper cocktail napkins out of his lapel pocket and handing them to me. “You don’t want to choke.”

I muttered something unintelligible through a mouthful of
food. Tiny chewed-up pieces of Carr’s water crackers landed on Peter’s shirtfront. He brushed them off without comment, though the left corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.

Good grief, how many possible ways could I
embarrass myself at once?
You’re batting a thousand tonight, Delaney
, I mused to myself. I chewed and swallowed, feeling a tinge of regret that I hadn’t taken more time to savor the fine French brie, which had a deep smoky flavor with a hint of roasted garlic. I pondered getting up and leaving right then to save face, but figured it would just make me look even more ridiculous.

“I’m guessing you don’t go to a lot of art openings,” Peter said, regarding me with amusement.

I drained my cup of ice water, tossed it and the empty plate into a nearby trashcan. “I hope that isn’t part of your exhibit,” I said, dabbing the corners of my mouth with the napkin in as ladylike manner as I could, then tossed it in with the rest. “Unless of course you like viewers to participate in your garbage installations.”

Peter blinked, and his gray eyes twinkled. It occurred to me then that I’d never seen anyone with eyes quite that color before----a gray that was so light it was almost transparent, it reminded me of whitecaps on Lake Erie, or perhaps the
icy floes that littered the frozen waters of his homeland. “No, that’s just regular trash,” he said, breaking into a smile. “I don’t do garbage installations. Though I hear they’re all the rage in New York these days.”

My reporter’s nose smelled an
other opening, another chance to mine some more information about what made this enigmatic artist tick. “So, have you shown in New York then?”
He leaned casually against the low, whitewashed platform holding up the still-concealed
piece de resistance.
  “Yes, I have. Several times. I’ve also had showings in Los Angeles, Paris, London, Riga, and St. Petersburg, among other places. But you didn’t answer my question.”
That caught me off-guard. I was the reporter here,
I
should be the one asking the questions, not answering them. “What do you mean?”

“I asked if you covered a lot of art openings. I’m guessing no, but feel free to contradict me if it’s warranted.”

I had to tread carefully or I’d lose what little professional credibility I had left. Still, I’d already made a fool of myself six different ways to Sunday, so who was really counting at that point? “What makes you think I haven’t?”

“Just a hunch. And it’s been my experience that art critics eat a good meal before showing up to an opening
so they can focus their attention on the art, rather than inhaling the party food right in front of the artist. But perhaps you’re just starting a new trend?”

I felt my face grow hot. “You know, I probably should just forget the whole thing and go home.” I grabbed
my purse and made a motion to leave, but Peter placed a firm hand on my elbow to stop me.

Zap.
What was it with how this man’s touch made me feel like I’d stepped on the third rail of a commuter train? Every nerve ending in my body was on fire. I couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t see straight. I’d lost any journalistic objectivity I’d possessed long ago. I couldn’t write a decent review in such a state. Hell, I could barely stand. I sank backwards onto the bench, and Peter sat down beside me. “No, please don’t go,” he said, taking one of my hands in his, the resulting heat threatening to scorch my palm clean off. “And I haven’t exactly been fair to you, either. It is my usual practice to toy with critics and press people, but you aren’t exactly what I’d call a run-of-the-mill critic.”

“What am I, then?”
I snatched my hand away from him and rubbed my palm against my thigh, half-expecting my skin to peel off and leave a mark there.

He paused a moment before speaking. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was drinking me in with thos
e strange icy eyes of his. The deep clear pools raked over me with an artist’s gaze, noting every detail, probably seeing things about me that nobody had ever seen before, or ever imagined. “Something very special,” he replied. “Very special, indeed.”

The words hung in the air between us for a moment. I could almost reach out and touch them. I wanted to reach out and touch him
too, but I didn’t dare.

He stood up abruptly, seemed to collect himself. “I suppose you’ll be wanting your press kit back,” he said. “Let me just go
and get it for you.”

He disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the room, then returned a moment later with my press kit and satchel.  I
quickly checked the satchel’s contents and found everything seemed intact. I thought about surreptitiously switching on my digital recorder to capture our conversation, but then thought better of it. Something in me made me think doing that now would be a betrayal. Which made no sense given all that had happened this evening, but I listened to the instinct nonetheless. I’d made it this far, and I didn’t want to ruin my chance to get my story. Then again, I found myself caring quite a bit about what Peter would think of me if I betrayed him. In fact, I cared quite a bit about what he thought of me in general.

Since when do you give two shits about what a source thinks of you, Delaney
? my inner self scolded.
You’re a reporter, not a twelve-year-old. Snap out of it.
I tried to heed her warning, but try as I might, Peter seemed to have a way of exposing parts of me I’d much rather stay buried.

Peter sat back
down on the bench beside me. He made no move to unveil the hidden exhibit across from us, even as people started filing into the room. Instead he just sat quietly, gazing at me with a bemused expression. It was beginning to make me very uncomfortable, feeling those penetrating ice-gray eyes on me like that. Still, I had to make the most of this opportunity.

“Your press bio says you just recently graduated from the New York Academy of Fine Arts,”
I said. “Yet you have exhibited all over the world.  And you don’t exactly look like someone who just got out of college.” It was true. Peter Rostovich had an almost ageless quality about him. He was definitely older than I was, but by how much? He could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five. He was lean, tall, and fit, with a marble-smooth complexion and not a hint of gray hair. But there were deep crinkles around the edges of his eyes, and those eyes were what my mother would have described as belonging to an old soul.  He’d already remarked on how young I was, which meant he had to be significantly older than my twenty-one years. A mystery, and I’m sure the artist liked it that way.

“I did just recently complete my studies there, though they were of the postgraduate variety,” he explained. “Well, that’s not entir
ely accurate.  I never went to undergraduate art school, or received any formal art education of any kind.”

That threw me for a loop. “Oh, really? That wasn’t in your bio.”

“I don’t have what you would call any formal training,” he said by way of explanation. “But I did just complete a yearlong fellowship at the New York Academy of Fine Arts reserved for working artists. I taught art students and did an independent study. Most of the people who participate in that program have MFAs.”

“But you don’t?”

He pursed his lips.  I could tell he didn’t like this line of questioning one bit. “No, I do not. I hold no degrees at all. I don’t even have a high school diploma.”

I was stunned. This was an eloquent, intelligent man who positively radiated worldliness and refinement, and yet he was a high school dropout? But why? I’d just struck reporting gold. But did I really want to delve deeper? I could already tell that if I did, it would probably cause him pain.
I wasn’t sure how I knew that---call it reporter’s intuition. That normally would have led me to press further, but instead my gut reaction was to do the exact opposite---and I didn’t quite understand why.

“That’s umm, very unusual for a working artist,” I said, doing him the courtesy of skirting the question
for now. I could always come back to it later. But I had a feeling I’d already mined the depths as far as he would let them go. “I did some research on you before I came. I didn’t have a lot of time, but from what little I found out, you seem very obscure. There’s no record of you anywhere on the Internet.”
He smiled, a broad, bright smile this time.  I noticed then that one of his eyeteeth was slightly crooked, but not in an unattractive way. If anything, it made him seem even more handsome, even unusual. Unique, primitive and sensual, like his art.

“
And you won’t find anything on me. I prefer to go incognito. It’s a big part of how I promote myself, however contradictory that might seem.”

Incognito.
The irony of his using the same term I did about myself at press openings wasn’t lost on me. It almost made me think the two of us shared a sort of cosmic connection. He even met my gaze with a sudden gentle warmth that seemed to confirm it. But then his expression suddenly melted from appreciation to cold neutrality---which I suspected was his usual demeanor with reporters. I’d managed to break through his façade for the briefest of moments, but now our impromptu interview was over as soon as it had begun.

He stood up
, all business now. “This has been a delightful conversation, Miss Delaney, but if you’ll excuse me I need to unveil the last portion of my exhibit. You’re fortunate in that you’ve already got a front row seat.”

The room had filled
nearly to capacity while we’d been talking; I noticed the three dozen or so curious onlookers for the first time. The room seemed cramped and close now with so many people standing around, all waiting for the unveiling. Richard Darling, who had freed me from my plastic bindings half an hour earlier, wended his way through the crowd until he made it to the center of the room to stand between Peter and the veiled exhibit. He clapped his hands twice. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please,” Darling said, his voice and its thick East Coast accent ringing out through the room. “Welcome to the Flaming River Gallery. We are very pleased and honored to have Peter Rostovich showing with us here today. The exhibit lasts for six weeks, and we certainly hope it will be a huge success. So without further adieu, we would like to introduce the artist, and invite him to unveil the
piece de resistance
of the whole exhibit.”

Pet
er stepped forward, stiff and formal, his earlier sensual side nowhere to be found. “Thank you, Richard, and thank you to the Flaming River Gallery for hosting me and my work. I wanted to personally unveil the final piece myself. You’ll see that it’s quite unusual, probably the most unusual installation I’ve done yet.  You’ve also probably noticed the very warm temperature in this room, which is only getting warmer as more people come in.”

Yes, everyone had noticed, including me. It was sweltering in there, as hot as a dog-day August afternoon. There was plenty of mopping of foreheads and sweat stains showing around the room. I slipped off my jacke
t and was thankful Hannah had lent me a sleeveless shell blouse made of lightweight, breathable silk. I fanned myself with my press kit folder, waiting on pins and needles to see what was underneath that white cloth drape.

Peter seemed to enjoy holding the crowd in suspense. He scanned the room, noting the
beads of perspiration and red faces that surrounded him.  He took a fine linen handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to dab his own forehead, though I saw no evidence that he was sweating himself. On the contrary, he was calm, cool and collected---the picture of steadiness even as he was the center of everyone’s attention. “Again, thanks for everyone’s tolerance of the high temperatures,” he went on. “As I was explaining to someone earlier”----he nodded discreetly in my direction----“the temperature is by design, for the sake of this, my latest work.”

He paused, smiled. Everyone of course expected him to do the unveiling then, but he didn’t. Peter
Rostovich relished teasing the crowd. The temperature in the room seemed to rise another five degrees, but it might only have been an increase in the level of frustration. The gallery audience grew restless and began whispering among themselves. Peter just folded his hands behind his back and watched, a huge smirk plastered across his face.

I studied the white drape carefully, trying to visualize what might be underneath it. I didn’t have any more luck
with that than I had earlier, and was about to turn away and stare at the wall, the floor---anything other than Peter, his smirk, and that titillating white drape----when I saw the white drape move.