Enticed (Dark Passions) (4 page)

    
I couldn’t keep the tears in any longer, and they started to spill down my
cheeks. “She picked art over me. I mean, she came back, but I’ve never been
able to forgive her. And it scares me, ‘cause I know deep down I’m like her,
and I’m going to hurt people. With my recklessness, just like she did.”

    
Bradley wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close. Surrounded by his
strength, feeling his solid, warm chest against my cheek, made me feel so safe.
“Hey,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re not your mom.” He pulled me back to get
a look at my face. “You’ve got a steadiness your mom doesn’t have.”

    
I felt perplexed. “How would you know that?”

    
He sighed, took the handkerchief from my hand and patted away the remaining
tears from my cheeks. “Stella Winters,” he said, “is a talented woman. But you
know what they say, ten percent talent, ninety percent perspiration. Well, she
was a flash in the pan. Created some interesting art in the late 80s, but she
didn’t have the discipline to keep it up.” He tucked a loose strand of hair
behind my ear, and stroked the curve of my neck.  

    
“You, on the other hand, have stamina. Senior copywriter at a major Manhattan ad
agency? You don’t get to a position like that without having some serious
staying power. And definitely not at such a young age.” Putting both hands on
my shoulders, and fixing me with an intense gaze he said, “Your problem,
Melanie, is that you’ve been too steady. You’ve proven that you have the
discipline. Now you need to lighten up a bit. Get back in touch with your wild
side.”

    
I felt my knees start to tremble, and then I was shaking to my core. I looked
up at him, feeling a mixture of fear and desire. Fear, because I felt so
exposed and vulnerable. Desire, for the same reason. No one I’d dated had ever
seen me so clearly, and so quickly.

    
“Why are you shaking?” he asked gently, rubbing my shoulders.

    
I locked eyes with him, and gave him a long, searching look. “How can you read
me so well when we barely know each other?”

    
He gave me a warm, but wicked smile and said, “Like I told you at the bar. I’ve
paid very close attention to you. Does that scare you?”

    
“Yes,” I murmured, feeling my lower lip start to quiver.

  
  Bradley slowly slid his hands down my arms, tickling me, making the flesh
under my suit jacket tighten into goose bumps. His strong, reassuring hands
finally came to rest on my hips, sending a delightful shiver through my frame.
I looked into his eyes, and they had turned dark and moody. In one swift
movement, he had me pushed up against the wall, his hands fisting my hair, his
sensuous lips on my mouth. I felt him, strong and warm, pressed up against me,
his lips tasting mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth. With every deft lick,
every delightful plunge, I felt my body become taut with yearning, til
everything in me ached for him. Just when he took me to the brink, with just
his mouth alone, he pulled back, ran an index finger along my swollen lip, and said
“Not here. Not now.”

    
I gave him a pleading look, but he shook his head, and frustration flooded
through me.

“I
have a surprise for you. Later. Right now, though, I have something I think
you’ll be interested in seeing.” He smoothed down my hair with careful strokes,
then pointed to a large photograph in the back corner of the gallery.

    
As soon as I saw it, I was brimming over with sheer delight. “It’s perfect!” I
said, bounding over towards it. The still shot was of the silhouette of tall, formidable
looking businessman in a fedora and a three-piece-suit with a glass of whiskey
in his hand. He was shot from behind, so only his back and outstretched hand
were in view. Standing on a balcony, staring out at a spectacular night view of
New York city, he seemed to have full command over the incredible view, including
the empire state building amongst a thousand shards of brilliant light
twinkling as far as the eye could see.

    
After my initial exuberance, I settled down a bit and gave him a curious look.
“Is that you?” I asked.

    
He shot me another wicked grin. “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly.  Then giving
me one of his scorchingly intense looks that left my knees trembling he said, “I
very much like the idea of you taking a piece of me into your private
sanctuary.”

    
“So, do I,” I said quietly, feeling my insides quiver with a strange, dark
delight.

    
“Well, it’s settled then,” he said, his eyes bright, and a smile in his voice.
“It’s yours.”

    
“Thank you,” I said. “What do I owe you?” I asked, opening my black leather
purse and looking for my check book.

    
“Nothing,” he said in a low tone. “It’s a gift.”

    
I looked at him and vehemently shook my head, “No, I’m paying for this,” I
said.

    
“No. You’re not,” he said firmly. “It’s a gift. And you’re going to accept it.
I’m not taking no for an answer.”

    
I shook my head, but he cupped my cheeks firmly between his hands and said,
“You want this photo. And I want to give it to you. Believe me, it’s my
pleasure,” he said, with a strange flicker in his eye. “Now stop waving around
that check book and just say thank you.”

    
I shrugged helplessly, and tucked my check book back into my purse.

    
“Then it’s settled,” he said, with a satisfied expression. “I need your address.
I’ll have it delivered to you.”

    
“I’m just a few blocks away. On Spring Street,” I said, curling a strand of my
now wild hair around my finger. I gave him my exact address, and he wrote it
down. Then he dialed his delivery service, and gave them instructions.

    
“You’ll have the photograph before midnight,” he said.

    
Then, wrapping his hand around my waist, he said, “Come on. It’s a gorgeous
night. I’ll walk you home.”

***

    
Two hours later, I was relaxing on my favorite leather couch, having just
stepped out of my bubble bath, and sipping a delectable glass of
Chateauneuf-du-Pape, when the intercom rang. “Ms. Winters,” said my doorman in
an even, professional tone, “there’s a delivery here for you.”

    
“Please send it up,” I said, grabbing my cream-colored silk robe and pulling it
over my pajamas. When I opened my door, the tall, blue-uniformed delivery man
gave me an easy smile, and sauntered in with the large rectangular parcel
wrapped in brown paper. “Where would you like this?” he asked, stripping off
the wrapping.

    
I looked around my apartment, and decided that it would look best over the
carved-marble fireplace, where I’d have an unobstructed view of it from my
couch. “Right there,” I said, pointing to the blank wall above the mantelpiece.

    
After he had finished hanging the work in the perfect spot, I’d tipped him, and
he’d left, I settled back onto my couch and just stared in awe at the twinkling
lights of the city and the magnificent, potent specimen of a man who I had in
front of me. I felt a secret thrill at being able to stare at Bradley so
openly, so voyeuristically, without having to deal with the consequences of him
catching me in the act.  

    
For a moment I sat there smiling smugly to myself, but then something strange
happened. I felt a cool breeze whisper along my bare neck, and I could swear I
saw Bradley’s hair ruffle in the photograph. But that was impossible. I shook
my head to clear it, and took another sip of wine. But it tasted like whiskey,
burning in my throat. My hands started trembling so badly I had to put my wine
glass down on the coffee table.  When I looked back up at the photograph, the
city lights were visibly twinkling; I stared at the pulsing lights in shock, in
fascination, but they became so bright they blinded me. My head started
spinning, my throat burned, and my whole body felt white hot. When my vision
finally cleared, it was as if the photograph had come alive. Bradley’s back was
to me, and I was sitting on a black Moroccan leather chair. I could feel a
powerful blast of wind coming through the open French doors leading to the
balcony, and then slowly, Bradley turned his head, his expression full of both
mischief and powerful desire.

     “So
nic excitement.

     “How
is this even happening?” I asked, alarm in my voice. Bradley looked at me
cautiously, then stood up and came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my
waist.

     “You
wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be,” he whispered in my ear.

     I
spun around, pulled out of his grasp, and glared at him. “And where exactly am
I?”

     He
sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “This is my loft.”

     I
took a look around me, and the fear was replaced with wonder. We were standing
in a room with 14-foot high, gold coffered ceilings. There was an ornate
Venetian chandelier handing from the ceiling, a giant grandfather clock in the
corner, and an Albert Oehlen painting hanging over a Renaissance stone-carved
fireplace. The French doors leading to the Romeo and Juliet balcony were
flanked with lush emerald green silk curtains.    

      “Conduction,”
I said, walking over to get a better look at the Oehlen piece. I turned and
gave him a curious look. “This piece, abstract as it is, has always struck me
as somehow darkly sexual.”

     Amusement
flickered across Bradley’s face. “That’s exactly what I love about this work,”
he said. “It’s full of passionate energy, both dark and light. It speaks to me.
Sparks something to life in me.” He bridged the distance between us, and ran
his finger gently along my jaw line. “We seem to have similar understandings of
art,” he said, cupping my chin in his hand, and giving me a hungry look. My
heart took a wild, ragged jump in my chest, and I could smell his subtle,
woodsy cologne; it intoxicated me, and brought all of my most primal urges to
the surface. But I pushed back the surge of desire, and pulled away from him.

     “How
did I get here?” I asked, frantically searching his eyes.

     “Come
on. Let’s sit down. I’ve got champagne and chocolate truffles waiting for us in
the other room.”

     He
reached out for my hand, and I took it. With my hand folded into his strong,
sure grasp, his thumb stroking my knuckles, I felt my alarm subside.

     We
entered a large sitting room with one wall made up of floor to ceiling windows
revealing a stunning view of Manhattan. The other walls had mahogany paneling,
and were covered in hand-painted Chinese silk tapestry. In the middle of the
room was a round brass table, flanked by gilded Art Deco chairs. A bronze
bucket holding a champagne bottle sat on a stand next to the table. Bradley
guided me over to one of the chairs, pulled it out for me, and I sat down. I
immediately noticed the oval smoked-glass mirror on the wall in front of me,
reflecting back my image superimposed on the Manhattan skyline.

     Bradley
poured us both some champagne, and then took a seat. I watched the pale liquid
bubble and fizz, and then gave Bradley confused, questioning look. “Have a
drink, Melanie,” he said. “It will help calm your nerves.”

     I
played with the stem of my glass for a moment, and then brought the flute to my
lips. I didn’t realize how tense my whole body was until I felt the crisp,
bubbly fluid slide down my throat, warming it, and soothing my nerves. I downed
the whole glass, and slammed it on the table. “I’d like a refill please.”

     Bradley
grinned at me, his eyes twinkling, and said, “As the lady wishes.”

     When
I’d downed the second glass, he laughed and said, “I think we better slow down.
We have a long night ahead of us, and I don’t want your senses dulled.” He gave
me a dark, smoldering look, and my heart fluttered up into my throat. His hand
reached over to cover mine, sending a pulse of electricity rippling through me.

     I
gave him a pleading look and said, “I still need an explanation.”

     He
nodded his head and tightened his grip over my hand. “Has a work of art ever
felt so real to you, so real that felt you could crawl inside it and live there
for awhile?”