I laughed. “Bullshit.”
He used the hand cupping my face to draw me in, and kissed me sweetly. It was disorienting and disarming. “Have dinner with me.”
The tiny voice inside said it was one harmless dinner, but I knew better. The longer I remained around him, the more I’d persuade myself to give in. I shook my head. “I can’t. Thanks, though.”
Rather than seem dejected, Silas straightened and did up his pants, and I couldn’t resist watching his strong arms flex. His expression was determined. “I’ll change your mind.”
I wasn’t about to give him the opportunity, so I flashed a smile and stepped out of his reach. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was letting me go.
“Good luck,” I said.
I was halfway to the stairs when his footfalls rang out. He followed me down the steps. “Don’t forget about the favor.”
I sighed. “You won’t change my mind about that, either.”
We collided with Andre at the doorway of the studio. He looked visibly relieved not to have caught us in the act, and his gaze turned to Silas. “You’ve got a customer.”
We followed Andre into the gallery and he gestured to the far corner, where a man stood, peering at the artwork. “That gentleman wanted to speak to you.”
Upon hearing that, the man turned—
No fucking way. My mouth fell open, and I had to force it shut with an audible snap. Silas glanced at me, then to the man, as if unsure of what to do.
“You’re the artist?” The man asked, studying us.
Silas left me and strolled toward his customer. “Not of that piece. It’s Paulo Castanada’s work. He’s showing here next week.”
“I work in Congressman Bennett’s office.” The man puffed up his chest, giving off an air of importance, like Silas should be impressed. “And I was interested in getting something for the congressman’s DC apartment to remind him of home.”
The man didn’t just work in Bennett’s office, he was Kirk Roland, the congressman’s senior aide. The guy standing in Silas’s gallery was the right hand man of the crooked politician I was desperate to bring down.
My brain churned, trying to figure out how I could use this to my advantage.
“You like this piece in particular?” Silas asked, gesturing to the small painting where the Chicago River cut a swath between buildings. The water was the same color as blood.
“It’s . . . interesting. I don’t know how well it’d go over.” Roland flung a finger at another piece nearby, a black and white picture that seemed to be a close-up of machinery. A beautiful pattern immerged among the gears. “I like that one, but it doesn’t say Chicago.”
“That one’s mine. If you want Chicago, you should come to the showing. Paulo’s great at catching the grit and darkness of the city.”
Andre was ready as soon as Silas reached for it, handing a postcard-sized flyer so it could be passed to the potential customer.
Roland took the card, turning it over in his hands, and tucked it in the interior pocket of his suit jacket. “Grit and darkness, huh?”
I could see the interest waning from Roland’s eyes and I wasn’t about to let that happen. If I could get him to the showing, I could find a way to hint at the blindfold club, or slip him a business card. Hell, I could probably get him to make an appearance at the club that very weekend. But my rapidly developing plan rested on the first step, which was getting Roland to the gallery, and Silas seemed primed to blow the sale. Victor Bennett wouldn’t want dark and gritty.
I si
dled up to the men and flashed a bright smile at Roland. “I’m sure Paulo has some pieces that are more evocative of the Chicago people typically think of.” Silas’s glance cut my direction. He had to be wondering what the hell I was doing.
Pure calculation, was the answer. Kirk Roland was a pompous ass, and I’d do everything to appeal to it. Having him visit the club was the break Shane and I had been waiting for.
I focused on Silas. “I’m excited to see what he’s going to show. This one’s edgy, but it’s still beautiful.” I dropped my voice a shade, slipping into a more seductive tone. “It’s also a little sexy, and I like that.”
It was a cheap tactic to get him thinking about sex, but fuck it. Sex sold and it worked. Roland’s gaze rolled back to the painting, evaluating with new eyes.
“Does he,” Roland said, “have something like this, but more. . .” He searched for the word.
“Mild?” I offered.