The driver knocks. "Mr. Pierce. Your photograph is here."
Mr. Pierce grumbles. Annoyed by the interruption, no doubt. Rich men are used to the world revolving around them.
"The woman from the gallery came a long way," the driver says.
He pauses for a moment, then he calls, "Send her in."
The driver opens the door.
I take a deep breath and step into the office.
It's huge. Bigger than my apartment. Hardwood floors. Bookshelves filled with old paperbacks.
Dark curtains. They block the bright white sky. Cast a tall man in shadow.
He pulls his hands from his pockets and steps forward.
Light falls over his short, dark hair.
His deep blue eyes.
The scars on his forehead, cheeks, chin.
Jagged red lines covering the left side of his face. Marring his Disney Prince looks, but beautiful in their imperfection.
And I'm staring.
I shouldn't be staring.
"I'm Danielle Bellamy." I hold up the frame in lieu of offering my hand. "You must be Mr. Pierce."
His deep blue eyes fix on me.
I swallow hard. Force an awkward smile. "Would you like me to hang the photo?" There isn't enough free wall space in the office, but we can make do if we push the bookshelves apart. "Or I can leave it and you can hang it later. It's my favorite. I'd love to give her a good home."
"Do you say that to all the collectors?"
Is he a collector? The walls in the house are bare. "Only when I mean it."
"Where would you put it? If it was yours?"
My stomach flutters. Usually, I have no trouble discussing art. Even exceptionally erotic art. Even with men who do nothing to hide their carnal interests.
Adam Pierce is different.
Intense.
Overwhelming.
Extremely attractive.
Even with the scars. Or maybe because of them. My fingers itch to trace every line.
I want to know exactly what happened. Where he got them. How he feels about them.
Can I take your picture? Please.
Shit. I'm still staring.
And he's staring back with a perfect poker face, his deep blue eyes boring into my soul.
What are we talking about?
The photo.
I take a deep breath. Let out a slow exhale. "In my apartment? Or in this house?"
"Here."
"I haven't seen the house. Is this your office?"
He nods.
"If it were mine, right here." I motion to the wall behind me. "I'd open the curtains, let light fall over her, stare all day." I unwrap the frame and hold it high.
There she is, The Voyeur.
A woman, standing in front of a window, bathed in soft light, completely naked.
Her long, slim body on display.
Only she's turned to the camera with a coy expression, as if she's watching back.
Is she the voyeur? Or is it the photographer?
The viewer?
Society?
The dichotomies are fascinating.
"Would you get anything done?" he asks.
"That's a small price to pay."
His eyes flit to the photo. "If I keep the curtains down?"
"Then somewhere with natural light. A bedroom maybe."
"A bedroom?" He steps out from behind the desk. He moves closer. Closer. Until he's three feet away. "What do you think I'm going to do as I stare?"
My blush deepens. "You wouldn't be the first."
"No?"
"No." Did I just give him permission to fuck himself to the photo? My boss is going to kill me.
"Would you?"
My cheeks flush. "Art is supposed to inspire."
"True." He half-smiles.
I think. It's hard to read him. "And the photographer was intentional. Have you seen the others in the set?"
"No."
"They're more explicit. I can show you, but—" I tap the frame.
He nods of course and leads me down a hallway, to a room at the front of the house.
It's a beautiful bedroom. Clean white walls, hardwood floors, sheer curtains, silk sheets.
Everything cast in the light of the bleak winter sky.
There. The wall perpendicular to the windows. Enough light to show off the photo. Not enough to fade. "Here." I point to the spot in the middle of the wall.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. But only if someone stays regularly. It would be a shame to hide her."
His eyes meet mine. "It would."
"And there's room for the rest too." I pull the pamphlet from my purse and offer it to Adam.
His eyes flit to the portraits on display. The one in my hands. Then the two on the handout.
The Exhibitionist, the same model leaning against the window, her head thrown back, her hand between her legs.
And The Act. The woman, her hand between her legs, her eyes on her reflection.
"Why is The Voyeur your favorite?" he asks.
"The photographer turns our expectations around. The model isn't just a pretty figure. She's looking back at us."
"And getting off on it." His eyes fix on the photo of The Act. He's interested.
As a collector?
As a man?
As a guy who wants to fuck the pretty girl with gorgeous gams?
I can't read Adam the way I can read most customers. Usually, I know if I need to flirt or fawn or focus on composition.
I have no idea what he wants.
So I tell him the truth. "At a glance, The Voyeur is another photo of a naked woman. But the model isn't there for the viewer. She's there for her own pleasure."