Broken Beast

By the time we arrive at the mansion, the sky is a soft shade of blue. It casts the mansion in an ethereal glow. It's every bit as imposing and grand as a storybook castle.

Inside, the space is the same. Beautiful and untouchable, just like the billionaire who inhabits the space.

Louis leads me straight to the bedroom.

There she is, The Voyeur in the middle of the wall, stunning in the twilight. Breath leaves my lungs.

It's not the beauty of the model, though she is beautiful, or the composition of the photo even.

It's the questions it asks.

Good art challenges the viewer. Sometimes, so shrewdly the viewer doesn't notice.

If this was my wall, my room, my art?

I'd never stop staring.

The handyman interrupts me, takes my advice on hanging the photos, leaves me alone with the set.

The photos bring the still room to life. Charges it with erotic energy.

There's no other way to say it.

These photos are sexual.

A lot of art is—it's made by men, for men, and straight men like looking at naked women, especially if they can call it art.

A lot of our clients are in it for the T&A. They aren't as obvious as men at a bar, but they never manage to hide their true colors.

Is that what Adam wants?

Did he invite me here to fuck me?

My fingers curl into my thighs. I want to fuck him. If things were different, I'd say yes. Spend the night in his bed. Wake to coffee and breakfast and a long drive into the city.

But things aren't different.

My life is complicated.

And he's dangerous.

I practice a soft no.

I'm flattered, but I'm not for sale.

I don't do casual.

I can't handle how I'll feel in the morning.

Fuck. I'm getting ahead of myself. Adam hasn't made an offer. I shouldn't assume it's sex for money.

The scent of fresh tomatoes pulls me downstairs, through the foyer, into the kitchen.

An older woman, in an apron and comfortable shoes, her gray hair pulled into a bun, stops stirring sauce to look at me. "You must be Ms. Bellamy."

"Danielle." I offer my hand.

She shakes. "Patricia, but you can call me Trish. I run the Pierce house. It used to be quite the job, when all four brothers were living here."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You know boys. Even the well-mannered ones are rascals."

"They are."

"Oh?" Her eyes perk. She wants to hear about the boys in my life.

"My little brother, Remy. He's more of a nerd. A video game designer. But he gets into his own kind of trouble."

"A handsome young man?"

I can't help but laugh. "He is."

"I imagine. You're a beautiful young woman."

"Thank you."

"Do you get into the same kind of trouble?"

Is she making conversation or spying for Adam? Either way, the answer is the same. "I don't really have time to date."

"Men can be demanding."

"They can."

She smiles, intrigued. "Is there anything you don't eat, Danielle?"

"No. Whatever is fine."

"And you drink wine?"

Not usually. I can't afford good wine. I can't afford good anything. "When in Rome."

"Mr. Pierce is expecting you in the dining room. He's already opened a bottle."

"Sure."

"I'll take your coat."

Right. I'm still wearing my coat. Not good manners. And this is a place where that matters. I nod a thank you and cross the foyer to the dining room.

It's a big space with high ceilings, wide windows, candles on the long oak table.

And Adam is sitting there, ready to make an offer he doesn't want to put on paper.

Deep breath.

Slow exhale.

Here goes nothing.

I step inside.

He stands from his spot at the end of the long table. "Danielle." He says my name like it's familiar. Like he's been testing the weight on his tongue.

"Mr. Pierce. It's nice to see you again."

He pulls out a chair for me. "You too."

I sit.

He picks up the bottle of wine. Pours a glass. "Do you drink wine?"

"I drink anything."

"Would you prefer something else?"

"If I would?"

"Trish will fix whatever you like."

"Really? What if I want a four-hundred-dollar bottle of brandy?"

"I'm not sure we have anything that cheap."

Is that a joke? I think it is, but I can't really read him. "I'll make do with, what, an eight-hundred-dollar bottle?"

"A noble sacrifice."

"Thanks."

He almost smiles. "What do you want?"

"Anything, really?"

Almost. "Trish is particular."

"Oh?"

He nods. "She won't allow an unsuitable pairing."

"So no gin and ginger beer?"

"Revolting."

It does sound revolting. "How about a grapefruit martini?"

"I'll call her."

Citrus and gin. Yum. But I don't want to ask her for more. "Wine is good. Thanks."

He pours.

"What would you do, if you wanted something Trish wouldn't allow?"

"She still works for me."

"So you overrule her?"

"If it comes to that." He takes a long sip. "But I pay her because I trust her judgment. If she tells me no, I listen."

"Really?"

"You don't believe me?" His voice stays strong, even, impossible to read.

"I don't meet many men who take no for an answer. Especially not the wealthy ones."

He's quiet for a moment, studying me. "What do they ask?"