The Secret (The Evolution of Sin 2)

“Sin,” I breathed, not because I had anything to say but because I was full to the brim with emotion and the only way I could think to release it was by saying his name.

“I wanted to show you a new acquisition I made,” he said, tipping my chin up with two fingers so that I was looking at the previously empty space between the two wide bookcases behind his desk.

One of my paintings, Solitaire du nuit, now occupied the space. It was a large canvas dominated by a purple black sky over the tiny lights of Montmartre and the moonlight-gilded dome of Sacre Coeur. A waxy, opalescent moon hung in the deeply bruised night sky like a grotesque pearl. It was one of my first paintings under the mentorship of Odile Claremont at L'École des Beaux-Arts and the first to be sold at my opening gallery showcase. Stefan Kilos, the gorgeous Greek I had met in Los Cabos, had informed me that he owned the piece and now here it hung in Sinclair’s office.

I turned in his arms to gape at him.

He was smiling slightly. “You mentioned that Kilos had bought it. I didn’t like the idea of him staring at it while he slept and I wanted something of you close to me.”

I swallowed convulsively.

Sinclair had just made my painting the only personal touch in his office.

“You are very good at this whole wooing thing.”

The left side of his smile lifted further. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know if it’s a compliment. I feel overwhelmed by you,” I admitted.

“And you didn’t before?”

“Touché.”

He took my hand, bringing it to his lips in order to kiss my fingertips. “These are very talented fingers. They move my body with your touch and my soul with your art.”

I pressed my hand to his chest. “Stop. I don’t need pretty words.”

“Just because they are pretty doesn’t make what I’m saying any less true,” he said, reminding me with my own words of our conversation on Tuesday when I’d called him a God.

“But okay,” he conceded, sensing my discomfort. “Let’s go see the amazing Miles Davis. We can talk afterwards.”

He held my hand.

In theory, it seemed like such a trivial thing. People held hands all the time. Friends held hands, mothers and daughters, linked lines of camp children and people assisting the elderly. It was really no big deal. But I fixated on our clasped hands the entire evening and not even the incredible Miles Davis nor his bold, brassy music could pull my gaze away from the sight. Sinclair’s hands were beautiful, broad palms topped with long, lean fingers all covered in golden skin and lightly dusted with reddish hair. There was a scar on the back of his right hand, a small whitish burn mark that I compulsively ran my thumb over.

We parted for ten minutes at intermission so that I could use the washroom and for those few minutes, my hand felt almost alien to me. I imagined what it would be like to let myself acclimatize to him the way my body so clearly yearned to do; how it would feel to greet him at the door of our shared apartment at the end of each day and wrap my arms and legs around him koala bear-style, to wake up in bed with my body pressed like a flower between his body and the bed.

His hand was waiting on the armrest, palm up and fingers unfurled when I returned. He smiled at my involuntary sigh when we reconnected and gave me a reassuring squeeze.

Afterwards, we were both quiet as we filtered out of the theatre and stood before the iconic fountain. I had a feeling Sinclair had things to say but our companionable silence had created a bubble around us and we were both happy to stay in it for a while yet.

So of course, some asshole had to come and pop it.

“Daniel Sinclair,” a loud voice boomed from behind us.

Sin clenched my hand hard in his before letting it go to slowly turn around. I took a deep breath before doing the same.

An older man with graying blonde hair and a beautifully grey cashmere overcoat was striding towards us with a tight smile and a very unhappy Margot on his arm. I sucked cold air in through my teeth, bracing myself for the confrontation.

S

inclair’s hand found the small of my back in a surprising show of togetherness.

“Dean, Margot, it’s a pleasure to see you. Did you have the gratification of seeing Miles Davis tonight in the Rose Theatre?”

Dean looked down at Margot, expecting her to respond. Instead, she continued to glare at me.

“Not a fan of jazz music, to tell you the honest truth. We were watching the ballet.” He leaned closer conspiratorially. “Fucking hate the ballet too but this one loves it and you know what they say, happy wife, happy life.”