Kingdom Come

“Is the artist going to show up?” Anderson asked between running around and making sure catering was ready.

My email to Connor King about that very question had gone unanswered. “I don’t know. Let’s just assume no.”

Anderson reached up to touch my vibe, and I slapped his hand away. “That’s not nice.”

“It’s just so unusual. What is it?”

I wasn’t about to explain. “It’s a gift. Keep an eye out for anyone who shows up not on the guest list.”

“You think the artist might show up?”

According to the addendum to the contract Connor had signed, the artist wanted to remain anonymous. But even when people said that, they tended to be curious. I nodded. “Like a criminal at the scene of the crime.”

He caught on with a knowing smile and rushed off to coordinate with security. I couldn’t imagine doing this without Anderson. He was invaluable. If the show didn’t go well, he would likely seek other employment.

I pushed that aside. Another question was plaguing my mind. Would Striker show up, given my late invitation? Like Bailey mused, how would he fit in my world? And if he did, what next?

As people showed up, I greeted and played hostess.

But everything changed when someone not on the guest list arrived. I went to the door as security had requested.

The first thing I said was, “Hans.”Twenty-OneConnorWhen I got her text, I couldn’t hold back a smile. Though I’d planned to attend Lizzy’s event somehow, she’d gifted me an invitation that surprised me. So much of what had gone between us had been sex, I had to wonder if she was changing her mind about what we could be.

Though I knew a Fifth Avenue gallery showing was a formal event, I didn’t go in a suit or tie. That wasn’t my style. I’d done my duty for Dad this past week and had buried those monkey outfits in the back of my closet. I stepped up to security in ripped white jeans, a tee, and my worn leather jacket.

He eyed me up and down and said, “Name.”

That was the thing about being incognito. When I said, “Striker,” he didn’t question it.

Security used a finger to scroll down a list on his phone and stopped at what I presumed was my name. He didn’t look happy about it. I had a feeling he had been looking forward to telling me to shove off—or something with the same meaning. Instead, he was forced to open the door for me. I gave him my best smirk that said all the things I wanted to say but didn’t.

Before I could get far, I was waylaid by an older woman with a severe haircut that looked as though someone had sheered it off an inch above her shoulders with one fluid movement.

“Nice,” she said, putting a hand on my arm. “Tell me, have you ever modeled?”

“No,” I said in a way that wasn’t rude but conveyed the message that I wanted to be left alone.

She didn’t get the message though and handed me a card that seemed to materialize out of thin air. “Call me. We can do great things together.”

It sounded too much like an invitation for something else. Still, I pocketed the card. It was Lizzy’s night and I wouldn’t spoil it for her.

I eyed the art as I went along, not spotting any of my own. Though the artist gracing the prime wall space did have talent. The portraits looked more like photographs instead of paint and canvas. In each subject’s eyes, I could see into their soul. I stopped in front of a portrait of a priest. There was torment there, and I felt a kinship that sent a cool breeze down my back and I couldn’t contain a shiver. I didn’t linger.

Through the gaps of the floating walls, I spotted my blonde. She was near the back with a man a little larger than me. He was standing way too close. I hustled through the semi-crowded space to reach her.

“Why are you here?” I heard her ask as I approached their backs.

They stood in front of a statement piece, if I said so myself. The familiar strokes of the paint sparked a memory inside me.

“You know why. I can’t stay away,” he said.

“We’ve talked about this,” she said softer, but I was close enough to overhear.

“I’m getting the surgery. I know that was a problem for you—”

She cut him off. “I don’t want you doing this for me.”

I felt a growl in the back of my throat and stepped back to analyze why. I was still in earshot as a couple passed, not noticing the tension around them.

“I’m not,” he said. “But it will benefit us both.”

“It won’t because it changes nothing. We’re better friends.”

The growl inside me dampened to a purr. That’s my girl.

“Is there someone else?” When she didn’t answer, he turned his attention back to my painting. “I bought this because it reminds me of—”