No. It’s not knowing this man is ‘Master’ that rattles me. It’s how well I relate to what Rebecca responded to in him. Her need to hand over everything to someone else, including her pleasure, and yes, her pain. To trust that much.
“Your silence is making me nervous, Ms. McMillan,” Mark chides and his voice deepens with demand. “Are you ready for tonight?”
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize I’ve simply been gaping at him, “Yes, is the right answer, correct?” I inquire, unable to keep the apprehension from my voice, so no doubt, it shows on my face. I am beyond nervous about the tasting, and fearful I will look foolish to the experts I will be interacting with.
“Yes is the right answer, Ms. McMillan, especially since the tasting begins in one hour.”
I wet my lips and his gaze follows the action, and unlike when Chris had done so, when I’d felt warm all over, Mark’s attention is unsettling. “Yes then.”
“You aren’t convincing me.”
Flattening my hands on my desk, I will myself to stand up for what I believe in, to claim control of me, and not give it to him. I am not Rebecca. “Mark,” I begin, and his brow quirks with irritation, and forces me to quickly amended my choice of address. “Sorry. Mr. Compton. I have to be honest with you. I don’t like to pretend to be an expert when I’m not. And I’m not.” He has to recognize this. The man has haunted me with emails, phone calls, and computer testing for days on end, but he says nothing in reply. “I worry I could lose credibility when it comes to what I do know, which is art.”
He studies me with an inscrutable mask on his too-handsome face, his jaw set in a hard line. I cannot read him and time stretches eternally until finally he speaks. “Do you want me to let you in on a little secret, Ms. McMillan?”
The word ‘secret’ conjures many things where Mark is concerned, but at this particular moment I cannot escape the thought of him spanking Rebecca in the storage room and clamping her nipples. Of him punishing her, of him wanting to punish me. I see myself in Rebecca’s role, pressed against the wall, him against me, and it’s not the first time. It’s illogical because I don’t want Mark, but I am spinning out of control, spiraling into some deep, dark cavern of something I don’t understand.
“What secret?” I finally manage.
The sharpening of his gaze tells me he hasn’t missed the far too drawn out pause before my question, or the telling rasp to my voice. He is pleased with my reaction and realization slaps me in the face. The journal is lying open on the desk. How did I not think of the possibility he might recognize it as Rebecca’s, that he might know I’m reading about her, with him? I think…I think he does know. I think he wants me to know.
“Ready for the secret, Sara?”
Sara. He called me Sara. Instinctively, I know this indicates no shift in our relationship. This is his way of telling me he can call me whatever he likes, while I must call him by his formal surname. He is reminding me he is the boss, and I am subservient to him.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat, and nod. “Yes,” I manage and despite the one word reply, I feel empowered with my voice. At least, he has not rendered me mute. I am not this man’s to control. But your dreams of working in this industry are, my subconscious reminds me, and resentment burns in me at the truth inside the unwelcome thought.
“I never expected you to be ready to talk to experts tonight like you are one yourself,” Mark announces.
I blink in confusion. “I don’t understand. You said I had to study and be ready for tonight.”
“I challenged you to see what you are made of. If you hadn’t given me a valiant effort to rise to said challenge, why should I consider you for more than a mere sales rep?”
Chris’s reaction to Mark’s dangling carrot, aka opportunity at Riptide, slides into my mind. Is Mark really planning to help me do more than local sales, or is he simply manipulating me? Is he...playing with my dreams? Or has Chris simply planted the idea in my head and I’m making myself crazy because of him?
“You’ve done well this week,” he continues. “Tonight you have my permission to confess your lack of knowledge to my customers. Simply allow them to teach you. They’ll be eating out of your pretty little palm, and you’ll, without question, please me with your stellar sales.”
I can barely believe he’s telling me to do exactly what Chris suggested days before. My emotions twist in knots. I’m not sure how to react and I respond on auto-pilot, a soldier trying to please her new captain. “I’ll…do my very best.”
Satisfaction slides over his features. “I cannot wait, Ms. McMillan, to see what you are truly capable of.” His lips twitch. “I have a feeling we’ll be discussing your reward for a night well done, tomorrow.”
“And if I fail?” I ask. “Will I be punished?” I have no idea where my boldness has come from, but the question is out without me thinking.
His eyes narrow on me. “Do you want to be punished?” His tone is low, gravely, and rather than him being angry at the question, I read a sexual undercurrent in his reply. Or maybe I’m suffering delusions born of a combination of Chris’s warnings and my obsession with the journals.
“No,” I answer, and this time there is no hesitation in my response. “I do not wish to be punished.”
“Then continue to please me, Sara,” he comments softly, and there is a hint of both satisfaction and reprimand in his tone. I can see this moment foreshadowing another, where he will say ‘you were warned’. You know I have to punish you.
He shoves off the doorjamb he’s been leaning against. “In case you’ve not been informed, as a precaution, limo and cab service will be provided for my staff and guests this evening. You’ll need to leave your car key in the front desk.”
“But how will I get my car tomorrow?”
“You can expense a cab.” His silver eyes darken to a deep gray. “It’s a small price to pay for safety. I take care of those under my protection, Ms. McMillan.”
He leaves without another word.
***
Forty-five minutes later I am on the main floor of the gallery worrying over the exact alignment of napkins and forks on one of several tables set up in front of a large oval window overlooking the courtyard. The lighting above my head is dim, the music non-existent until the doors open, when a violinist will perform.
Nearby, Mary, the main salesperson for the gallery, and the one person who hasn’t been overly friendly to me from the staff, as well as several of the interns, are chatting amongst themselves. They don’t appear nervous, or to possess the same desire as I do to stay busy. My nerves are jangling louder than one of the San Francisco trolley bells. Even without the pressure of being a wine expert, at least tonight, I’ve read between the lines with Mark. I’m living one big test I can’t afford to fail. I glance at the girls again, all in sparkly cocktail numbers that make my basic black skirt and light blue silk blouse look out of place.
“You look like you’re about to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.”
Ralph appears by my side and I finish placing a final fork, and turn to find his black bow tie from earlier in the day has been replaced with a red one.
“Compliments always help soothe my nerves,” I say sardonically, but then I love the man’s wit and honesty. “I thought you stayed behind your desk?”
“If the bossman wants to fill me with expensive drink and pay for my ride home, who am I to argue? You’ll learn to love these events. A little alcohol and people open their wallets and it puts the ’Beast’ in a good mood.” He studies me intently. “Now. Talk to me. What’s got you so worked up?”
I straighten his bow tie purposely. “It appears I didn’t get the memo on the spiffy evening dress code.”
His gaze flicks several feet away to where Mary is in animated conversation with Mark, before returning his attention to me. “She’s in charge of preparing the staff since Rebecca disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” I ask, alarmed.
“Mary thought
Rebecca leaving was her chance to grab the bossman’s attention and it’s been a big fail for her.” He shrugs. “She’s bitter and doesn’t want competition.” He points at me. “That’s you, honey.”
“Are you saying she has a crush on Mark or she wants the top spot at the gallery?”
“She has a crush on him, his money, and the job. Mark barely gives her the time of day while Rebecca was a star who helped him with Riptide.”
Disappointment tightens my chest. No matter how I frame my duties, I am simply a fill-in for the summer. “Why Rebecca and not Mary for Riptide?” Why me and not Mary? “I get the impression Mary does well on the sales floor.”
“Sales people are a dime-a-dozen, easily replaced by a herd of interns dying to be in this business, and willing to work for pennies. Mary fits that bill in Mark’s eyes.” He presses a finger to his chin and considers me. “You though, are different. Mark sees something in you.” His lips twist. “Mary knows it, too. I do believe she’s ready to stomp on you like a cigarette.”
My eyes go wide. “Stomp on me like a cigarette?” I ask, concerned for myself, but more so for Rebecca.
He rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re melodramatic today?”
“No,” I say, but then I’ve never been living someone else’s life. “Has anyone ever told you you’re melodramatic?”
He winks. “All the time and to put your mind at ease. The harshest thing Mary has in her is messing with your understanding of the evening’s dress code. At heart, she’s nothing more than a submissive little pet.”
“And what am I?” I ask, thinking a pet seems right up Mark’s alley. A submissive pet, at that.
“A daring, gorgeous butterfly,” he comments, fluttering his fingers in the air.
“I’m no butterfly,” I say, laughing at his silly imitation. “And since when are butterflies daring?”
A waiter walks by with a tray of wine on a direct path to a line of servers who are waiting by the door in preparation for opening, and Ralph grabs two glasses from him. “Since you,” he replies and thrusts a drink into my hand. “Gulp that down. You’re wound too tight tonight. You need to ease up.”
My skin prickles with awareness and my gaze shoots to Mark, and I am instantly far more deer-in-headlights than daring butterfly. He eyes the glass I’m holding with an arched brow, before his mouth quirks at the corners, and he nods his approval. His approval. I have pleased him. I will not be punished. I am appalled this is the direction my thoughts have gone, and at the certainty I feel that he knows my reaction, and enjoys this control over me.
Ralph whistles low. “You have that man by the balls like very few do, honey.”
I blanch. “That’s crazy. I do not have him by his…no. I-“
“Doors are opening!” Amanda calls out to the room from the hostess desk. I down my wine and shove my empty glass at Ralph.
An hour later, I am standing with a sixty-something gentlemen whose resume includes being the ex-CEO of a rather large bank, chatting with him about the Ricardo Alvarez show, which he’d also attended. The room is swimming with at least fifty people, among them waiters who are wading through the pool of fancy dresses, expensive suits, and big pocketbooks, with selections of wine. I’ve sold two pricy paintings, neither of which were Chris’s, most likely because I’m avoiding his display for reasons I’m trying not to think about.
I’m also buzzing from several wine samples I’ve consumed, which has made me form a new respect for Mark’s insistence everyone leave their keys in the desk up front.
“So dear,” Mr. Rider, the ex-CEO continues, “I’m interested in an Alvarez painting, but I’m not certain I see the exact piece I want here on the showroom floor. Is there a way to arrange a private viewing of his more precious pieces?”
“I most certainly will see what I can arrange,” I assure him, thought I have no clue what I can, or cannot, do. “I’m sure you know the gallery’s resources are many.”
“And you, Ms. McMillan, certainly are their newest asset.” He retrieves a business card from his pocket. “Call me Monday, my dear.”
I beam at his departing form, and with the prospect of viewing Alvarez’s private collection, along with him.
“I take it your smile means that went well?”
The familiar male voice radiates through me, and I can almost feel my body quiver from inside out. I whirl around to find Chris standing behind me, a rebel in denim and leather amongst black ties, and his surprise appearance does far more to impact me than Mark’s had. Every muscle I own tightens deliciously at the sight of him, and I’m not the only one to react to his ruggedly handsome good looks. Two women walk by, their eyes raking over Chris with admiration, their heads tilting together to exchange comments.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and yes, there is accusation in my voice. I am illogically angry with Chris and I cannot seem to figure out why. Oh wait. He told me I didn’t belong here and yet he still manages to make me hope he’d show up all week long.
His eyes meet mine and hold, and if he notices my temper, he doesn’t show it. “I came to lend you moral support.”
“Why would you want to support me?” I challenge, fighting the thrill inside me at the idea he came here for me. “You said-“
“I know what I said.” He steps closer to me, his fingers curling on my elbow, his touch unexpected, electric. My body hums in reply, and I fight the seductive lethargy threatening to consume both my anger, and my capacity for logic. He told me to leave. He told me I don’t belong.
My anger sparks all over again. “You said-“
“Believe me, I know what I said and I was trying to protect you.” His voice soft and rough at the same time, sandpaper with a silk caress I feel from head to toe.
My stomach knots and I shove aside a blast of uncomfortable emotions his words evoke within me. I am too aware of his touch to fully process what I feel. My voice softens to a whisper. “You don’t even know me.”
His eyes darken, the dim light catching on the gold specks in their depths. “What if I said I want to change that?”
His words are everything I don’t expect, and deep down, everything I had hoped for. I am shocked, and pleased, and in disbelief. More so, I am confused. The crowd, the swell of voices, and clinking glasses fall away with that question. I am staring up at him and his eyes hold me captive. No, he holds me captive, this man, this artist, this stranger, who says he wants to know me. And I want to know him. I just plain want where he is concerned.
“You do know this is a black tie event, correct?”
Mark’s voice is a splash of ice water. I jerk around to find the sharp glint in his silvery gaze fixed on Chris and Chris alone. Power and supreme agitation radiate off of my boss while Chris appears completely unaffected, or perhaps, pleased at Mark’s disdain?
Chris faces Mark, his hands out to his sides. “Artistic expression. Isn’t that what you like about me?”
Mark’s lips press into a thin line. “I prefer your expression to be contained on the canvas.”
“Or in your bank account,” Chris muses, and while his tone speaks of jest, there is a sharp undercurrent to his words that match Mark’s steely stare.
“Excuse me.” A forty-something female and her husband that I recognize from an earlier, rather unfriendly chat, interrupts us and their intense interest in Chris is evident. The woman is practically giddy with excitement. “Are you Chris Merit?” she asks, and good lord, she sounds breathless, when only fifteen minutes before she’d been pretentious and borderline rude to me.
Chris’s eyes hold Mark’s for several crackling seconds that the couple seems to be oblivious to, before Chris turns his attention to his admirers.
“I’ve been known to answer to that name,” he replies, offering them one of the charming smiles that I’ve learned pack a real punch.
“Oh my God,” the woman gushes, whisking a lock of red hair from her eyes, and shoving her hand at Chris. “I love your work.”
Avoiding Mark’s gaze, feeling somehow as if I will be blamed, for well, something, I watch how Chris interacts with the couple. Eventually the husband wrangles Chris’s hand from his wife’s, to shake it himself, before he turns to do the same with Mark. “You really do know how to surprise your guests in all the right ways, don’t you, Mr. Compton? You certainly have earned our business tonight.”
Chris’s eyes meet Mark’s and even in profile, I can tell Chris is barely containing a smile. “I was more than happy to attend,” Chris comments, “but I did have one condition to being here.” The couple hang anxiously on Chris’s words, and though Mark shows no reaction, I’m pretty sure he is too. “I’m supposed to have a Corona beer waiting on me.” He shrugs out of his leather jacket, a statement to Mark he is staying I believe, and a waiter quickly takes it.
The couple erupts into laughter I don’t dare indulge in, and turn expectant gazes on Mark. I wonder which is worse for Mark—the use of his first name, or the request for a beer. “Oh please,” the woman pleads,” bring us a Corona, too. What fun to tell our friends we had a beer at a wine tasting with Chris Merit.”
“Unfortunately,” Mark replies, proving he can roll with the proverbial punches, “the beer didn’t arrive as expected.” He waves at a waiter who rushes over. “But I can certainly supply wine.”
Chris doesn’t push for the beer I doubt he really wanted, and soon we all lift our glasses in a toast. “To the painting I’m going to leave with by Chris Merit,” the wife declares.
“I can’t believe you asked for beer,” I whisper when he takes my glass.
His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Believe it, baby. I’m a rebel with a cause.” He hands off our glasses to a waiter.
“And what’s the cause?” I ask, while Mark and the couple continue to chat.
“Right now,” he replies. “You.”
My lips part in surprise but there is no time for a real reaction. The fuss has garnered attention, and suddenly we are surrounded by people who want to meet Chris. Graciously, he chats with the various customers, and I am both surprised and pleased as he introduces me to each.