Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Well, don’t we all?”
“No.” Finally, I slipped the paper away from the gift and revealed a book.
What?!
My breath caught in my throat. “Shit.”
The paper fell to the floor.
He didn’t. He couldn’t have.
But, he had.
The book was a masterpiece, bound in rich, oxblood leather, the kind that held a distinct, heavy scent of age and wisdom. The texture was supple yet firm. It’s edges were tinged with gold leaf that shimmered under my studio’s dim lighting.
The title was elegantly embossed on the cover in bold, gold foil lettering.
“What. The. Fuck?” I slipped my fingers over the title and read it, “Fenway’s Foresight: Art, Murder, and the Inescapable Unknown.”
“Exactly.”
Stunned, I looked up at him. “I was just telling you about trying to grab this book two months ago.”
Dominic nodded. “Yep. You said some anonymous asshole kept outbidding you in the last Sotheby’s auction. You were close to rushing over and slamming the phone out of his assistant’s hand, and then you spent this past month trying to figure out who he was.”
I widened my eyes. “Yes.”
Dominic winked. “That was me.”
“You are fucking insane!”
“I am.”
I frowned, not liking the deep emotion filling me. “You did all of that for me?”
“You are as close to a brother as I will ever have, and you never let me get you anything. So this time, I decided to cock block you from buying yourself yet another gift, so that I could get it.”
I deepened my frown. “Thank you.”
“You love the surprise?”
“Of course I do.” I opened the book, and the spine creaked ever so slightly.
The pages were thick and textured. The inky black words that covered these pages spoke of Fenway’s artistry, the horror of the tragedies his paintings foretold, and the tantalizing enigma of the women’s unsolved murders.
Included within, were high-resolution, full-color images of Fenway’s most infamous paintings. These were rendered with such detail that I could almost touch the despair in the eyes of Fenway’s subjects, and could almost hear the whispers of the unknown murderer.
It wasn’t just a book.
It was a sensory experience, a tangible connection to the eerily beautiful world of Fenway, a tragic artist.
I lifted my view back to him. “You fucking paid $2 million?”
“To surprise you? Yes.”
“That is a lot to surprise me, Dom.”
He bobbed his head. “But, we have always known that I am crazy.”
“Goddamn it.”
“I can afford it.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“If you want to make it up to me,” Dominic held his hands out. “Make sure you come to that damn masquerade next month. We made plans.”
I groaned in annoyance.
“It would be boring without you.”
I glanced back at the book again. “Fuck.”
“Come on. Find a woman. You have less than a month to find her, and make sure she has a passport. It’s in Budapest this year.”
I carefully closed the book. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Pure joy lit up on Dominic’s face. “Thank God! Without you, there would be no point.”
I let out a long breath. “I’ll find a woman that won’t bore me enough to be around her for a week.”
“Again, I can help—”
“No. Your women are always dreadful. I’ve got it.”
Dominic turned to the painting of the orgy. “Oh wow. This looks like last year’s masquerade.”
I blinked and studied the image. “I guess it does.”
“See. You wanted to go deep down inside.”
But was it that? Or was it something more happening within my soul?
Chapter One
The Hunt for a Woman
Would she be here? At my showing? That would kill two birds with one stone.
In the art gallery, I leaned against the wall, pulled out my platinum gold lighter, and gazed at it.
A diamond-encrusted rose decorated the front. Sharp thorns etched the stems.
This lighter was a reminder of the darkness inside of me. The destructive tendencies. The possibility of chaos. The allure of danger.
Hello, old friend.
It was the sole memento from my dead mother, and the only tangible piece of her existence that I possessed.
I couldn’t help but wonder why it had been in her purse when she died.
Did she smoke? Had someone she loved given it to her?
In the end, it never mattered.
Even if I knew the answer, I would never know her.
I checked my watch and sighed.
Only ten minutes had passed since the beginning of my opening.
How I wish this part weren’t needed in art.
It was like standing naked in a room filled with countless strangers, feeling their critical eyes dissecting every curve, every mark, every secret, every flaw.
Torture.
If I had not been under contract by the gallery to attend the opening, I would have been in my studio brooding and thinking about the next collection I would create.
But, part of the six-figure exhibition deal was to be present when it was revealed.
I flicked the lighter on and sent a spark through the air, dazzling my senses.
A small flame rose, swaying back and forth, twirling and dancing.
Perhaps, I can spend the time finding a woman for the masquerade. Then, the night won’t be so brutal.