Reaching for the photo, I hold it between my fingers and study it, study her. She is beautiful and petite with long, sandy brown hair, and a brilliant smile that tells me that at the moment this picture was taken, she was immensely happy. Her image mesmerizes me and I wonder why she tore the picture. I wonder who was in it with her and who took the photo. Even more so, I wonder why she kept the picture after she tore it up.

My brow furrows as my attention shifts to the paint brush. It’s such an odd thing to save, but then, so is half of a picture. I pick up the brush and run my fingers over the bristles that have a hint of a yellow paint at the tips. The wood bears no marks or logo. It’s clearly a sentimental item, which isn’t so unexpected really, considering she worked at the gallery. So was the man in the journal an artist? The prospects of who he might be are far reaching. My stomach knots as I think of Chris. I keep thinking about Chris and those greener than green eyes.

I seal the picture and the paint brush back inside the box and set it on my nightstand. My laptop is also on the bed with me and I power it up before typing ‘Chris Merit’ into the search bar and clicking on images. Almost immediately I get photos of two different people and realize that one is an older version of Chris. His father had been a famous classical pianist who’d lived in Paris. I don’t know how I forgot such a thing, or how I tied the image of father with son, though the resemblance is uncanny.

I google Chris and he comes up in Wikipedia. He is thirty-five, not thirty-three, and he’s dated a couple of models and an actress. Right. Way, way out of my league so I have no idea why I read into anything tonight with the man. My lips thin as I note that he has never been married. My mother’s words come back to me. Any man who isn’t married by thirty-five is either g*y or he’s got skeletons in his closet. A knot forms in my throat. God, how I miss her, how I wish she was still here so I could call her now. Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t call her now and explain my obsession with another woman’s sex life. I bite my lip. Am I obsessed with another women’s sex life? No, I tell myself immediately, rejecting the idea. If I’m obsessed, it’s with her safety.

And if Chris has skeletons, could Rebecca have discovered them and become a liability? It sounds so much like a fictional novel that laughter bubbles from my lips. Besides, with further reading, I realize Chris lives in Paris. Chris must be here for a visit. He is probably gone already.

Unbidden, disappointment fills me. Chris is the first man to interest me in well over two years, since Michael Knight, the CEO of a large computer company, whom I’d met at a charity event. I’d soon realized he was the kind of man I found alluring for all the wrong reasons. The kind that dominates and controls, and makes you feel all feminine and protected. That is, until he shreds everything you know of yourself to pieces. I’m still not sure I understand why he appealed to me, or why men like Mark, who ooze that kind of power, still appeal to me. I only know that dating men who are sensitive and caring, like I had in the past, doesn’t seem to be working for me. Chris, well, he doesn’t seem to be one of those power control freaks like Mark, but then I doubt I’ll ever see him again.

I reach for one of the journals and begin to read.

I told him I wouldn’t see him again. He told me he’d decide when I see him and when I don’t. I should have known I couldn’t simply walk away. I should have known he’d come for me, and that I, weak as I am, would not be able to resist him. Before I knew what was happening, I was in the storeroom in the middle of the day, with others nearby.

He shoved me against the wall and then tore down my panties. His lips pressed close to my ear, his breath hot on my neck, as he said, ’you know the rules, you know I have to punish you.’ I squeezed my eyes shut because I do know. I know and not only do I know but I want him, too. That’s what I’ve become, what he’s made me. I was wet and aching and all but ready to beg for the very thing I craved…punishment.

The first smack of his hand on my ass was pure pain, no pleasure like in the past, but I didn’t scream. I couldn’t scream. Not when I could be heard. Somehow, as it always does, the pain turned to pleasure. The need for him was intense, complete. He entered me and it was then I barely contained my cry, my need. He couldn’t f**k me hard enough to suit me. I was, as always, powerless to the pleasure that is him.

When it was over, he turned me around, tugged my dress and bra down and clamped my nipples, ordering me to endure the pain for fifteen minutes. Assuring me he will know if I take them off sooner. And then he was gone, and I stare after him, my sex spasming from the orgasm he shouldn’t have been able to give me. Every nerve ending I own is aware of the sting of my bottom and ache of clamps biting down on my nipples. I am unable to stop the pain, unable to fight my desire for him. I am helpless. I am frighteningly aroused.

***

I stand in my bathroom, with my second cup of coffee on the counter next to me, brushing my long brown hair to a silken mass. It is eight in the morning and I will soon leave for the gallery. ‘You can start tomorrow’ should have been a lead into me asking ‘what time?’. Since I had not had enough sense to do so, I’d decided before bed to wake early enough to arrive thirty minutes before opening.

With a brush of powder, I finish up my makeup and step into the emerald green sheath dress, a black jacket, and black heels, which is my ‘go-to’ special occasion outfit. The same outfit that I’d worn to my teaching interview years before when, like today, looking professional was the goal. I am, after all, attending to adult needs today, rather than that of high school kids wearing jeans and t-shirts. Not that I ever opted for jeans myself, as some of the faculty did. My youthful appearance seems to be far more intimidating in high heels and skirts than in casual wear. With high school students, respect can go a long way. I inspect my appearance in the full length mirror behind the door with approval. It’s not Chanel or Dior, like many of the gallery customers will favor, but on my budget, it will have to do.

After finishing my coffee, I make my way to the car, and I’m officially as nervous as my students normally are on their first day of school. I can’t believe I’m really taking this job and I feel both terrified and excited. “Right,“ I say to myself. “Like there was any doubt you would?”

Guilt twists in my stomach at the idea of Rebecca’s potential misfortune being my good fortune. I am not sure I can live with that idea. No one has met with misfortune, I promise myself. I’m going to find out that Rebecca is perfectly fine and happy, and be able to embrace this world I love, if only for a while.

By the time I arrive at the gallery fifteen minutes later, I am having doubts about Rebecca’s safety again. I wonder why, if Rebecca is perfectly fine and happy, and I am to believe she has been whisked off to some exotic haven in a way permanent enough to let her things go, would the gallery say she is returning?

I have forever longed to spend my days surrounded by fine art, and I know that the day I leave this world behind for mine, it will be painful. But I am on this path now, and in my gut, it feels as if I am doing what I am meant to do. Even as I park in the back of the gallery and get out of my car, my heart feels like it might explode from my chest.

I cross the small employee parking lot, and after testing the door, finding it, not surprisingly, locked, I knock several times.

The young girl I’d wanted to hug the night before appears and smiles a warm welcome, before opening the glass door. “You must be Sara.”

“That’s me,” I say and return her smile. “I guess you heard I was coming?”

“Yes, and I’m so glad you’re here.” She is wearing a pale pink dress with a pin clip in her dark hair that makes her look even younger than when I’d first met her. “We really are short staffed so this is a blessing.”

I enter and let the door shut behind me. The woman-—or girl, rather--doesn’t seem worried about re-locking it, which concerns me. This might be a small gallery but it is considered one of the most prestigious, with highly sought after art, and plenty of money moving through the place.

“I’m Amanda,” she declares. “I’m an intern for the next year, working as the receptionist.”

“Nice to meet you, Amanda,” I say.

“Mark’s having breakfast with Ricco this morning to discuss last night’s event.” She motions with her head. “I’ll show you your new office.”

I hesitate before following, and at the risk of offending Amanda, turn and lock the door. I give her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I’m an art fanatic and the idea of someone busting in here and stealing some of the art is enough to make me downright nauseous.”

She pales visibly. “Thank you. Mark would have been furious to find it unlocked.”

The discomfort and true fear that rolls off of her is disconcerting. I know right then that the protectiveness I had felt for her last night was going to become a common theme.

I fall into step with Amanda and we head down the narrow hallway, behind the art displays. “Mark’s a tough boss, I take it?”

She gives me a quick glance. “He’s rich, good looking, and pretty much perfect. That’s what he expects here, too. I’m not always so good at being perfect.”

“Other people’s perfection is a facade we create when we are second guessing ourselves,” I tell her, but deep down, even in the short meeting I had with Mark, I agree with her assessment of him. Well, except the rich part. I have no idea if he has money, but if he does, it’s not from simply managing an art gallery.

“Hmmm,” Amanda murmurs skeptically, “I guess I do second guess myself around him, but only because he’s so intimidating. When the man looks at me I feel like I’m going to come unglued.”

I picture those intense gray eyes of his, and just the idea of seeing Mark again has my adrenaline racing and I am not quite in touch with myself enough right now to know why. Since I have no intention of sharing this with Amanda, I smile with encouragement instead. “I bet we can make him a little less intimidating if we stick together.”

She gives me a bright smile. “I like that idea.”

I warm at her response, and the school teacher and nurturer in me is certain I am so going to be her Mama Bear.

We enter another hallway that is lined with various works of art that I barely refrain from inspecting. There will be time for that later.

“I’ll introduce you to the staff when they arrive,” Amanda informs me. “There are seven of us total aside from you, two of whom are part-time interns. They’re all coming in late after working last night’s event.”

“How’d you get so lucky to work early?” I ask as we stop at a doorway I assume leads to the offices.

She cut me another sideways look. “I spilled a glass of wine on a very important client last night. It’s my punishment.”

My brows dip and a chill slides down my spine. “Punishment?”

She keys in a password on an entry panel, before turning her attention back to me. The smile of moments before has disappeared. ”Mark’s big on punishment.” She starts walking and forces me to follow and I have the distinct impression she doesn’t want to give me the chance to ask for more specifics.

We pass several dark offices before she pauses at a door and flips on the light. “You’ll be working in Rebecca’s office.”

I don’t move. I stand there, feeling icy cold, as I remember the journal entry from the night before. You know the rules, you know I have to punish you.

Chapter Six

I walk into Rebecca’s office and the scent of roses flares in my nostrils. Searching the room, I find a small candle on the shiny cherry wood desk that while not burning, seems the logical source of the sweet floral perfume. The little personal touch I assume to be Rebecca’s reminds me that I am here to find her, and punches me in the gut when it should be encouraging, a sign of her return. Searching for more of that encouragement I should be feeling, I glance at the two bookshelves to my right, where various art books are displayed on stands and a dozen or so others are shelved, and find nothing to cling to.

“If you hit the red button on your phone, you’ll reach the intercom to my desk,” Amanda murmurs.

“Great,” I say, stepping behind the desk and stuffing my purse into a drawer. I can’t seem to get myself to sit down in the red leather chair. In her chair. “What’s my extension?” I ask because I’m trying to buy time to snap out of the uneasy feeling tingling through my nerve endings.

“Four,” Amanda replies.

My gaze lifts and my breath hitches at the sight of the painting on the wall directly in front of me. I think Amanda says something else but I don’t know what. I am riveted by the fine strokes of brilliance done by none other than the famous American painter Georgia O’Nay. I now know why there had been a key pad for a password to enter the back offices and the candle suddenly has more significance because this glorious oil on canvas features red and white roses. It must be worth a cool thirty thousand and I can’t imagine it’s not real to be here in the gallery. It is spectacular, and it is on the wall I will be staring at every day. The same wall that Rebecca had stared at each day she’d been here.

“From Mark’s personal collection,” Amanda informs me, clearly noting the way I’m gaping. “He has a piece in every office.”

I jerk my attention in her direction to find her leaning on the doorframe. “His personal collection?”

She gives a nod. “His family owns a number of art galleries and an auction house in New York called ‘Riptide’,” she explains. “He changes out the pieces every few months from what I understand. We actually have customers who schedule appointments to see what he brings next.” Stunned at this news, I am again in a rare state of speechlessness at the mention of the most elite auction houses in existence, selling everything from celebrity property to fine art.