BLAKE
THE HEAVY CANDLESTICK TREMBLED in my hand, and my throat constricted. I couldn’t yell. He looked at me with those pathetic, pleading eyes as if only I possessed the power to release him from the devil’s grip. Those were his words. His hand squeezed my ass as though his life depended on it. I’d seen what he was capable of. Although he overpowered me, he being a man and I only a boy, just as he touched me, I stood on my toes and slammed the golden candlestick over his bald head. A crack appeared, and blood spurted out, dripping down over those creepy black eyes and decrepit cheeks.
Crashing metal echoed off the marble floor. The vibration traveled up my calves. His cold hand gripped my foot, and I kicked it away. He’d touched me one time too many.
Repelled by his cries for help, I ran breathless into the wood without stopping until I arrived at the moors. The howling wind pushed me along. I wished I could fly like the ravens that hovered over that somber gray place.
I entered my cave, a dark, foreboding place that was less frightening than the depraved beasts that I hid from.
But my soul wasn’t free. The rocky walls distorted, forming faces of demons, just like those sneering monsters on the chapel facade. A silent scream clenched my jaw. Trapped by evil smiles and cruel eyes, I couldn’t escape. Even the roaring howl of the wind couldn’t drown out that choir of dissonant shrieks.
A knock startled me awake. I jolted upright. It took a moment to orient myself.
A large opulent bedroom in accents of teal and burgundy slowly came into focus. It was my bedroom in Mayfair and not hell.
I lifted my exhausted body off the damp sheet. Shivering, I clutched my arms.
“Is everything okay?” a voice called from the hallway.
“Yes, Pierce,” I returned.
A comforting warble from a robin reminded me that it was daytime and that I’d just had a nightmare.
I took a deep breath and walked around, enabling the flow of blood to my tense muscles.
Opening the drapes, I looked over at Grosvenor Square bathed in morning sun. People ran or walked their dogs while children bounded about, innocent and full of life.
I headed over to the phone and cleared my voice. “Good morning, Maria. Just some coffee and juice.”
“You’re not hungry?” she asked in her Italian accent.
“No. I’ve got to be somewhere soon.” That wasn’t quite true, but at least it would stop her fussing about me not eating breakfast.
“Oh… I’ve made brioche. Fresh.”
Maria was always insistent. I did like having someone who cared. And her food was scrumptious.
“Sure, thanks.”
“Subito, signore.”
My new acquisitions hung on the wall. The triptych had arrived the day before, replacing a pair of Ingres nudes I’d paid a small fortune for—more than the hundred thousand pounds I’d paid for Penelope Green’s art.
In each painting, the same woman appeared, wearing a long, flowing red gown that was vibrant against the gray city of distorted rectangular buildings. A man with his back turned watched before a gothic window as a woman flew through the city. This story was told over three panels. The art was masterfully created.
I searched for a hint of the girl who had invaded my mind. She’d misunderstood me. How will I convince her that I’m not in the habit of buying virgins?
A knock at my door made me jump. Those paintings had a strange hypnotic power over me. Only a truly gifted artist could attempt surrealism. And for me, Penelope Green’s talent grew each time I visited her work.
“Come in,” I said.
Maria carried a tray filled with food. I had to smile. “Maria, that doesn’t look like a brioche.”
She waved her hand. “Only a little toast. Just in case.” She smiled, but as she studied my face, I knew I was in for some interrogation.
“Are you okay, Signore Blake?”
“I’m great. Now, put it down there, and off you go.” I used my kindest tone.
Just as she was leaving, Maria looked up at my new acquisitions. “Oh… they’re new.” She studied them. “They’re so interesting. Gotica.”
“Gothic, you mean?” I asked.
“Mm… the artist has a fine hand and eye. It’s like the man’s in a church looking out at the beautiful girl, his object of desire, who is lost in a distorted machine-like city that she’s trying to escape.”
I nodded slowly. “I picked them up at a student show.”
“The artist will probably do great things.”
I felt buoyed by her prediction, as though Maria had spoken about someone close to me. “If I ever see her again, I’ll relay your compliment.”
She scrutinized me with her typical intensity. “You like this girl. She’s very pretty.”
“How can you tell?”
She pointed at the painted figure. “Does she look like her?”
I conjured up Penelope’s beautiful face and nodded. “There is a resemblance.”
“And you didn’t get her number?”
“You know me. I don’t like questions.”
She twirled her hand dismissively. “Ask her out. You’re too handsome. The girls would fall at your feet if only you would act more…” She lifted her chin up and pushed out her chest, giving her impression of cockiness.
“Thanks for the lesson in the art of seduction,” I responded dryly. She smiled with a wink before leaving.
Although I couldn’t imagine that being a cocky bastard would win over Penelope Green, I needed to do something to convince her that I wasn’t a cad. Maybe flowers and a note of apology.
Flowers, yes. Apology? I had nothing to apologize for. She was the one who’d jumped to conclusions, although Penelope’s feistiness sent blood gushing to my groin as I recalled her pretty eyes firing up.
My cell vibrated. The name Peter Barnes, a private detective I’d recently hired, came up.
“Blake.” His gravelly voice was so loud that I held the phone away from my ear.
“What can you tell me?” I asked.
“Only that the Cherry Orchard’s registered to a conglomerate that is not that easy to pin down. But I did find one lead.”
“That is…?”
“A name that’s connected to a leading figure from an Eastern European gang.”
I rubbed my head. “Right.”
“I’ve got a few leads. I’ll do some poking around, and perhaps we can meet at the end of the week. I’d prefer to do things away from the phone,” he said.
“Sure.”
10
* * *
PENELOPE
THE MODEL FOR OUR life drawing class had that kind of muscular body that sent Sheldon into a meltdown.
Cupping the side of his mouth, he whispered, “He’s gorgeous.”
I had to smile. The model did have that Adonis appeal. And him being naked as the day he was born wasn’t exactly making things any easier for poor Sheldon. I only hoped the model’s shriveled member wouldn’t rise for the occasion.
A break was called. We’d been drawing all morning. Life drawing was my favorite subject, although I preferred female models. They were easier to draw. All those masculine sinews put me in awe of the Italian masters, particularly Michelangelo, and their ability to depict the male figure.