Seductive Secrecy (Shadows series) (4 page)

Massachusetts didn’t have the death penalty. The owners of the
mansion were facing life without parole instead. The other
employees had been charged with various offenses, depending on their role and how heavily they’d been involved. Sal, my old bodyguard, shot himself in the head before he was arrested. Sandy, the woman who’d gotten me ready every evening, was deported back to Vietnam along with most of the other so-called “cosmetologists.” As for the clients, their names had been published in the newspaper—not all at once in a comprehensive list, but in stages over a two-month period while the police and investigators pored over years of files. Even then, not all the names had been released. Many would never hit the media, including Mr. Hunt—Emma’s father. Either they’d been able to buy their way out or they knew someone who had kept their name from the press.

The one key figure who had never been arrested was Victoria, the madam. As soon as the mansion had been invaded, she’d fled. I could only imagine that, in order to avoid prosecution, she’d gone as far from Boston and her life with the mansion as she could. I never
knew if she’d been tipped off or if someone had helped her get
away, but she was gone.

So was my father.

There should have been multiple charges brought against him, with a heavy sentence for his involvement. Instead, he was lying low somewhere in Europe. He’d never shared the details—something for which I was extremely grateful—but he had enough information about someone very important, someone who’d also been involved in the mansion, to make sure he was kept out of prison. Now, he lived under a different name, at an address that constantly changed. Letters were the only untraceable way for us to keep in touch. We exchanged notes as often as we could. It seemed like every time he sent me one, there was a different return address in the corner.

The number of girls who were killed at the mansion was in the
hundreds. I believed it could possibly have even been in the
thousands, but the paper hadn’t stated that yet. Every month or so, an updated number was published. After the third month, I stopped reading. I didn’t want to know anymore. I didn’t want to think about all the faces that passed through my father’s office, all the girls who had shared my wing, all the whispers and secrets held by the walls of that house. I had done everything I could to bring that place down, and my efforts had worked. The amount of destruction those people had caused was just too much. I had enough reminders as it was. 

My father assured me that as long as my identity remained
disconnected from the mansion, I was safe. I wasn’t a threat to
anyone other than myself. To them, to the people who mattered, I was just a girl who had been pulled in because I fit their criteria. They’d never
known I had any inside knowledge about the mansion, their
employees or clients. I appeared to be a victim as much as the other girls had been, and that status allowed me to stay in Boston and continue my life without being placed in protective custody.

I didn’t know any of the other girls who’d been freed; I didn’t
know their names or where they’d gone. I didn’t know if they were
able to go back to their normal lives, remove the mask, and pretend as
though they hadn’t almost been killed. I didn’t know if they were
able to look in their boyfriend’s eyes and pretend they hadn’t enjoyed the eyes of so many other men.

I didn’t know if they’d found peace, or forgiveness within themselves.

But I knew within the smoke and shade that covered the skin of my paintings, there were questions and uncertainties, things I still needed to explore, even if only through my art. These were wounds that Cameron just wasn’t able to lick clean. I had bared my flesh; I had spread my legs for strangers in masks at the requests of others I’d never even met, and it had almost caused my death. I had pulled my father out of that dark underworld and lost him to a different one—one that was thousands of miles away. And I had found a home within the arms of a man who was struggling with his own shadows, his own demons, and pain that was intolerable at times.

I longed for a chance to escape my own pain, as the mansion had allowed me to.

Because of this, a small part of me still craved the mask I’d worn within those walls.

***

When I’d had coffee with Cameron this morning, the markings of another unproductive sleepless night had been cast over his face. But as I entered the studio, he was in the center of the room in front of his easel. His right hand gripped a flat brush, while the left nested a palette covered in bright hues. From the way the bristles lifted and descended, I could tell he’d found it again... that feeling. The creative yearning that lived and writhed and clawed within an artist’s chest
until it discovered a release. I could see it in his face as well: a
brightness and determination that beamed from his eyes, from his lips.

He had worked his way through yesterday’s block.

I moved behind him, making sure he heard my footsteps as I approached so my presence wouldn’t come as a surprise, and gently placed my hands on his chest. His body stiffened even more as my
face landed on his back. His breathing sped up when my lips
pressed against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. The first time I had come up behind him like this, he was out of my arms before I’d even had a chance to finish wrapping them around him. Months later, he was finally allowing me to do it without fleeing immediately, though he
usually didn’t let me hold him for very long. This time was no
different; in spite of letting me cuddle him, he switched places with me after
several seconds. His hands found their way to my stomach; his
breathing returned to normal, his anxiety leaving a bit more with each exhale. His mouth roamed the collar of my shirt. Soft, alluring moans followed each kiss.

He wasn’t the only one in this relationship who buried his
darkness in sex.

I tilted my head, giving him more access, and pointed to the creation in front of us. “This is new…”

“It’s what came to me after breakfast.”

Cameron’s specialty was abstract art, with bold colors and textures that lifted off the canvas. But lately I had noticed a change in his work. He still focused on abstracts, but distinct images had begun appearing within the swirls and splotches. Sometimes, he made the figure the main focus and used the heavy, uncontained layers to fill it in. The one before us now had long strands of chocolate hair cascading from the top, where a body was beginning to form.

“Did you finish the piece from yesterday?” I asked.

“No.” His fingers reached under my shirt and started to crawl toward my chest, ticking the skin just below the wire of my bra. His mouth moved up to my ear. “I threw it away.”

“You what?” I turned and faced him, his hands sliding to my
back and hovering over the clasp. “Why would you do that?”

“Turns out I wasn’t having a creative block. It was the piece…it didn’t feel right, and I couldn’t find a rhythm. So after you left,” he paused, lifting the strap off my back to unhook it, “I started this. It was inspired by what happened last night.”

After he’d made me come on the shower bench last night, he carried me to the bed and licked me again on the mattress. I begged
him to enter me, but he never gave in. And when my body
shuddered for a third time, he covered my wet, naked skin with a blanket and I fell asleep. He never returned to our bedroom.

“Can I see it?” I asked.

His eyes wandered over my face, stopping at my lips, and his hands finally unclasped my bra. The cups loosened and he pulled the lace down past my nipples, his stare meeting the erect little buds that craved to be sucked. He controlled me last night; he’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted and he hadn’t submitted to my begging.

It was my turn.

I circled my arms behind my back and closed the hooks, then I pulled the bra over my breasts again. “The painting…show it to me, Cameron.”

He lowered his head and reached for my mouth. Just because my breasts were covered now, it didn’t mean his hands left them. He rolled my nipples between his thumb and index finger, pulling on them through the fabric. “I can still taste you on my lips.” His were just inches above mine. “I need more of it...more of
you
.”

I could feel the wetness between my legs. It was
spreading… almost dripping to my thighs. My clit throbbed for friction. My mouth wanted to be on him, flicking the tip of his cock.

I rubbed my teeth over my bottom lip and followed it with my tongue. “You’re not getting any of me just yet.” My brows rose as I waited for him to comply.

He nodded finally, and his hands dropped from my chest. He found my fingers, clenched them between his and led me over to the windows. The glass ran from the floor to the ceiling and took up an entire wall of the studio. I remembered the first time he had invited me here, and the feeling that had spread through me when I took in this view. I looked at it every day and still hadn’t gotten used to it. There were moments when I couldn’t even believe I lived here and that after everything…he still wanted me.

He stopped in front of the only easel on that side of the room and turned the wooden feet so that they faced us, slowly revealing more of the picture. My breath caught in my throat; my hands shook a little. My feelings for Cameron always made viewing his work an emotional experience. But this? This was a different feeling entirely.

“What do you think?” He moved behind me again, pushing his body into me, and his hands circled my navel.

The painting was simple, a white background with a single image in the center: a woman with her arms stretched over her head and her back facing out from the canvas. Her torso was twisted in such a way that the side of her breast was exposed, as was her full ass. One foot was lifted, while her other foot remained flat. He’d painted her toes and legs in a sky blue that gradually darkened into a stronger, more brilliant blue when it reached her waist; her breast was a mix of yellows—ochre and Naples; he’d used a soft bronze for her shoulders, and burnt umber formed the top of her head and
continued through her arms. The tones were muted, but they
blended well, and the way he’d layered the paint gave her body dimension and character without needing any intricate detail.

“Do you see why I threw away the other piece?” His palms
flattened just under my ribs and pushed. I jerked up against his
hardness. Even with him being much taller than me, I could feel it against my lower back. Then his nose grazed my ear and ran up and down my cheek. His lips never touched me, just the tip of his nose, bringing goose bumps to my skin. “After you left…this felt right. This is what the memories of you inspired.”

Cameron had inspired several of my paintings and I could find
elements of myself in his work: the sensuality we shared, the
intensity of our lovemaking. But when I looked at this woman, the only thing I saw us having in common was our hair color. Where my body was slender and petite, hers was voluptuous, with a thick ass and much larger breasts. I couldn’t help but notice the resemblance she bore to the
other
woman in Cameron’s life
Lora, the one who had claimed his mouth, his hands, his body until I had entered the scene. Now, they were best friends, like Dallas and I were, though I believed she wanted a lot more from Cameron.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your pussy since I left you on the bed last night. It’s fucking haunting me, it’s so good.” His hand drifted down and halted when it reached the V of my jeans, pressing his thumb through the thin material. “I gave you what you wanted…now you give me what I want. Give me
this
.” His thumb rubbed the small space between my folds.

I swallowed the tingles that had made their way into my throat and closed my eyes. I feared his answer, but before I gave in, I had to know if it was her.

“Who did you make this painting for?”

He had pulled down the collar of my shirt, exposing my
shoulder. But his lips didn’t touch me; they hovered over my skin, his breath hitting the strap of my bra. “Lora.”

My whole body dried up and my back stiffened at the sound of
her name. When he felt the change, his tongue deepened and
lengthened across my skin. He was trying to bring back that feeling, but it was gone. I couldn’t go there. Not now…not while her body glared back and taunted me from the canvas, every groove and bump and slope so perfectly portrayed. Of course, he hadn’t needed a picture to work from. Lora’s limbs and torso and breasts were ingrained in his head because his tongue had spent so much time licking them.

“Is she coming here?” I asked.

“I’m bringing it by her place in a few hours, so that gives us
plenty of time…”

I didn’t want to turn around; I didn’t want him to see the pain
on my face, or the drops of jealousy surfacing in my eyes. But I also
knew I couldn’t fake what he wanted me to do. Not when it came to her.