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  XQUISITE

  RUBY LASKA

  Copyright © 2015 by Ruby Laska.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Xquisite / Ruby Laska. – 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-940501-17-8

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chelsea Ryder paused in the doorway of the gallery, the sounds of the city receding behind her. She was only dimly aware of the rain that fell lightly on the sidewalks—unusual for June in Los Angeles. A couple leaving a restaurant down the street raced for their car, and people caught without umbrellas vied for taxis, but Chelsea willed these distractions away and focused on the mantra that had gotten her through a thousand evenings such as this one.

  It’s just me now. No one can hurt me unless I allow it. The past is gone. I am in control.

  She closed her eyes briefly and breathed in—one, two, three—and then slowly let her breath out. When she opened her eyes again, she felt stronger. Prepared for whatever the evening would bring. Maybe, if things went well, she’d text Benedict later. Or Caleb. Either would do, for the kind of closure these nights often seemed to need.

  Inside the door, one of Meredith’s young assistants greeted her. “Hello, Ms. Ryder,” she said, smoothing her long magenta hair nervously. “Welcome, we’re so glad you could make it.”

  Behind her, Meredith came clattering over in her platform heels, holding a martini glass like a weapon and seized Chelsea in an embrace. “Our overnight sensation!” she crowed, causing everyone in earshot to turn and see who had arrived.

  Ever since LA Confidential Magazine had named Chelsea one of Twenty Women to Watch in the Arts, her stock had undeniably risen among the gallery owners, artists, and dealers who populated the burgeoning Los Angeles art scene. Her newfound fame was a mixed blessing. Chelsea had opened her gallery five years ago at the age of twenty-four and had been struggling to make ends meet ever since. Attracting more buyers could help change that. But she’d never been the type to seek attention for herself—only for the art.

  Too bad if she wasn’t comfortable in the public eye: she needed to network as much as possible if she wanted to stay in business.

  “Meredith,” she greeted the owner of the gallery. “It looks amazing.”

  “Oh, you think?” Meredith said as she twirled around, her silvery tunic rippling over her narrow pants, a strand of carved beads swinging around her neck. Long, feathery earrings accented her short silvery hair, and her enormous ruby-red glasses only made her features more striking. “Wait, wait, did you mean my outfit or Peter’s work?”

  Chelsea laughed, feeling herself relax fractionally. The older woman had been one of the first people to give her a break, employing her to do odd jobs around The Meredith Tipton Gallery when she was only sixteen years old. Since then their relationship had progressed from mentoring to friendship.

  “You’re beautiful, as always,” Chelsea said, meaning every word. Somewhere in the crowd, Meredith’s husband Allan was undoubtedly telling jokes and sipping his signature Arnold Palmers, and while Chelsea would like nothing more than to find a quiet corner to catch up with an old friend, she was here for professional reasons tonight.

  She and Meredith linked arms, and Chelsea focused on the gallery owner’s commentary on the pieces hanging from the tall, rough-brick walls. Peter Silver’s canvases featured geometric shapes composed of a variety of media in three-dimensional collage.

  “This one’s on loan from that Miami collector I was telling you about,” Meredith said, pausing in front of an enormous work that included metal pie pans, feathers, and what looked like dry cereal glued to the canvas. “He’ll be stopping by later, and I’ll be sure to make an introduction.”

  “I’d love that,” Chelsea said, mentally tallying the paintings she’d set aside in her own gallery in hopes of impressing the wealthy potential client.

  Friends and fans of Meredith approached to say hello and gush over the artwork on display. Chelsea took advantage of the break to accept a glass of champagne from a passing server, and discreetly observe the crowd. Meredith’s show openings were known for celebrity guests and lavish food prepared by trendy restaurateurs, and tonight’s party didn’t disappoint. Techno music pounded from the speakers, club girls twisted and gyrated under a pink spotlight, and Peter Silver himself was holding court in front of an ice sculpture carved to resemble one of the giant geometric towers featured in his paintings.

  Invitations to Meredith’s gallery parties were much sought after—and very different from Chelsea’s own openings, which tended to be serious, sober affairs. She took note of various details that she could consider adopting, knowing that Meredith wouldn’t mind. After all, if Chelsea’s gallery was to succeed, she was going to need all the help she could get—even if it meant stepping way out of her comfort zone.

  “Pardon me,” a man said, so close to her ear that his deep masculine voice seemed to travel through her skin and she could feel his breath on her neck. She whirled around, ready to tell him to back off, her hand already raised to push him away if necessary—and tripped on something, losing her balance. Her champagne fell to the floor and her hand shot out frantically to try to stop her fall, but she was too late.

  In the split second that her heel skidded across the slick, polished hardwood, the Fiend managed to slip inside her thoughts. The Fiend was the only lasting trace of the torture of her childhood, a specter that existed only in her imagination but somehow managed to seem as real as the ground under her feet when it reared its ugly head. Chelsea had gotten very good at keeping the Fiend locked up, and it was only in her most vulnerable moments that it gained the upper hand.

  Moments like this. Moments when idiot men got too close, when they invaded her personal space without an invitation.

  “What the fuck!” she spat, flailing wildly as she fell—and then a strong hand closed tightly around her wrist and pulled her up. Her feet found footing on the floor and she regained her balance, but before she could yank her hand back, she found herself pulled even closer to her unwanted rescuer, so close that she could smell his scent—a complex blend of dried tobacco and spice and other things she couldn’t identify.

  In that tiny expanse of time, everything seemed to go still. The effect was a bit like the self-calming exercise she’d used at the door: the crowd, the music, the slick floor under her boots, all of it faded away, and she found herself staring up into a pair of eyes so dark they were nearly black, her own face reflected in the ebony irises.

  As quickly as the man had grabbed her, he released her, stepping back and giving her more than enough room to collect h
erself. A server had dashed over and was kneeling on the floor, picking up broken glass and wiping the liquid away. The crowd seemed to pay no mind as the party surged all around.

  “A waste of good champagne,” the man said, one thick black eyebrow raised. God, he was gorgeous, Chelsea noted, as her anxiety ebbed and her body thrummed with the after-effects of adrenaline. Gorgeous, and still much too close, though he was the sort of man who would be too close even if he was standing at the other end of a football field. Not her type at all, in other words—the sort of overconfident, overly attractive man who expected the world to bow to his desires.

  She took a half step back while pasting a false smile on her face. “Thank you,” she said primly. “I seem to have lost my balance.”

  “I tried to warn you. Someone dropped one of those—what do you call them?”

  Only now did she notice that his words were tinged with a faint, rich accent. French, perhaps, though it was difficult to tell in the din. Another woman would lean closer to hear—and possibly to inhale that intoxicating scent again. But Chelsea wasn’t that woman.

  “Obelisk,” she said coldly. “I believe that’s the word you’re looking for.”

  “Ah, yes. Obelisk.” He drew the word out as he reached for one of the party favors stacked on the shelf along the wall. Meredith had had the papier mache favors made to mimic the tall, monument-like figures that featured prominently in Peter’s paintings. The gallery logo was stamped in gold on the side—another example of the clever marketing that had made Meredith so successful.

  Even as Chelsea added the favor to the mental idea list she was compiling for later, she found herself distracted by the stranger in front of her. By now she should be halfway across the room, mingling with the wealthy collectors and critics in attendance. She didn’t owe this man pleasantries, and she had already said thank you. And yet she remained rooted in place.

  “Ah!” Meredith appeared next to the stranger, having finally detached herself from her many well-wishers. “I see you met Ricardo, Chelsea.”

  “Actually, we haven’t been introduced,” he said, allowing Chelsea the smallest of smiles. “I seem to have clumsily caused a near-catastrophe, Miss....”

  “I tripped,” Chelsea snapped, rolling her eyes. She wasn’t falling for his charm.

  Meredith clapped her hands together in delight. “Then allow me to make the introductions! Chelsea, Ricardo de Santos is an authenticator in town to, well, he can’t say, can you, Ricardo? All very hush-hush and exciting, as long as one isn’t the one being duped. And Ricardo, may I present Chelsea Ryder, owner of the Ryder Gallery. She represents some of the most innovative, fresh talent in the American West.”

  Which was a very nice way of saying that Chelsea had only new and unproven artists in her stable, a fact that anyone with even the barest understanding of the art world would immediately detect. But de Santos gave no indication that he was anything but impressed. He solemnly held out his hand, and so Chelsea was forced to touch him for the second time—and as his hand wrapped around hers, the effect of his warm grasp was no less unsettling. She pulled her hand away as quickly as she could without seeming rude.

  “It’s a pleasure,” she said stiffly.

  Meredith was eying her craftily. “You two have so much to talk about,” she said. “Ricardo grew up in Spain, and Chelsea, I know you’ve got some wonderful pieces by Mateo Bautista. Ricardo, the influence of the Catalan Modernists in Mateo’s work is simply extraordinary.” Barely pausing to take a breath, she took them each by the arm and marched them toward the rear of the gallery. The crowd melted aside, making room for them to pass; such was Meredith’s star power, something Chelsea both envied and despaired of ever achieving herself. “Listen, I had a few café tables brought in tonight for tête-à-têtes,” she said. “I’ll have someone bring you some of these wonderful little tarts.”

  “Meredith, really, I’ve got so many people to say hello to,” Chelsea protested.

  “Tch, work can wait for a few moments, sweetheart. You had a nasty fall, at least you should fortify yourself with some champagne! Ricardo, you don’t mind keeping her company, do you?”

  “Of course not, Meredith,” Ricardo murmured, with that same smug little smile. Chelsea half wanted to wipe it off his face and half wanted to…something. If it weren’t for the crowd, the noise, the pressure to network, she would have come up with a way to get out of the forced conversation.

  It had nothing to do with the man himself, the man who was now politely pulling out her chair, half a dozen women nearby falling over themselves to catch a glimpse of him.

  Chelsea sighed and took her seat. Fine—she could sit here for five minutes. It wouldn’t hurt to collect herself before she started networking. Over there was an art critic for the LA Times, and there was one of the editors from ArtScene. Chelsea was pretty sure the woman in the red suit was a wealthy collector from Dallas, who had expressed interest in an artist Chelsea had arranged a show for next month.

  She would drink her champagne and have a bite to eat and then she would say a polite, but firm, farewell to Ricardo de Santos. If he really was an authenticator—someone whose job it was to validate the providence of a work before it changed hands—he probably wasn’t all that interested in her, either. The authenticators she’d known were rarely connoisseurs; they tended to be more interested in the technical aspects of the work: the materials used, the conditions in which it was produced, evidence of age and exposure and possible tampering. Scholars and technical experts, in other words, though the man sitting across from her hardly fit the picture.

  A waiter appeared out of nowhere and set down champagne and a platter of appetizers, no doubt sent by Meredith. Chelsea seized a glass and sipped at the champagne. While Ricardo served her one of the glistening tarts, she took advantage of the distraction to take a closer look at him. There was no denying his attractiveness. He was easily two or three inches taller than her, even though she was close to six feet tall in her boots, an advantage she often pressed in public. He was dressed for the unseasonable weather in a tropical wool jacket, and his pale wheat-colored shirt and oxblood tie were perfectly pressed and knotted. A monogrammed cuff peeked out from his sleeve, and his shoes looked expensive. Yet despite his fine clothes, Ricardo didn’t look fussy or dandified; he was clearly comfortable in luxury.

  His hair was as thick as his eyebrows, worn short. Almost a brush cut, she noted, uncomfortably aware of her fingers twitching at the thought of touching the glossy strands. His jaw was pronounced, his cheekbones sculpted, his nose proud and almost Roman. And those eyes…those eyes. How many women had lost themselves in their opaque, sensual depths? Well, Chelsea wasn’t about to be one of them.

  As soon as she could politely excuse herself, in fact, Chelsea was going to visit the ladies’ room, where she would text Benedict. No, Caleb. Caleb was the more indulgent of the two, the more finely attuned to her needs. Both men enjoyed pleasing her, but Caleb was constantly asking her what she wanted him to do next, how he should touch her. And he was good about leaving without making a fuss—occasionally Benedict pressed her to stay over or fell asleep in her bed. And that was definitely not on the list of things that would make her feel better tonight.

  Not that she felt…bad, exactly. Only unsettled. Deeply, deeply unsettled.

  “I’m afraid I’ve not heard of your gallery, Chelsea,” Ricardo said. He cut a bit of his tart and lifted it to his lips, holding his cutlery in the European fashion, and as he chewed, his eyes never left hers.

  Chelsea shrugged. “I’m not surprised. I’m still building my roster. I specialize in Neo-Expressionist works, and I’ve begun to represent some figurative pieces as well, but I really want to keep my scope narrow.”

  “Ryder,” Ricardo said thoughtfully. “I am an admirer of a great Neo-Expressionist painter by that name who was active in the seventies and eighties. Marcus Ryder—undoubtedly you are familiar with his work?”

  Chelsea went still, paralyze
d by the name Ricardo had uttered. Memories, a torrent of them, threatened to spill over in the complex torrent of grief and love and longing that still accompanied thoughts of her father, even now, twenty-three years after his death.

  But hadn’t she dedicated her entire life to ensuring that her father’s work wasn’t forgotten? Shouldn’t she be grateful that this stranger held him in high esteem? She managed to keep her features neutral and though it took great effort, she forced an answer.

  “Not only am I familiar with his work—I own four of his paintings. I’m his daughter, actually.”

  “His daughter?” Ricardo was clearly surprised. “But he died so early in his career—I didn’t know that he had a family.”

  “Yes…” Chelsea looked down at the table, unsure if she would be able to keep her composure if she maintained eye contact. “My father was an intensely private man, and after his death, my mother went into seclusion.” Well, that was one way of putting it, anyway. “She never spoke to reporters.”

  “Ah. I see.” The way he said it, it was clear that Ricardo didn’t see, not really. And Chelsea couldn’t blame him. While her father’s reputation had grown after his death, as his work became scarcer and more valuable, few details had surfaced in the press about his private life before the car accident that took his life.

  The six years before he died was the source of Chelsea’s best memories. Their little family—just her and her parents, living in the little bungalow near Hollenbeck Park with its garage converted into her father’s studio—had been happy. Her mother had been a different person then, before the ravages of grief, drugs, and alcohol.

  The problem was that if Chelsea spoke openly about her childhood, the obvious next questions would be about her life after Marcus’s death. And that was not a subject she ever talked about in public. She was determined to promote her father’s work on its merit alone, and if that closed certain doors to her, so be it.

  “You say you own four of his paintings?” Ricardo said. At least the man had the tact not to press her on a subject she clearly didn’t want to discuss. “May I ask—when were they done?”