Betrayed by Love (3 page)

Savannah could feel sweat forming on her lower back. She wanted to get out of here.

Pull yourself together.

She closed her eyes and brought up a vision of the ocean. Vast, timeless, the deepest gray-blue—her refuge. It was not the temperamental Atlantic she pictured, but the endless Pacific.

The conference room door opened and Savannah opened her eyes.

“Sorry about this. My client’s in a meeting and his secretary doesn’t have a good guess as to when he’ll be out. Are you going to be in town for a few days?”

“Overnight.”

Peter took his seat and set a pad and pen down. “I know he isn’t available tomorrow. Well then, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself and your process?”

“I was inspired by Rodin. The exaggerated positioning of the bodies and the hints of details are some of the more distinctive…”

An hour later, signed contract and check for the materials in hand, Savannah left the conference room. She was elated to have landed this job, not just for the money but because it was an interesting project. And maybe making this piece would hold some of her ghosts at bay for a few months.

She’d left the majority of the sketches with Peter so he could show his client. She kept three, each from a different angle and bearing Peter’s initials, which she slipped into her bag as she crossed the lobby. She looked up, scanning for the driver, who Peter had arranged to take her to her hotel.

A tall man, shoulders broad in a gray suit jacket, walked past. His tightly curled chestnut hair glinted in the sunlight. Savannah stopped mid-stride, her breath caught in a painful gasp. She turned to watch the man disappear into the elevator.

Turn. Turn around. Show me your face.

He slid into an elevator. As he turned the doors closed, hiding him from her. Savannah stood in the lobby as if rooted there while people flowed around her. Her hands were shaking, her fingers ice cold.

She pulled herself together and exited the lobby. The driver was waiting there, leaning against the car smoking a cigarette, which he stubbed out as she approached. The man inside reminded her of someone, someone she used to know.

Used to know.

Though really, she’d never known him at all. If she had, she might have been able to protect herself. Instead she’d succumbed to a brilliant smile, laughing eyes and chestnut curls.

It was the sketches. They’d made her think about him, and because she’d been thinking of him she’d imagined she saw him. But it wasn’t possible. He was in California, or Hell. As far as she was concerned they were the same place.

The darkness she’d tamped down was rising again. She needed an outlet, though it had been only a few weeks since her last “exorcism” as she liked to think of them. With a grimace she pulled out her cell phone and opened her email.

* * * * *

Roman slid into the elevator. He shook his wrist and looked at his watch, grimacing. He hated being late. The day had devolved into a disaster. He’d spent the morning having a building inspector tell him the residential building he was in escrow on had severe electrical problems.

He was beyond late for this meeting, and with everything else he had to do today he would have preferred to skip it, but the devil was in the details, and the Fennelin Building was such a huge investment he couldn’t afford to overlook anything. The art in the lobby was as important as the type of marble he’d laid on the floor and security system he was installing.

Commercial leasing was a tough business. There was money to be made, but companies looking to lease had plenty of options. If name companies were going to choose your space, it had to be exceptional. He needed Fennelin to turn a profit if he was going to stay in the black this year.

Peter was standing at the reception desk, conferring with a colleague who held a design panel in one hand. He looked up as Roman stepped off the elevator and waved away his employee.

“Roman,” he said, walking forward, hand extended, “glad you could make it.”

“I’m late.”

“I noticed.”

“The artist is gone?”

“I sent her back to the hotel. I have all the details and she’s sending over some written stuff. I’ll have my office work it up for you.”

“Sketches?”

“Come in to the conference room. Have you eaten lunch?”

“No,” Roman said, the corner of his mouth kicking up.

“Sarah, will you get us some sandwiches?”

Peter led him into the conference room. Roman looked around, admiring the space. Peter’s office was, of course, in one of Roman’s buildings. Peter had done an exceptional job with his suite of offices, making sure they were a working example of his skill.

He’d updated them several times, ensuring the décor never got dated. This building was probably due for a basic renovation—carpet, paint—but it would have to wait. Roman made a mental note to check into it.

Shaking his head, he took a seat. He had enough going on without worrying about updating a building that was in working order. After the residential properties turned a profit and he finished Fennelin…

“Did we find it?” he asked Peter as a young woman wheeled a coffee cart into the conference room.

Peter held his gaze in a long look, then grinned. “Definitely.”

“Good,” Roman relaxed slightly. Another piece of this project checked off.

The young woman set sandwiches, bags of chips and cups of fruit in front of each of them along with a bottle of sparkling water.

Roman unwrapped his sandwich, only then realizing how hungry he was. He rarely remembered to eat. There was a time when he would have been like Peter—smugly aware of hole-in-the-wall cheap eats and excited to go out and try new food, desirous of turning each meal out into an event.

Those days were gone, as was the woman who’d sat across from him, laughing and licking her fingers as they ate dripping tacos or juicy fruit puffs.

He chewed in silence, filling his body but taking no real pleasure in the food.

When he was done he dusted off his hands and leaned back. This unexpected break in the day wasn’t helping his schedule, but Roman was realistic enough to know when he needed to take some downtime. That was over; it was time to work.

“What can you show me?”

Peter pushed away their wrappers and pulled out a black artist’s portfolio. Roman tensed for a moment, then forced himself to relax.

“You’re going to love this. The artist came highly recommended and she’s done commercial pieces before—mostly in the South—but still she understands our schedule and won’t pull any artistic license crap.”

He flipped it open to the first image and pushed it over to Roman.

“It’ll be controversial, there’s no doubt about it, but I think that means we can get some coverage—”

Roman lost the rest of what Peter said. He couldn’t hear over the ringing in his ears.

The lovers were close, bodies flowing together. The male was above the female, unquestionably mastering her. The woman was submissively bowed before him. The lines of their bodies were alternately precise and flowing, as if these people were emerging from the sculpture. The woman’s face gave an impression of desire and passion. The man didn’t have as many features—just a strong jaw, large nose and forbidding brow.

Roman turned the page. From here he could see the man’s hand, the hilt of the dagger it held. Both his hand and the weapon were only hinted at, not as defined as the face, but there was no mistaking what he held.

He flipped the page. Here the details of the cuff around her wrist, the straining of her hand, were visible.

He hated it, hated everything about it. What it showed, what the shadowy menace implied, was wrong.

“My favorite part,” Peter said, unaware of Roman’s absorption, “is that the guy looks like you. I mean, as much as a statue without real features can look like someone. It’s more of an impression.”

Roman looked up sharply then flipped through the images until he arrived at one that showed the man’s face clearly.

There was his nose, his forehead. There were no lips, and no eyes, but Roman recognized himself.

It was him, five years ago.

Memory rose, quick and wild as a butterfly. He saw himself, naked from the waist up, the upper half of his wetsuit dangling around his legs as he hopped out of the car. He stood on the doorframe to unstrap his board from the roof and a pair of long-fingered hands rubbed his thighs, reaching around to squeeze his butt. He looked down to see her still seated in the car. She wore sunglasses and a ridiculous hat. Her heavy bag full of sketching materials was on her lap. She grinned at him, her lips full and glossy. Her skin was beautiful cream, thanks to the hat that protected her from the sun. His Georgia peach.

Heart beating fast, Roman forced the memory down and turned to the image of the woman. Did he recognize her? There wasn’t enough of her face to be sure, but the long fall of rain-straight hair could be her.

“The artist,” Roman said, voice hoarse, “is a woman?”

“Yes, beautiful too. Savannah. Savannah Jones.”

Savannah pulled the black catsuit out of her bag. Sitting on the side of the bed in her generic hotel room, she cursed herself for bringing it. If she didn’t have it with her she wouldn’t be able to go to one of Chicago’s notorious BDSM clubs. Instead she would have had to lie here, order room service and watch TV.

That sounded lovely. A night away from her studio so she couldn’t feel guilty for not working. A night to take in a bad made-for-TV movie while indulging with fries and a burger.

But if she spent her evening that way, she would never sleep, haunted by the ghost of a young man and woman she’d once known.

To test herself, Savannah stuffed the catsuit into the bag and lay down on the bed. She thought back to the last scene she’d done.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ten times more she caned his ass, the blows quickly followed by spanks to his cock and balls, some straight on, some coming from beneath to bruise and abuse his sac. They were both in a frenzy, his body arched in a bow, every muscle defined, she a controlled fury, savage and cruel.

She stopped. Faced him. “Slave, what do you need?”

“The spikes the spikes, please put them back… Oh God, please!”

“You cannot have them. What else?”

“Please, please, don’t stop caning me… Just a few more… Please, please.”

“Where, where do you need them?

“All the soft places, my ass, yes please…my ass and my nipples, right across them please, please, please. And balls, cane them, cane them.”

“What if I break you, so no other can have you?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Cursing, she opened her eyes. That memory wasn’t helping.

She turned the TV on, volume up, and tried to relax.

Car insurance, window cleaner and grocery store ads flashed on the screen. Her mind wandered to a past she tried so hard to forget.

A brightly lit loft near the beach. The roof sloped, skylights meeting the floor-to-ceiling windows so there was a seemingly endless expanse of glass. It let in the light from the west, from the beach. If she stood on a chair, she could see the ocean over the roofs of the houses that stood between her and the water.

He’d bought it for her, bought her the light that streamed, golden and wonderful, into the room, warming the wood floors and her toes.

No, no, no. Watch the TV.

A sitcom about a family with some improbable quirk came on. Savannah tried to concentrate on the plot.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She sat before an easel in the bright light, a ragged bit of canvas carefully placed beneath it to catch flying flecks of paint. She couldn’t have a potter’s wheel in here, but there was a co-op not far away with wheels and two badly dilapidated kilns.

She was happy, blissfully so. She painted scenes of red and purple, lovers dancing in the dark. She used a single swipe of precious cerulean to highlight the woman’s dress.

The door opened. He was home.

She jumped from her easel, the work she’d devoted the past week to forgotten. She skipped to the door, throwing herself into his arms. If she got paint on his suit they didn’t care. If his briefcase scuffed the floor as he dropped it, they didn’t notice. There was nothing and no one else in the whole of the world.

Their friends said there were too old to behave like high schoolers in love—they were twenty-five, they should be more dignified—but they didn’t care. He was her prince, her beloved. She dug her fingers into his chestnut curls as he pressed her against the wall.

“Play?” he asked, his eyes promising dark and wonderful things.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Savannah sat up, heart beating so hard she felt she might choke on it.

There would be no escaping memories tonight. She brushed at the tears that had formed in her eyes. She’d been happy there. It was the last time she could remember being happy.