Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (3 page)

I sidled up to him. “Excuse
me, but I seem to have gotten into a bit of a bind.” I held up my wrists and chuckled, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “Can you help me get out of this, ahem, tight spot?”

Richard Darling turned away from his group of potential customers and looked on me with distaste. “Oh, it’s you,” he said dryly, narrowing his eyes at me. “Peter warned me you’d be in need of some help.” He beckoned me over to the lectern by the gallery entrance and produced a small pair of scissors from a drawer. He snipped the binding with one swift cut; the edge of the scissors nicked me slightly, breaking the skin but not drawing blood. It stung, and my arms got pins-and-needles sensations as the blood started circulating again.

I rubbed my wrists, trying to stifle the pain that suddenly surged through them. And yet, it was a different kind of pain. Not what you’d take an Advil for, surely. It almost felt like a drug itself. Not that I had a lot of experience with drugs, other than the painkillers I’d gotten in the hospital after having my tonsils out, but this feeling was, well, almost like a
high.
At one level it hurt, but at another level I didn’t want it to stop. In fact, I wanted more of it.

The gallery owner excused himself from his group of well-heeled customers and leaned in closer to me. “The artist is in the back room of the gallery, preparing to unveil the highlight of the exhibit. If you hurry, you’ll get to see the unveiling, along with the artist’s comments. And if you’re nice, he might even give you your press kit back.
But I wouldn’t count on it.”

He turned on his heel and scooted off to greet a new group of gallery guests, leaving me standing there, gape-mouthed. I wasn’t exactly doing a good job of professional-journalist-slash-art-critic that evening. I would be lucky to get out of there with anything of substance at all, and at this rate I only had the kind of material suitable for a tongue-in-cheek humor column, not a review. I considere
d leaving right then and texting Hannah that I’d blown it, but I decided to give it one last shot before giving up.

A good reporter always gets her story
, I told myself, and made a beeline for the back room of the gallery. Or rather,
her art review
----and this one would be beyond scathing. I kept my eyes down as I passed the increasingly erotic art that lined the walls and pedestals all around me, willing myself not to get aroused.

It didn’t work. By the time I crossed the threshold into the final exhibit room, my heart was racing and my crotch was on fire.

When I got there, I found the handsome stranger I’d seen before---he could be no one but Peter Rostovich himself---standing in front of a large, drape-covered object. Based on the previous rooms I’d expected that this one would be filled with all kinds of photos and art in different media, but this room had only the drape-covered object and nothing else, except for a few scattered chairs and benches. And the shape of the object gave nothing away. It could be a sculpted nude, or a Sherman tank, or an Egyptian obelisk. There was no way to tell.

My eyes scanned the room, searching for any evidence of my press kit or satchel. There was none. There weren’t any other spectators here either; I assumed everyone else was still working their way through the rest of the gallery. I regarded Peter
Rostovich coolly. He was certainly a pompous ass if nothing else. What kind of person tied up art critics to the point of being rendered unconscious within thirty seconds of meeting them? This guy, apparently. Talk about having some serious issues.

Well, I wasn’t going to take that kind of treatment lying down. It was a matter of professionalism, not to mention some good-old-fashioned self-respect. “What the hell did you think you were doing back there?” I demanded, staring hard into those ice-like eyes of his. “You had no right to tie me up like that.”

“I was merely helping you get the full experience of the exhibit,” he replied, his tone neutral. He had that same slight hint of accent that I couldn’t quite place. I knew he was originally from the Ukraine, but he didn’t sound the least bit Slavic. With that accent, he could have been from England or Germany or even South Africa---what my linguistics professor would have dubbed “International Generic.” It was exotic, yet in a totally unfamiliar and anonymous fashion. “Much of my art is participatory in nature,” Rostovich explained. “I want the viewer to empathize with my subjects.”

“Do you make all of your subjects pass out, then?”

He chuckled. “No. You are the first.”

I suddenly felt lightheaded again and sunk
back onto a nearby bench. “I really don’t take any comfort in that,” I said.

His expression softened and he took two small steps towards me. “Are you all right, Miss---“
“Delaney. Nancy Delaney. Though you could have read that on the cover of my reporter’s notebook, which I am assuming you stole from me while I was unconscious.”

“I didn’t steal anything, Miss Delaney. I am merely holding your belongings for safekeeping. And are you sure you’re all right? You just went deathly pale.”

Though I hated to admit it, I did feel very strange. Lightheaded, dizzy, and warm all over, especially between my legs. My forehead had broken out into a sweat and I had butterflies in my stomach. I didn’t feel sick so much as I felt, well,
turned on?

Was this
really how it felt to be
turned on
? I didn’t know. I had no experience with that feeling, except maybe for the giddy screaming I’d once done at boy-band concerts in junior high.

I held my head in my hands for a moment and took several long, deep breaths
, trying hard to steady myself.
Remember, you’re on the job here,
I thought.
You have to act professional
. But this man was making it damned difficult. Something about him----and his art---was arresting. “I’m fine, really,” I lied. “I just forgot to eat dinner, that’s all.” That part was true. I’d skipped lunch too---I’d only had a granola bar since breakfast.

“Well,
no wonder you passed out, Miss Delaney. Our bodies require nourishment to function.”

I squinte
d at his patronizing tone. “I understand basic biology.” At least where eating was concerned. I was still a little sketchy on certain aspects of reproduction.

“I meant no offense, Miss Delaney.
I’ll make sure the
hors d’oeuvres
tray gets to you first. We’re having fresh raw oysters and Beluga caviar, among other things. Sent by my personal contacts on the Black Sea. Wonderful stuff.”

“No thank you. I hate caviar and raw oysters make me vomit.
” My reporter’s mind sensed an opening, though. “So, did you grow up on the Black Sea then?”

“I
vacationed there sometimes,” he replied, and came to sit beside me on the bench. His close proximity made me feel warmer, more dizzy, more nervous. But I clamped down and tried to focus on getting my story.

“You and your parents?”

“Yes. I still have some extended family that live in that vicinity. The Ukrainian wing of my family was quite high up in the Soviet Communist Party at one point in time, so we had access to some prime vacation spots in that area. At least, we did while my father was still living.”

“The Ukrainian wing of your family? Are there other wings, then?”

“My parents were both Jewish, but from different sects,” he explained. “My father’s side was very secular---you had to be if you were in the Party---but my mother’s side was from the Russian steppes, and very traditional. It made things interesting, especially after my father died.” He paused and seemed to check himself. “But enough about me. What brings you to my opening?”

“Well,
as I’m sure you already know, I came to review your art. And if I may be so bold, you haven’t exactly made a good impression on me.”

I detected the hint of a smile on his lips. “Are you speaking of me personally, or of my art?”

“I consider the two things inseparable. Entertwined, even.”

His eyes sparkled. “My, my, such big words.”

“I
am
a writer, after all. And don’t tell me you’re one of those types who think all women are dumb.”

“Oh I’m not, I assure you. You just seem awfully young to be out reviewing gallery openings for magazines, is all.
Art News Now
, is it?”

“Yes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You must be quite the hotshot young reporter to have a job at such a reputable publication at such a young age.” Unlike before, his tone wasn’t the least bit patronizing---quite the opposite---but it still ruffled my feathers a bit.

“I’m a freelancer,” I snapped. “And there’s no need to pretend that it’s a prestigious publication, because it’s not. But I have to get my foot in the door somewhere.”

His expression softened, and he cocked his head at me slightly, as if in surprise. “You mustn’t sell yourself short, Nancy. I confess I have an active subscription to
Art News Now
. I read it religiously.”

“You and about five other people on the whole planet.”
The snide remark fell out of my mouth before I even had time to think. As soon as it was out I clapped my hand over my mouth, mortified. “Oh my, I really shouldn’t have said that. My roommate would kill me if she’d heard.”

“Honesty is a good quality in a writer. Or any creative artist, for that matter.
You should be very proud of that trait, Miss Delaney. You’ll go far with it.”

I was completely taken aback at his compliment.
“Thank you, Mr. Rostovich.” An artist? Me? I’d never thought of myself in that way, and yet he did.

“Please, call me Peter.” He smiled and extended a hand. “Look, we haven’t been properly introduced, and I think we sort of got off on the wrong foot. So let’s start over. I’m Peter
Rostovich, the featured artist of this exhibit. And you are Nancy Delaney of
Arts News Now.
It’s a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

I hesitated for a moment, then accepted his hand. His grip was tight and firm as he shook it, staring me straight in the eye
all the while. I could feel his gaze upon me like a warm shower; it resonated deeply, all the way down to that curious spot in my groin that had been nagging at me all evening. It was a part of myself I’d never noticed before, but it was standing at full attention now. Standing at full attention and demanding solace. And the more I spoke with Peter Rostovich, the more vocal that deep, dark place in my body became. It called out to me, loud and clear. It was all I could do to keep the volume down to a dull roar.

“Nancy----
er, Miss Delaney---are you all right? Are you sure I can’t get you something?” Peter’s voice broke into my reverie. I felt my face go redder as I broke yet another cardinal rule of professional journalism----tuning out the subject in the middle of a face-to-face interview. What on earth was the matter with me?

“I’m um, I’m fine,” I lied, fanning myself with one hand. “But it
is
rather warm in here, isn’t it? Could I get some ice water or something? And a snack?”

“Of course. And by the way, you’re right about the room temperature. The thermostat in this room is set to eighty-five degrees. It has to do with the exhibit, w
hich I’ll be unveiling shortly.” He patted me gently on the shoulder and scurried off.

Zap.

Peter’s touch was nothing short of electric. He might as well have hooked me up to a power generator. I felt his touch from the crown of my head all the way down to my toes. And that strange voice coming from deep inside me----it was an actual voice now, with an actual face. A smaller, yet far bolder version of myself, dressed in sexy satin lingerie and wearing red lipstick. My inner voice stood up and declared to all within hearing that she wanted far more of that kind of touching---preferably in a region further south.

I took several deep cleansing breaths as I struggled to get myself back under control. How
many unprofessional moments could I possibly have in one evening? At one level, I wanted to dash right home and spend the rest of the week hiding under a rock. But at another, I’d never felt so alive before. Every nerve ending in my body was buzzing, a hotpoint of sensation. Even the very air around me seemed different somehow. My skin felt as if it were being caressed by a million invisible fingertips. My groin felt heavy and hot, my panties too tight and more than a little damp. I crossed one leg over the other to hide that feeling from the world, as if it were a blinking neon sign proclaiming to anyone passing by that I was a virgin in desperate need of some attention in the nether parts department. That unfamiliar inner voice---I wasn’t sure whether to call her my inner virgin or my inner slut---that voice was loud, clear and husky. She seemed to know my body’s needs better than I did, and she wanted those needs satisfied.

Now.

But what exactly did I need to do to meet her demands? I didn’t know. I only understood the mechanics of sex in terms of the broadest general principles. The sum total of my sexual experience amounted to one three-minute blowjob I’d given my high school prom date in a dark car when I was falling-down drunk. (The only time I’d ever been that drunk, natch, and I never intended to be that drunk ever again.) My date hadn’t returned the favor, either.  I didn’t even get a good-night kiss, because he said didn’t want to taste his junk on me.  My memories of the whole experience were hazy at best, mostly about a salty taste and heavy breathing, and how bad I’d felt about it afterward when my date dumped me on my parents’ front porch without so much as a proper goodbye.