Fear of Falling

Laura shrugged. “A few. None as famous as Sartain. It’s a real privilege to get to work with him, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“Of course, our little office probably seems pretty tame to you. Doug told me you worked with the Cirque du Paris. I saw a show once. It was incredible. What did you do there?”

“I was a high-trapeze performer. Not a star, but last season I worked with another woman and two men on one of the highlight pieces.” Her picture had been featured on one of the posters. Gigi had been torn between maternal pride and professional jealousy. In her younger years, Gigi’s face and figure had appeared regularly in advertisements for the show, but that had been seasons ago.

She pulled herself from her reverie, aware that Laura had been talking to her. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked what you thought of Sartain.”

“He’s a very talented artist. I see why his work sells so well.”

“I meant what did you think of him as a man. Some women think he’s very sexy.”

“He’s very good-looking. I also think he knows it and uses that to his advantage.” More than looks, Sartain had an animal sensuality that was undeniably attractive.

“He and I used to be lovers, you know. When I first came here.”

“Oh?” Natalie shifted in her chair, an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. “Used to be?”

“We split up when he wanted me to do some things I wasn’t comfortable with.” Laura leaned forward, her voice low. “He’s into some very kinky stuff.”

“So I gathered from his paintings.” Heat washed over Natalie as she remembered their discussion in the dungeon. What did it say about her that she was more fascinated than appalled by his kinkier interests?

“He can be very charming,” Laura said. “When he came on to me, I was so flattered. That was before I realized he treats all women that way. None of us really mean anything to him.” Her voice was heavy with regret.

“I’m surprised you continued working for him if he treated you badly,” Natalie said.

“Oh, but he didn’t treat me badly. Not really. He was just being…Sartain.” Laura spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “And it’s still something, getting to see him every day, you know?”

No, she didn’t know. Why would a woman like Laura—beautiful and obviously accomplished—cling to a man who had rejected her? “I’m sure there are other men who would treat you much better,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure. And don’t think I’m still mooning over him like some silly schoolgirl.” Laura waved away the notion and attacked her salad once more. “I just think it’s important to have a role in supporting a great artist. It’s very gratifying, knowing I’m helping the world to know and appreciate his work.”

Was this woman for real? Natalie studied her coworker, but Laura’s expression seemed sincere enough. Maybe she was some kind of art groupie, like the young women who followed rock groups. “I’d say Sartain is very lucky to have someone so loyal on his staff,” she said.

“The work really is interesting,” Laura said. “You’ll see. Just don’t make the mistake I did and get involved with him personally.”

“Oh, of course not.” Natalie busied herself folding her napkin and sweeping up crumbs from the table. “I’m certainly not interested in Sartain as anything more than an employer,” she said. Liar.

But having an interest and acting on it were two different things. She knew too well the danger of abandoning oneself to desire.

4

BY FOCUSING on work, Natalie was able to put thoughts of her disturbing encounter with Sartain in the dungeon out of her mind. It helped that the artist himself stayed away from her. He spent long hours in his studio, finishing one commission and beginning another. Natalie was left to settle into her office and sort through the surprisingly complex workings of Sartain Enterprises.

In addition to privately commissioned work for collectors, Sartain had a lucrative sideline producing CD covers for various rock musicians. He also had his own line of T-shirts, calendars, playing cards and other items that were featured on a Web site and in a semi-annual catalog. A separate catalog was produced quarterly to showcase his fine art paintings and prints, which were handled exclusively by a gallery in Denver.

Friday, at the end of her first week on the job, Natalie was reviewing copy for the upcoming fine-art catalog when Laura hurried into her office. “He wants to see you,” she said.

“What?” Natalie looked up from the copy, momentarily dazed. “Who wants to see me?”

“Sartain. He wants you in his studio right away.”

She frowned, tempted to make him wait until she’d finished the task at hand. Then again, he was her boss. That entitled him to a more prompt response to his summons. She pushed back her chair. “Then I’d better go see what he wants.”

She hurried along the corridor and up the stairs to Sartain’s studio. Had he suddenly come up with an idea for a new project, or did he have something more personal to say to her?

She stopped outside the door to the studio and knocked.

“Come in!”

She pushed open the door and came face to face with a naked woman.

Not completely naked, she realized, when she’d somewhat recovered from the shock. The well-endowed blonde was draped in a diaphanous swath of coral silk which highlighted, rather than hid, her full breasts and the triangle of pale curls over her mons. She was reclining on the fainting couch, arms extended over her head, eyes fixed on Sartain with a look of raw wanting.

Natalie quickly looked away, a hot flush of embarrassment engulfing her. “Come in, Natalie,” Sartain said. “Monique, you can take a break now. Go downstairs and ask Laura to fix you some coffee.”

“Okay.” Monique pulled on a thick, floor-length robe and shoved her feet into a pair of red satin mules. She glanced at Natalie as she shuffled past, her expression bland.

“Come see my newest work.” Sartain beckoned Natalie to the easel.

The painting was still in its early stages, but the subject matter was clear: Monique was reclining on the couch as Natalie had seen, but Sartain had painted in two men with her, one black, one white. The black man’s head was bent over one of Monique’s breasts while the white man caressed her thigh.

The scene summoned a throbbing between Natalie’s own thighs. Once she had been part of a performance at the Cirque du Paris called “Menage.” She had been the centerpiece, the moving partner passed between two men who remain fixed on opposite trapeze towers. The costumes, lighting and music had all been designed with overtly sexual overtones, and the message had been of a woman both pleasured by and at the mercy of the two men.

As a performer, Natalie had reveled in the demands and the attention the piece had brought her. As a woman, she’d found herself aroused by the idea of not one, but two lovers wanting to please her. Of course, the feelings had never gone further than the privacy of her own room. One of her partners was gay, the other happily married.

But here was her private fantasy in rich color and bold lines on canvas.

“When someone stares like that and doesn’t say anything, I can’t decide if they hate the work or if they’re stunned by my genius.” Sartain’s words broke through her reverie.

“Oh, it’s…it’s beautiful.” She studied the painting more closely, searching for something specific to comment on, something about his technique or choice of colors, or anything other than the subject matter. Her gaze fixed on the white male again, and recognition shot through her. “That’s you!” she said, pointing to the figure.

He laughed. “A particular conceit of mine. And I save the cost of a model, using myself.” He pointed a paintbrush at the figure of the black man. “That’s me, too. My darker side, as it were.”

She glanced back at him, sure he expected her to laugh at his joke, but unable to see the mirth of the situation. Remembering the look on Monique’s face, she wondered if the two of them were lovers. It wouldn’t be surprising, considering his reputation.

She tried to ignore the tightness in her chest that made it hard to breathe. His personal life was none of her concern, so she shouldn’t waste her time speculating about it. “Laura said you wanted to see me,” she said.

“Yes.” He turned away and began cleaning the paintbrush. “I’ll be attending the Young Artists’ Endowment Fund auction Saturday night and I want you to accompany me.”

She blinked. “Me? Why?”

The sharp tang of turpentine stung her nose as he wiped the brush clean on a rag. He turned to face her again. “Because I don’t want to go alone. Because it will give us a chance to know each other better.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to socialize.”