Full Color (ORCA #3)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER

SEVEN

DIMITRI

“Welcome, welcome.” Dasselaar’s voice boomed from the driveway, audible even through my closed window.

I’d been daydreaming about the man from the gallery.

Again.

In fact, there had been little on my mind since.

At first, I hadn’t been able to believe what I was seeing. It couldn’t be true that the man I’d been dreaming about was a real person, but there he’d been, and when he looked at me, it was as though he was looking into my soul. There was no other way to explain the way it had felt when our eyes connected across Dasselaar’s private gallery.

Moving to the window, I looked down into the courtyard where a limo and two black town cars were parked in front of the house. While I watched, Dasselaar offered a hand to the person in the limo and an elegant hand adorned with a large emerald ring took it before a gorgeous Asian woman stepped from the car. Her black hair was cut into a chic bob and the emerald green dress she wore perfectly matched her ring and fit her as though it had been made for her. Her eyes were covered with large dark sunglasses and she confidently pulled her hand from Dasselaar’s as soon as she was out of the vehicle. He led her to the door and introduced her to a member of his staff who ushered her into the house while her valet retrieved her bags from the trunk.

Dasselaar returned to the line of cars as a member of Dasselaar’s security team directed the limo out of the drive. A tall man in military dress emerged from the second vehicle. I was too far away to make out any of the insignia on his chest. He laughed at something Dasselaar said and responded in heavily accented English.

The third car held an older man dressed in a simple gray suit. He was sour-faced and seemed to barely acknowledge Dasselaar as he greeted him. Two large bodyguards flanked the man as Dasselaar led them to the door. There was a brief conversation, and the bodyguards were turned away, the sour-faced man and his bodyguards looking none too pleased about being separated.

For the next hour, I stared out the window watching as a veritable who’s who of the wealthy elite and criminal underworld arrived at the estate. But there was only one person I was waiting to see.

Noise in the halls told me members of Dasselaar’s staff were getting his guests situated in the suites on the floors below mine. No one would be staying on this floor. Dasselaar made sure I was isolated so no one suspected I was being held against my will.

The sun was starting to set when yet another nondescript but expensive black town car pulled into the drive. My heart turned over in my chest, and I knew even before the car came to a stop in front of the house that the man from the gallery was inside. I wished more than anything that I knew his name.

Dasselaar appeared from the front door as the car came to a stop and the driver hopped out, opening the rear door so the man from the gallery could get out. He was as beautiful as he was in my dreams and in my memories from the gallery. He wore a navy blue suit that fit him perfectly, molding to the planes and angles of his body. His dark hair shone in the setting sun, painting the black strands with shades of gold and vermillion, and I prayed to a deity that had never listened to me before and likely wouldn’t start now that he was here for me. He and Dasselaar spoke as the man’s driver unloaded his suitcase from the car, and I silently begged him to look up at me, to see me in the window.

As if my wish had been granted, he glanced up so I could see his full face, and his lips tipped into a slow smile when his gaze found my window. My stomach swooped and my heart ached with longing. I wanted to stare at him all night, but scraping in the lock on my door made me look away.

“Mr. Dasselaar would like you to dress for dinner with his guests.” I’d long since stopped asking the names of the goons Dasselaar sent to drug me and relay his commands, but this particular goon, another bear shifter, had a jagged scar that ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth, so I’d taken to calling him Scar in my mind. He was one of the worst guards Dasselaar had put on my detail. He was never remotely kind, and in my opinion, he took sick pleasure in stabbing me with the needle when it was his turn to administer my daily dose of antitransmutative drugs. I also hated the way his eyes lingered over me. His leering made my skin crawl, and I was grateful Dasselaar always sent his men in teams of two. Even with Scar’s bulky frame blocking the door, I could sense the other guard in the hallway.

“You’re supposed to wear the dark gray suit. You have thirty minutes to get ready. If you aren’t ready when we return, we’ve been instructed to leave you in your room where you will not receive an evening meal.” Scar said the last part with undisguised glee as though the thought of me going hungry made him happy. He said nothing else but hesitated in the doorway, staring at me like he was waiting for me to start stripping right there in front of him.

“You can go. I need to get ready.”

Scar waited for another second, but when I didn’t move, keeping my arms crossed firmly over my chest, he stepped back and closed the door. The key scraped in the lock again. I immediately returned to the window, but the man from the gallery and the car that had brought him to the estate were both gone.

My hands warmed, and I looked down to see the iridescent glow I’d first noticed when I’d examined The Evolution of Man at the gallery flash across my skin. The glow had been occurring consistently since then, but I was no closer to figuring out what it was than I had been the first time I saw it. Then again, it wasn’t like I had any way to research the phenomenon. Dasselaar never let me into his library or near a computer, and I was only allowed to speak to my sister on the phone once a week. Those calls were always conducted under Dasselaar’s supervision, and he’d end them abruptly if he thought I was saying too much—or if I lapsed into our native Greek—so I hadn’t been able to ask her.

I’d gotten lost in my head, and my time was slipping by. I needed to see the man from the gallery up close, so there was no way I was going to miss dinner. I was just pulling on the suit jacket when the door handle rattled and Scar’s face appeared in the doorway.

“You’re ready.” There was a hint of disappointment in his voice like it would have made him happy to close the door and leave me to starve for the evening.

“I am.”

He pushed the door open wider and let me slip into the hall. As always, a familiar rush of freedom coursed through me when I stepped over the threshold. I was still being closely guarded, one of Dasselaar’s musclebound goons flanking me on either side, but I was outside my room, and that was something. A gilded prison was still a prison.

Delicious scents wafted up the stairs, and my mouth watered. Dasselaar’s cook was excellent, and I knew she would have pulled out all the stops in preparing this weekend’s menu. I started to rush forward into the dining room, but Scar grabbed my wrist, squeezing tightly.

“What?” I tried to twist my arm free, but he held me tighter.

“Dasselaar wants you to wait until all the guests are seated. Your place is at the far end of the table near the kitchen. You’re to enter through there.”

I hadn’t seen much of Dasselaar’s estate, but I’d seen enough to know Dasselaar had modernized the house from its eighteenth-century origins and had brought the kitchen out of the cellar and onto the first floor, connecting it to the grand dining room through a large butler’s pantry. I knew why he wanted me to slip in through the kitchen entrance. I was nothing more than the help. What I failed to understand was why he wanted me to attend this dinner at all. He could have had a tray sent up to my room. I didn’t need to be there.

But I wanted to be there because the man from the gallery would be there. Maybe if I listened hard enough I would be able to catch his name.

My palms tingled, and I knew if I looked at them I’d see the strange glow around my fingers, so I shoved my hands into my pockets and let Scar and the other guard lead me into the kitchen.

Scar watched through the door, then pushed it open just enough for me to slip through so I could take my spot at the head of the table opposite Dasselaar, who was seated at the other end. This was always our arrangement whenever I had the misfortune of sharing a meal with him. Dasselaar kept an eagle eye on me as if he expected me to steal a steak knife and attempt to stab him with it. And while I might have considered it more than once, I wouldn’t risk Athina’s life that way, so I dutifully lowered into the chair that had become my dedicated seat as the rest of the guests took their places. I assumed no one had seen me enter the room, but when I looked up I found familiar dark eyes watching me.

The man from the gallery was seated across from me at the far end of the table where Dasselaar could observe us both from his position. The seat at the end of the table on our side conspicuously left vacant with no place setting indicating there was going to be another guest.

My heartbeat picked up speed as I looked at the face I knew so well. He smiled at me, and my stomach fluttered. He started to open his mouth, hopefully to tell me his name, but Dasselaar stood and launched into a speech welcoming everyone to his estate and promising an exciting weekend ahead. Then he clapped his hands, like the total arrogant asshole he was, and four tuxedoed servers came in through the door off the foyer. It was completely impractical to serve dinner that way, but Dasselaar was attempting to make an impression.

A bowl of orange soup with a swirl of green was set in front of me.

“Ginger carrot soup with basil oil.” The server leaned in closer to my ear and whispered. “Mr. Dasselaar asked me to remind you that you are furniture, and furniture does not speak, even when spoken to.”

“I understand.” The words were mumbled under my breath, for the server’s ears only, but I felt the man across the table’s eyes on me as the server stood and walked away. That also explained why Dasselaar had left the set between us unoccupied. For as arrogant as Dasselaar was, he wasn’t stupid. He clearly didn’t want me close enough to the man who had haunted my dreams and fantasies to be able to speak to him.

Any excitement I’d felt at getting to see the man from the gallery, at the thought that I might get to talk to him, evaporated along with my appetite. I lifted my eyes only long enough to see Dasselaar watching me. He picked up his spoon and wiggled it in the air, indicating I should do the same. I didn’t want to. Refusing to pick up the spoon would be a tiny act of rebellion, but I felt Scar standing behind me, and I didn’t want to risk the consequences. I didn’t think Dasselaar would have Scar rough me up, not when he needed me pretty and presentable for what he had planned for tomorrow, but Scar could always hurt me where the bruises wouldn’t show. He’d done it before.

Grudgingly, I picked up the spoon and lifted a bite to my mouth, even though my stomach was now in knots and I wasn’t sure I could eat. Keeping my head down, I looked across the table from under my lashes. The man from the gallery was eating his soup and listening to the man next to him, a Black man in a black suit with an accent I couldn’t place, but his eyes were on me. An emotion I couldn’t name—or maybe I wasn’t brave enough to try—put a crease between his brows as he studied me.

Then I felt the softest nudge against my foot under the table.

I ignored it, thinking it must have been an accident, but when I felt the gentle tap again, I chanced the briefest glance to my left, locking eyes with the man from the gallery. He gave me a small smile and moved his foot against mine. I had no idea what it meant, but the subtle contact made the rest of the meal more bearable.

Through the remaining courses, I tried to keep my head down, and the man across the table continued to stare, his foot still resting against mine. I’d tried valiantly to catch his name, but with the other conversations around the table and the clink and clatter of silverware on china, I hadn’t been able to hear it if he’d said it at all. When the server reached for my plate following the final course, she leaned in and whispered, “Mr. Dasselaar would like you to remain here until all his guests have left the room.”

I didn’t acknowledge her request, but I sat back in my chair with my hands in my lap, trying to make myself inconspicuous. If I’d been able to shift, I would have been able to seamlessly blend into the background. Dasselaar wouldn’t have been able to see me at all, or I could have taken my chameleon form and slipped from the room and the estate entirely, but with the drugs in my system, that was a dream I couldn’t realize.

Dasselaar stood. “Please join me in the salon for an after-dinner drink and cigar if you’re so inclined.” His guests all stood. Everyone except the man from the gallery, who seemed to be stalling for time, swirling the last of his wine in the cut-crystal glass.

“Mr. Hunter, please join us.”

I lifted my face to look at him, grateful to finally have a piece of a name. His eyes met mine again and he smiled, though the crease between his brows didn’t go away. He brought his glass to his lips and drained the last of the deep red liquid. When his tongue slid between his lips to capture an errant drop, I felt my cock twitch. Every fantasy I’d ever had about Mr. Hunter rushed through my mind, and my hands tingled with warmth. Did the iridescent glow around my hands have something to do with him? And if so, what did he have to do with the painting?

He tapped my foot with his, then slowly slid it away and stood. I watched him go, knowing Dasselaar was standing near the door, his eyes on both of us. As he passed Dasselaar, he looked over his shoulder at me and gave me a small nod. I had no idea how to interpret the gesture, but it made me feel warm and safe for the first time since I’d become indentured to Stefan Dasselaar.

A small seed of something that felt like hope bloomed low in my belly, and I bit my cheek to keep from allowing a smile to spread across my face as I watched Mr. Hunter walk out of the room.