Tainted Truth (The Devils of New York #2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

SPENCER, SEVEN YEARS AGO

M y palms sweat as I watch the analog clock on the wall tick with each passing second. I’ve never done this before—put myself out there. Abuela said she was proud of me when I called to tell her one of my sculptures had been chosen to be in a gallery. But now, here I am on opening night, and I’m a damn train wreck.

There are only a few minutes until the doors open, and Mom walked away to find the bathroom. Hopefully she’ll be back soon because the butterflies in my stomach are out of control.

Mom and I bought a new dress for tonight, and while it’s beautiful, it’s too much for my taste. The deep red color compliments my skin, which is why Mom said we should buy it. The neckline is a deep V-cut, and the skirt hugs my ass and hips a little too much, but then falls away from my frame into an A-line skirt. Mom said it’s just my body becoming more of a woman’s body and less of a girl’s body, but the leers from random men on my way here made my skin crawl.

I can’t wait to get out of this annoying fabric when I go home tonight.

This gallery is known in Houston for discovering up-and-coming artists—many have gotten their big break here. All it takes is for the right rich dude to walk in, like an artist’s work, pay an obscene amount of money for it, and tell all of their friends. Next thing you know you’re getting commissions left and right.

I’m surrounded by fellow artists as we watch each other display our souls for the world to critique. There’s everything from watercolor paintings to prints to ceramics.

When I arrived earlier, I noticed that we’re all women. It’s common for people to assume that art is a female-dominated industry, but the real artists know it’s run by men. And because of that, I assumed I would see more classmates of mine, particularly of the male variety, but there are none.

The gallery went all out for this opening. Several waiters line the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne, and light instrumental music floats in the air. I’m sure all of their openings are just as fancy, but seeing it in person feels different.

I watch the gallery owner use his keys to open the door and welcome the large crowd gathered outside.

Where is Mom? I thought she’d be back by now.

God, I hope I don’t fuck this up by being my usual awkward self.

As the room floods with people, I shrink back from the critical looks. I know I need to stand strong and be proud of what I created, but showcasing my work here is not the same as a presentation at school. When I’m there I’m being critiqued by my peers who have the same experience as me. Out here, in the real world, I’m talking to a prospective buyer. I need to be confident and sure of myself, but that level of surety is not a quality I have ever possessed.

Two middle-aged men in expensive black suits stand a few feet away from me and talk in hushed tones, but not so hushed I can’t hear them. Their presence sends a chill down my spine.

“My last purchase didn’t satisfy my needs like I thought she would.” The man on the right chortles at his own statement.

The man on the left responds, “What a tragedy.”

“I’m hoping the one I have my eye on tonight proves to be more useful.”

As the man swipes an hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter, he looks in my direction and gives me a once over. Then he pulls out his phone, presses a few buttons and slides it back into his pocket.

He takes a step in my direction and my chest grows tight, but another man makes it to my side first. He’s older, and I swear he keeps trying to take a peep down the front of my dress. I try tugging on it in an attempt to hide my ample cleavage, but that doesn’t work, and crossing my arms only serves to push my boobs up higher.

His hairline is receding, and his skin looks leathery, as if he’s spent most of his time in the sun over the years. His suit is expensive and obviously tailored. He reminds me of the men Mom usually dates. The ones who take her to five-star restaurants, symphonies, and plays.

“What inspired you to create this . . .” He trails off as he waves to my sculpture of a minimalist, thin figure hunched over with its arms wrapped around its pathetic body. “. . . thing.”

He steps closer and places a meaty hand on my lower back. A chill runs up my spine and I take a step forward, evading his touch.

I glance over my shoulder in search of Mom. She’s usually good about running interference when a guy thinks I’m older than I am, but she’s nowhere in sight.

My God, these creeps make me feel like I need to take a shower.

My words stumble out as I answer him. “He . . . Umm . . . There was a homeless man I saw outside Bayou Music Center.” Clearing my throat, I sidestep him when he attempts to make contact again.

My eyes roam the room in search of Mom one more time when I spot her in the corner talking to a gentleman resembling the one at my side.

Shit.

Mom deserves her happiness. She’s a single mom and has provided for me my whole life. While my sperm donor’s child support helps, I know she does what she must so I can have an easier life. Art school isn’t cheap.

So, when I see her laugh and smile like that, I don’t interrupt.

As I bring my gaze back to my piece, I make eye contact with one too many people.

If I can just find the damn bathroom, I can escape and hide until this geezer loses interest.

“Hugh, funny seeing you here. I didn’t think you were in town.” Another man in yet another suit stands opposite me. He holds a champagne glass, which looks dainty in his hand. His face is clean-shaven, and his light skin shines with a healthy glow. His nails are perfectly manicured, and his brows shaped. Thick mahogany hair styled with a natural look frames his face, but I see the tiniest glint of hair product. His sharp cheekbones and prominent jaw make him look harsh, but his eyes turn soft when they land on me.

I exhale a sigh of relief when Hugh’s attention diverts from me, and he stops trying to get his hands on me.

“Anthony, dear friend, good to see you.” Hugh’s eye twitches slightly, but not slight enough that I don’t catch it.

Hugh extends his hand, and they give each other a quick shake. When Hugh pulls away, he balls his fist at his side and his grasp on his glass turns white. I’m surprised it doesn’t break.

Hugh turns to me and says, “Anthony here is always in attendance at these events. He . . . acquires more art than most.” His hand makes its way to my arm and traces the length. My shoulders tense and I discreetly lean away.

Anthony slips a hand into his pocket and sips his drink with the other. He frowns at the space I placed between Hugh and I, and a flicker of hope lights inside me. I wish he would whisk me away from this creep.

Anthony is nice to look at and clearly more mature than the boys at school.

“Nonsense.” His statement is directed towards Hugh. “You got that set of fine oil paintings from me just last month. I had my eye on those. They would have expanded my collection nicely.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry about that.” A fake smile graces Hugh’s mouth behind his own flute.

“Excuse us, we’re being rude. I’m Anthony Cole.” Anthony steps between Hugh and I, putting some much-needed space between us, and reaches his hand towards me.

Thankfully I’ve been to functions like this before with Mom, so I’m used to being dismissed and forgotten quickly.

I automatically grasp Anthony’s hand. “Spencer Gray.”

“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Gray.” He unexpectedly guides my hand towards his lips, pulling me closer to him, and places a gentle kiss on my skin.

“Likewise,” I return in a shaky voice.

Well this has never happened at a party before.

As he slowly lowers my hand, his eyes travel up and down my body. Chills erupt all over, and I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad sign.

Anthony releases my hand and turns his attention to Hugh who is typing away on his phone, but he eyes the label next to my piece and turns back to me.

He tilts his head and asks, “Are you the same Ms. Gray who made this?”

“Just Spencer, please. And yes, I am.” I twist my hands together behind my back, hoping he can’t tell how nervous I am to have my work on display.

Add in the fact that I’m sure dodging creepy men is going to be on my itinerary for the rest of the night and one could consider me an overstimulated ball of anxiety. I need him to stay. I need him to like my art. Then maybe Hugh will go away.

“You don’t need this one, Anthony. I’m sure you can find another that will do just fine,” Hugh argues.

“This one won’t go in my stable. I think it’ll satisfy my personal needs,” Anthony answers resolutely.

Stable?

Anthony’s gaze darts between me and the fired clay.

Is he shocked that I made it? Is that a good thing?

Staring at the piece he questions, “How old are you, Ms. Gray?”

“Seventeen,” I reply automatically.

He takes a step closer and invades my space. “Tell me something, Ms. Gray. What do you feel when you look at this?”

His question throws me off balance. Art is emotion—I know that—but usually that’s a question the viewer asks themselves, not the artist.

I attempt to ignore his proximity and turn to the sculpture. I dig deep and pull the feelings I felt when I saw that homeless man sitting in the cold. He looked as if he had given up.

My posture goes limp and my voice breaks. “Alone. Hopeless.”

A hand sweeps my hair away from my shoulder, exposing my skin there. I gasp and am pulled back to the moment. Anthony’s hand rests on my bare upper back as he pulls out his phone and begins to type. There’s a chime before he stores his phone away.

Mom rushes over from the corner and places a sticker on the label, indicating the artwork has sold. I eye the label being discussed, and Mom shakes her head, indicating not to question it.

Mom puts on her best smile, and a light enters her face. “Congratulations, Mr. Cole. You’ve made a fine purchase.”

“Indeed, I have, Mariana.” His tone is smooth.

Where is the gallery owner?

My forehead scrunches, and Anthony smirks. It’s like he can read my mind. One deep stare and he knows me.

I choose to voice my question anyway. “Where?—”

Anthony interrupts me before I can finish. His eyes never leave mine, but his next comment is directed behind him. “Run along, Hugh. This one is mine.”