Chapter 21
S amara
Gregor headed straight down a hallway dotted with lesser known artists’ landscapes, till he came to a massive set of glass French doors.
As we crossed the threshold, I could tell we were inside a rooftop conservatory.
The walls and ceiling were all glass. It looked as though all the plants had been recently removed and the cement floor scrubbed clean.
Despite their efforts, you could still see the watery brown circles where large planters used to rest. In place of the plants were stacks of rolled canvases, several easels and four long workbenches filled with every imaginable paintbrush, paints, drawing paper, and pencils.
Walking past Gregor, I surveyed the room.
“The roof has automated blinds which are reactivated by heat and light. You can reprogram them if you want to keep the light streaming in.”
The bright morning sunlight streaked down from the glass ceiling of the open and airy room. Its tall windows let even more light in while offering a stunning view of the battleship grey waters of Lake Michigan.
It was amazing.
It was like Gregor had consulted with a painter to find out what their dream studio would look like and followed every bit of advice right down to the smallest detail.
He had even had his staff hang up all the completed paintings he had moved from my apartment. They looked beautiful against the exposed brick wall. I stared at the various canvases of pretty girls in pink ruffled dresses staring down fierce thunderstorms or shadowy beasts. My Lost Girl series.
In awe, I ran my fingers over the beautiful stainless-steel topped workman’s bench. All of my brushes had been carefully cleaned and displayed in clear mason jars.
I didn’t even hear him leave.
I only turned when I heard the quiet catch of the door latch as he closed it behind him.
Instead of being offended, I was even more touched.
He hadn’t made me grovel or thank him. He hadn’t even leveraged my obvious delight of having access to such an unbelievable painter’s studio for future sexual favors.
I didn’t trust anyone to do something for nothing.
It couldn’t be possible that Gregor did all this just to be kind to me? Could it?
Mentally shaking the confusing emotions off, I picked up a bright white canvas roll and spread it out on a nearby open table.
This is what I needed. This is what helped my chaotic world make sense.
Picking up a jar of Gesso, I unscrewed the lid and scooped a generous amount into a plastic bowl.
Tightening the red bandana scarf around my ponytail, I got to work preparing my canvas.
* * *
I tested the canvas to see if the layer of Gesso I had spread to prime it was dry. Seeing that it was, I stretched the canvas over the frame and tacked it down. The familiar rhythmic banging of the hammer soothed me. Lifting the newly stretched canvas, I placed it on the easel and surveyed my work.
Since I didn’t know how long Gregor was going to keep me prisoner in his house, or when I’d get an opportunity to escape, I decided the hopefully tight timeframe would make using my usual oil paints extremely problematic. They took too long to dry. I was going to use acrylic instead.
Reaching for my favorite wooden palette, I prepared and mixed the different colors I would need to start the background. Gently pulling the glob of paint in one direction then swirling in the different pigments, I slowly created the colors building from light into dark.
Then, I painted.
At once I slipped into the comforting embrace of my own little world. Where I was in control of everything. Where every brushstroke, every swipe of color, was my decision.
* * *
I had been painting for hours and didn’t even notice when Gregor entered the studio. When I moved away from the easel to mix more paint, I noticed him leaning against the door.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to know you bite your lip when you paint,” he replied as he went into the hallway and returned with a small tray. “I come bearing gifts.”
“McDonalds?”
That earned me a smirk. “No. Roast chicken with sage fondant potatoes and a winter green salad,” he responded as he placed the tray on a small table that stood in front of a row of the windows with the view of the lake. He then dragged two crates to either side of it.
I wrinkled my nose at the super fancy sounding fare. “I would rather have a cheeseburger and fries.”
“I know but Rose worked all morning on this special lunch for you, and her feelings would be hurt if you didn’t eat it, especially after you turned your little nose up at her breakfast tray.”
I huffed good-naturedly. “Blackmail.”.
Gregor walked over to the painting. “You’re making fast progress. An impressionist work?”
He surveyed the hectic brushstrokes in various shades of purple and green, with shadows of grey and white to create the illusion of light.
It was odd. I should feel nervous with him looking at my work.
Like most artists, I had a rather thin skin when it came to criticism, so I rarely let anyone see my work unfinished.
Not that many had clamored to. My parents never gave a damn about my hobby .
Yelena and Nadia had always been enthusiastic and supportive, but with Gregor it was…
different. For one thing, the man actually knew about art.
All this should have had me scrambling to hide the painting under a tarp, and yet I found myself eager to hear his opinion.
I nodded as I also assessed my work. “I decided to work with acrylic instead of oils like the true impressionists would have used. By adding a drying agent over a thickening agent, I will achieve the same texturized look. Plus, there is virtually no drying time.”
“Smart. This will look beautiful in our study in Washington. I know just the place. Near a window so it will catch the morning light, and I’ll have a view of it from my desk.”
There I went, tumbling down the rabbit hole again as a feeling of pride rushed over me.
I needed to focus on his presumptive phrasing that my painting would hang in his other home.
Not all the gushy, warm emotions which rose at the thought of him already planning on hanging a simple painting of mine in a place of honor in his home.
My own parents had never done me that honor.
Shrugging, I tamped down my true feelings. “Whatever. It’s just a throwaway practice piece.”
Ignoring my defensive comment, Gregor gestured for me to sit and eat.
“Do you always do that?” he asked casually as I lifted the lid off my lunch plate.
“Do what?” I asked evasively as I paid way more attention than was necessary to unrolling my napkin.
“Downplay your talent,” he said, his voice dark and gravely. “I will not push you… for now. But just know that I know you’re lying. You’re a talented artist, Samara. Each of your paintings mean something to you. I know it, even if you won’t admit it.”
My cheeks flamed. In many ways, what he was saying now was far more intimate and soul-seeing than any of his previous scandalous comments about having sex with me, which made every word he uttered that much more dangerous.
We settled into an uneasy ceasefire as I cut into the roasted chicken Rose had made for me.
After rolling a cherry tomato around my plate for a few moments, I finally worked up the courage to ask him, “How do you know so much about art?”
“Why? Do I not seem like the type of person who can appreciate high culture?” He snatched the same tomato off my plate and ate it with a wink.
“I’m serious.”
He nodded toward my plate. “Take a bite of salad, and I’ll answer.”
Spearing a single leafy green with the prongs of my fork, I raised it to my mouth and ate it with a flourish and a cheeky smile.
“Cheater.”
“You didn’t say how big of a bite. Now answer my question.”
Without quite realizing it, I held my breath for his answer. I needed to know. Was his interest in art just a ploy, part of his scheme to get me to relax my guard under his control, or was it a glimpse into the real him?
Gregor thought for a moment as he finished chewing his bite.
“My life is filled with darkness and destruction. I see the worst of human nature in all its disgusting glory on a daily basis. Art reminds me that humans are capable of creating beauty. It shows me there is some higher power out there, trying to balance the scales. I am in awe of anyone who can take a piece of canvas or wood and some globs of paint and create something that gives you a glimpse into the human mind and soul.”
I was speechless, struck by the raw honesty and intensity of his response. Somehow, I expected some machismo speech where he denied it. This man continued to confuse and intrigue me.
Clearing my throat, I risked raising my eyes to his, knowing the danger of looking deep into that cold, hypnotic gaze. “Beauty will save the world.”
He nodded. “Dostoevsky’s The Idiot . One of my favorite books.”
“Mine is Dracula .” I wasn’t sure why I offered that. We were having as close to a normal conversation as I believed either of us were capable of, and I didn’t want to ruin it.
“I know.”
My arm stopped halfway to my mouth with a piece of roasted chicken speared on my fork’s prongs. “How do you know that?”
“Same way I know you can’t cook worth a damn.”
“What? I certainly can to cook—”
“You cannot. I doubt you could even boil water.”
“So? What does—”
“By all your underlined passages in the copies you’ve left behind over the last three years, I also know your favorite book is Dracula because you're drawn to the vampire’s dark soul. Tempted by it.” His voice was low and suggestive.
I blinked. This was cutting a little too close to the bone.
“Your red lips and dresses come from your love of film noir. Your favorite film is In a Lonely Place with Humphrey Bogart.”
Dropping my fork, I folded the napkin on my lap into a tiny square. “So, you’ve learned a few random things about me, that doesn’t prove—”
His silver gaze focused on me. Reaching over, he stroked my cheek with the back of his knuckles before tucking a long curl behind my ear.
“It proves that you are not just a family name to me. I will admit that was the case at one time but hasn’t been so from the first moment I had you in my arms.”
I shook my head. “You were just playing games with me then as now,” I accused as we both remembered his Russian roulette trick.
This whole conservation had taken a disturbing turn. After years of false identities and playing pretend, it was intoxicating to believe that someone out there knew me… the real me.
“I’m not playing a game, Samara. This is far too important to me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’ll just have to show me a little faith,” he whispered as he continued to play with a lock of my hair.
“ Faith, that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue, ” I responded, quoting from Dracula .
“There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.”
My heart skipped a beat as he quoted it in return. And damn him for quoting one of my favorite passages in the book.
“Whether or not you want to acknowledge it, you are in danger, Samara. You don’t get to choose who saves you. You don’t get the hero; you get the monster. Nothing and no one is going to harm you on my watch. You are mine now, which means your problems are mine to solve.”
The crazy thing was, he meant it. All I’d have to do is say the word, and he would swoop in and fix everything as if it were no more than a scrape on my knee.
I searched his face but couldn’t read his expression beyond an earnest offer of help.
Once more I was struck by the same dizzying sense of being off-balance around him.
I had to remind myself that fixing my problems was just another element of control.
Control I wasn’t sure I wanted him to have - no matter how intoxicating the idea might be.
He kept alluding to some kind of danger.
I refused to take the bait. It was just a ploy, a game, a threat of something going bump in the night so I would run into his arms seeking protection.
Brushing off my fingers, I got up and returned to stand before the painting. “I need to get back to work.”
Though he didn’t say a word, I could feel his disappointment.
“Very well. One last surprise before I go.”
Again, he went out into the hallway and returned with a McCafe cup in his hand.
“A mocha!”
The moment I reached for it, he held it high out of my reach.
“What do you say?” he asked playfully.
Giving him a coquettish look, I sing-songed, “Thank you.” And gave him a spontaneous kiss on the cheek, which surprised the both of us.
He handed me my still warm mocha and then gave me a slap on the ass as I turned back to my painting.
Once again, I had survived a round of Russian roulette with Gregor. The problem was, according to the laws of probability theory… I was running out of chances.