Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
“Want to tell me what’s going on here?” Luke asked quietly.
He did not take his eyes off the installation labeled Succubus.
It required raw willpower to suppress the fury heating his blood.
He wanted to smash the artwork and then destroy the artist who had created the monstrous sculpture.
Unfortunately, at that moment neither option was available. But sooner or later…
“He’s here.” Sophy sounded as if she could barely breathe. “Somewhere. He’s here.”
A man and a woman entered the display space. They were both giggling in the odd, artificial way that indicated they were still partially under the influence of the previous installation.
“What the fuck?” the man rasped.
The woman gave a small, stifled yelp.
“Forget it,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“No problem.” The man pivoted and headed toward the intersecting hallway. “I didn’t come here to see a fucking horror show.”
Luke focused on the one thing of which he was certain: Sophy knew the artist.
“Sophy?” he prompted softly.
She did not respond. She stood in front of Succubus, staring at it as if she, too, was an immobile work of art. The energy in the atmosphere around her was charged with a toxic mix of rage and panic and disbelief.
He did the only thing he could think of—he tightened his grip on her shoulder and tried to soothe the wildly sparking currents of her aura with some of his own energy. Seeking resonance.
“Stop trying to make me calm down,” she said, her voice shivering a little. “I’m not a startled horse. I’ve got every right to be pissed.”
He took his hand off her shoulder. “Yes, you do.”
He wasn’t hurt by the rejection, he told himself. He was…surprised, maybe. Yes, that was it. Surprised. Here he had been telling himself that they were getting along well, assuming you didn’t count the occasional sniping. Now he wondered if he had been misreading her.
Or maybe deceiving himself. It wouldn’t be the first time. He had a history.
She turned away from Succubus. “I’m sorry. I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Let’s get out of here.”
“Fine by me.”
Cautiously he took her arm, not in an attempt to ease her tension this time, but to steer her toward the intersecting hallway. She did not resist his touch.
A small man loomed at the entrance. His shaved head gleamed. Behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses his pale eyes were bright and intense. At the sight of Succubus he snorted.
“Utter trash,” he said. “Derivative, cartoonish, uninspired.”
“We agree,” Luke said. “Do you happen to know the name of the artist?”
“No, but I can safely predict he won’t go far, not with that sort of amateurish work. No gallery will display that shit.”
“This one did,” Sophy said.
“That tells you a lot about the quality of the rest of these installations. Third-rate.”
“You seem very sure of your verdict,” Luke said. “Are you an artist?”
“I’m an art critic. Professional, I might add. The name is Marlon Whitley. And you are?”
“Larry and Susan Ainsley,” Luke said before Sophy could fumble the introduction.
She shot him a sidelong look that made it clear she was aware he hadn’t trusted her to keep the cover story straight, but she did not say anything.
Whitley’s birdy eyes tightened with speculation. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I see the two of you coming out of the honeymoon suite earlier this evening?”
“That’s right,” Sophy said.
“Thought so. I’m on the same floor. Are you collectors?”
“We’re just starting out,” Luke said. “We’re both interested in light art but we’re discovering there’s a lot to learn.”
“That’s an understatement.” Marlon grunted.
“I usually charge a minimum of five figures to provide a consultation but I’ll make an exception for a pair of honeymooners.
Pro tip: none of the pieces in this gallery is worth buying at the auction.
Take this installation, for example.” He gestured toward Succubus.
“Nothing but special effects with lights. Might as well be CGI. It’s certainly not art.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the inn.
I need a real drink. The champagne isn’t doing it for me. ”