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“I’ve been wanting to do this since I laid eyes on you at the hotel,” he whispered, parting my knees,
his hand making its languid way up my thighs.
I froze at the sound of chatter coming from the lobby.
“I locked the door. No one will find us in here,” he said, my skirt now pulled almost all the way up
to my hips.
I placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him.
“Where are you from?”
He dove in again, his mouth finding my neck. He was having none of my questions. I was delirious
with desire, my instincts beginning to dull because of his talented mouth.
“Dauphine, accept, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“I will accept,” I murmured, eyes closed, “if you tell me … what Step I’m on.”
His eyes searched for my bracelet again, but I’d cleverly tucked my arm behind me.
He straightened up, tugging the cuffs on his sleeves.
“It’s not a hard question,” I said. “Why don’t you check the charm, the one you brought to give me
afterwards? That will tell you the answer.”
He paused for a moment, then said, “You know the rules, Dauphine. If you don’t accept, I can’t
show you the charm.”
I went over the S.E.C.R.E.T. acronym in my head. He was Compelling, that’s for sure. And this
would have been a Romantic, Erotic interlude. Perhaps it would have left me feeling Ecstatic and
Transformed. But there was just one problem: I didn’t feel Safe. That was what it all boiled down to.
If Step Five was about overcoming my fears, his refusal to answer my questions kept me from feeling
that.
“You know the rules too, Dante, or whatever your name is. If I don’t accept the Step, we stop here.
It’s over. I’m saying no. Who are you anyway? You sound like you’re from the South—in fact, from
Louisiana.”
“Well, now,” he huffed, standing. “For someone who refuses me, you sure demand a lot.”
“It would seem so,” I said, pulling my dress down over my knees. My chignon had fallen out in our
brief tussle, so I undid the barrette holding it in place, releasing my hair.
“Red Rage indeed,” he said, admiring my hair, reaching out to caress a tendril. I pulled away. “I
would be happy to have my driver take you back to your hotel.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I can make it back on my own.”
“Then … I shall be on my way.”
He stood and walked away, unlocked the door, and quietly shut it behind him as he left. Who in the
hell was this man and what had he just tried to pull? I waited a few more seconds before heading
back to the theater, where a handful of people still surrounded the painting. Was it too late to rip up
the transfer of ownership? I had to try.
The auctioneer was locked in quiet conversation with the banker, Isabella.
“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting them. “Before I leave, can you tell me if it’s possible to stop the
transfer? It’s just … I feel I might have made a mistake in selling the painting to an unregistered
bidder.”
They looked at each other as though they had been discussing this exact thing.
“The problem is that you would now need his signature too,” said the auctioneer. “He officially
owns that painting.”
“And he was a very keen buyer,” Isabella added, in clipped but perfect English. “I did not realize
he was unregistered; otherwise I would not have participated on behalf of Señor Castille.”