Page 17 of A Taste like Sin

“A choice?” Intrigued, I track his trek across the room.

When he reaches the marble slab, his cane in hand, he bends in an elegant motion, lifting something

from a shelf built into the side of the structure. A tray, I see as I come closer. On it are a few assorted

objects. A mirror, a small box, a swath of black silk…

“A blindfold?” I question.

“Sí,” Damien says, his mouth quirked. “You may pick between it and the drug—”

“The blindfold,” I blurt while snatching up the strip of silk. I’m relieved for reasons I can’t explain as

the fabric settles into the palm of my hand. “Now what?”

“Now…” He turns his attention to the small box and lifts the lid, revealing the round objects lying on

a bed of red velvet. “Pearls,” he explains. “Harvested by hand and chosen for quality. They are damn

near priceless; I can assure you of that. Each one is exquisitely unique.”

“Oh?” It’s hard to keep the awe from my tone. Only a man like him would have priceless items lying

around out in the open, their purpose unknown. I tentatively finger one bead, impressed by the quality.

“Are you planning on bribing me with a necklace, Mr. Villa?”

“Something like that.” His deep, rumbling laugh sends tendrils of unease lancing through my blood.

“You will lie back while I paint you,” he explains, his tone professionally level. “I will place these

pearls on your body and you must not allow them to move. Does that make for a fitting diversion?”

I swallow hard, intrigued despite myself. “And if theydofall off?”

He smiles, and I have never witnessed something so devastatingly beautiful. Rather than answer me

right away, he extends his palm, and without being prompted further, I surrender the blindfold. As

easily as if he’s memorized every inch of my body, he reaches out and finds my cheek.

“Turn around, sweet girl.” His use of the endearing term sets my nerves on the edge of a cliff.

When I comply, he draws the silk over my eyes, using my ears as a guide. After tying the knot, he

steers me back until what I assume to be the ledge of the platform brushes my hip.

“Every pearl that falls is one I will be allowed to use,” he says, casually picking up the thread of our

previous conversation. “As I see fit.”

“In what way?” I question.

Subtle sounds are all I have to discern his next movements. A soft click, as if he propped his cane

against an edge of the platform, followed by the creak of the leather-topped stool placed halfway

between the platform and the easel. It makes sense. From that position, both are within his reach—as