Page 7

CHAPTER 7

Sienna

D amn. My head hurts. I feel like I got run over by a truck. Am I drunk?

That’s the first thought that crosses my mind as I blink my eyes open. I feel groggy, and one side of my head is throbbing. I’ve only been drunk once, and that was enough for me to swear off it forever.

I wince when I try to sit up, clutching my head. There’s an unusual bitter taste at the back of my throat, and I’m parched.

With a groan, I reach for my phone on my bedside table but freeze. There’s no bedside table…because this isn’t my room.

The sudden wave of panic that hits me causes me to leap out of the bed I’m in. I forget my legs are still tangled in the sheets, so I end up crashing to the floor, my already sore head smacking against the black tiles.

“Shit!” I groan, cupping my head and struggling to my feet.

Where the hell am I?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to sort through my blurry memories. What do I remember?

I remember getting a call from Sal, running into Vincent, going home to find Dad in my apartment, and telling Kat all about it before watching a movie and falling asleep mid-watch. Then, my morning run the next day and the call I got.

It starts coming back to me.

“Hello?” I had said as soon as I picked up the call. I was trying hard not to sound too eager.

“Good morning, Sienna.” Vincent’s smooth voice had come through the phone, and I had almost melted. “Is this a good time?”

I tried not to show how hard I was breathing as I jogged down the street. It would have been embarrassing to have him listen to me panting and wheezing like an elderly dog, just from the small run.

“Perfect time,” I blurted out, then felt like throwing myself right over the nearest bridge.

“That’s good to hear. I’m calling about the paintings we’re supposed to view today. I hope you’re still free to join me.”

I had almost snorted. As if anything would have stopped me from seeing him that day.

“Of course.” It was a miracle I sounded so calm.

“Perfect.” He had sounded pleased, and something inside me had begun to flutter. “Shall we say noon, then? I’ll send you the coordinates. Would you rather I pick you up?”

“I prefer to meet you there,” I tell him.

“Okay, then. I’ll be expecting you.”

My eyes fly open as pieces of my memory begin to fall into place. Vincent had set up a date, and I’d spent my whole morning on a video call with Kat, trying to pick out a dress.

My mouth twitches as I remember that I had shaved and waxed until all of me was baby-smooth. I had even picked out sexy underwear. I’m not one to jump right into bed with any good-looking man that comes my way. In fact, I’m not one to get sexually attracted, not after what happened to me.

Everything is different with Vincent, though.

A wrinkle appears between my brows as I continue to remember our meeting at the storage unit. I shut my eyes and try to piece it together.

“Thank you for coming,” he had said.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I had managed to say, too lost in drooling over the way he looked in the tailored navy suit with a dark turtleneck under it.

“Shall we?” He had motioned for me to walk in first, and with a smile, I had done so.

The unit had been large, every inch of the wall covered with paintings.

“Oh,” I had exclaimed. “I didn’t think there would be this many.”

Inside, I was screaming with glee, already devising a way to slow down the process so it could be extended to the next day, and we would have to see each other again. Pathetic? Most definitely.

“I’m not interested in all of them, Sienna,” he had chuckled, “just the ones over there.”

I followed the direction he was pointing to, where the paintings were displayed on easels. I walked toward them, entranced.

“They’re—” I had trailed off, at a loss of what adjective could encompass how spectacular they were.

“This is how I felt when I looked at The Revelation.”

I had felt him at my back, far too close. My skin had buzzed with electricity, and my breaths had become shallow. I wanted to step away and, at the same time, get closer to him.

“Did you buy it?” The question that had nagged me finally slipped from my mouth.

I had felt him freeze behind me. “They were sold out by the time I asked for them.”

Something inside me withered, and all the zeros in my bank account suddenly made me unhappy. Why had I badly wanted him to be the anonymous buyer?

I remember pasting a smile on my face and saying, “That’s alright.”

“I hope whoever bought it paid a good sum for it, though. It deserved far more than the asking price.”

Whoever bought it had probably gone broke, dumping all that money on them. And I bet the fool wouldn’t even give The Revelation a second glance. It was probably rotting in some drafty storage unit.

“Wine?” Vincent had asked.

I nodded, and he had extracted a bottle from a shelf, along with two glasses. I watched his strong, sure hands uncork the bottle and deftly fill our glasses. The only thing on my mind was how I wanted those hands to handle me as effectively as he did the bottle.

I pressed my cool glass to my cheeks to stop them from heating.

“Do you know the artist?” I had asked.

“Timothy Velour.”

I had made a face at his reply, and before I could rearrange my face into a mask of passivity, his eyes had narrowed at me. “Problem?”

The thing was, most people in the art world were pompous jerks, especially to colleagues. Velour’s whole personality was that his mother was French, and as such, he was so exotic and refined. He was lucky he was so talented, or I was sure he would be trying to sell paper sketches on subways by now.

“No problem at all. He’s a brilliant artist.”

One corner of Vincent’s mouth pulled up the slightest bit. “You don’t seem to be a big fan of Mr. Velour.”

I scoffed. “Even Velour isn’t a big fan of himself. But his talent more than makes up for his personality.”

“So? What do you think?”

With a deep breath, I stepped closer to the easel, trying to shake off Vincent’s imposing presence behind me and get into business mode.

“About six years old,” I had evaluated. “Notice how the colors have sunk in, and the edges of the canvas have gone only the slightest bit brown. They’re all from the same period but not part of a collection. Velour only became recognized about four years ago, so this must be some of his earlier work. I’d say these were sold at about five hundred dollars apiece.”

“Close.” His voice had the slightest hint of pride. “Four hundred and twenty.”

I shot him an unimpressed look over my shoulder and then moved on to the other ones, taking my time to examine them.

“My final verdict is that you can sell the first two for something close to seven hundred and fifty thousand or about two million at auction. The third will probably go for three hundred thousand and won’t attract buyers at an auction.”

He had raised a brow, impressed. “And the fourth?”

“I suggest you keep it for at least five more years before you consider selling.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “It needs a little more time to age, and this style of painting is going to become a rarity soon. If you take my advice, you can easily get ten million for it.”

“Is that what you would do if it were you? Sell the three and let the fourth age away?”

I remember taking a sip of my drink and saying, “No. I would invite Velour over and burn them in his face just to be spiteful. But if I were you, on the other hand, I would take my advice. Unless, of course, you’re not a patient man.”

“I’m a very patient man, Sienna.” His words curled the bottom of my stomach. “I find that I enjoy things better when I’ve planned and waited for them. Bided my time, so to speak.”

There had been something in his tone that warned me to be careful. Something dark and ominous that had made me shiver.

“I’m the opposite. I think it’s because I’ve spent my life sitting at the edge of my seat, waiting for things to happen to me. And I never want to have to wait anymore.”

“There’s a difference between wanting to grab life by the horns and wanting to sit back and let some things simmer before you...savor them.”

My breath had caught in my throat. “Oh?”

He took a step forward. “History is full of evidence of older things being superior. Time gives far more satisfactory results.”

“In a nutshell, you’re saying you like older women?”

He had chuckled, and I wished for the ground to open up and swallow me. Why did I say that? Where was my brain-to-mouth filter when I needed it?

“You sound disappointed, Sienna.”

“I’m not.” I scoffed. “It was just an observation. I don’t care.”

His grey eyes shone with amusement even as his face had remained stoic. “If you insist, Miss Marino.”

Then, in the blink of an eye, his expression had changed. “I believe we’re done here,” he said, checking his watch. “Thank you for your help, Sienna. I’ll compensate you for your time.”

“That’s not?—”

“I insist. I’ll have my assistant reach out for your details,” he cut in. “Do you need a ride home?”

It was a clear dismissal, so I replied, “No, thank you. I’ll call an Uber.”

I kept enough distance between us as we left, my thoughts racing. Why did he always suddenly clam up when it was just starting to get good? I couldn’t even blame anybody’s interruption for the way things came to a halt.

As we stood at the curb, where a chauffeured SUV was waiting for him, I turned to him with my hand held out and said, “Some other time, Mr.?”

“Just Vincent,” he replied, taking my smaller hand in his. A sudden shock of electricity shot up my arm at the contact.

“Still Vincent, no last name?” I teased.

He chuckled, but it sounded forced. “I have an urgent meeting to get to. Goodbye, Sienna.”

I watched with a frown as he climbed into the back of the tinted black Benz and zoomed off. I was so distracted by the suspicion in my mind that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me.

When I finally noticed them, it was too late. I was not sure how many men there were, but one rough, burly hand covered my mouth, and the next thing I knew, I was lifted off the ground and thrown into a van.

At first, I thought it was all a joke. But there was no laughter. Inside the van, four huge, masked men dressed in black awaited me. I tried to scream, but they pinned me down, tied my arms behind my back, bound my feet together, and blindfolded me.

Suddenly, everything went dark. Before I knew it, a strong, chemical-smelling cloth covered my nose, plunging me into silence.

I snap out of my trip down memory road with a gasp. My eyes fly wide open, and I look around the room.

I’m not drunk. I was drugged and kidnapped. But how was I drugged? The last thing I remember consuming was the wine with Vincent. Does that mean he—no, it couldn’t be. I saw him drive off.

But I lost consciousness. I was sure of it, or else I’d remember how I got here.

I turn to the mirrored glass wall on one side of the room and run to it, running my palms over the smooth surface in search of some type of door mechanism.

My panicked gaze runs around the room again, confirming the absence of a door in the room.

“Let me out of here!” I begin to bang on the glass. “You’ve made a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”

Oh God. This can’t be happening to me. I haven’t done anything to anyone. I was just a nobody painter with a mundane life.

“Who’s there? Help me, please!” I scream. “Let me out. I won’t tell anyone about this, I swear!”

Tears well in my eyes at the thought of Dad finding out I’m missing. He’s already stressed from work.

It hits me again that Vincent will be the first suspect because he’s the last person who saw me.

“Help me!” I scream louder. “This is a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”

As I move to bang on the glass again, a red light blinks above me, and I stagger back in terror. A hidden door begins to slide open, and I hold my breath, prepared for the worst.

“On the contrary, Sienna. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” a voice says.

My mouth drops open, and I can’t conceal my shock. “W—what are you doing here?”

Vincent’s mouth curls into a smile.