Page 78 of Third Time is the Charm (Passion and Perseverance #3)

Tristan couldn’t distinguish whether it was the word or the door slamming behind him that reverberated through his apartment.

The layout was so open that any sound made at one end of the condo would be heard at the other end.

The heels of his oxfords clicked across the dark hardwood floor as he walked past the open-concept living room, with its two large modern couches, that then transitioned into the dining room, complete with a table large enough to seat ten guests comfortably.

Rounding the corner put him in the fully stocked, modern kitchen, complete with separate wine refrigerator, two wall ovens, and a Viking gas stove.

Pulling a bottle of Fiji water from the fridge, Tristan chugged down a good two-thirds of its contents before setting it on the granite countertop.

His palms came to rest on the cool stone as he stared out the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that covered the outer walls of the entire apartment, offering him a complete, unobstructed view of Central Park and the city.

Smacking his right hand down on the counter, he let out a yell of frustration.

Stalking out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and down the hall into the master bedroom, he began stripping out of his jacket and shirt, taking them off and tossing them onto the bench at the end of his bed, as if they hadn’t cost him what most people would consider a small fortune.

Unbuttoning his pants, he let them fall to the ground – they needed to be dry cleaned anyway.

Stepping out of them and walking into the bathroom, he turned the shower on hot, needing something to relax and clear his head.

Looking out the window above the countertop in the bathroom, he stared out at the setting sun, his brow furrowing ominously as he contemplated how to handle this entire situation without it coming back to haunt him.

When the window began to steam in front of him, he finally climbed into the scalding water letting it burn through him, just as the anger did coursing through his veins.

Sloane and Pierce could never know about what he agreed to do.

He knew that much. Sloane, well, he wasn’t as much of a concern, but Pierce, that fucker would never let this go.

Not only would he never hear the end of it, but then there would be nothing to stop Pierce from taking whatever liberties he wanted with the Guild’s popularity – not that he didn’t try to do that already.

But, when it came right down to it, he always respected Tristan’s strict adherence to the code that they had all agreed upon.

A code that he, Tristan Black, the beacon of conformity, had just undermined.

He was going to get his mother’s portrait back, and he was going to win the competition in spite of what Pierce had done; that would be enough retribution, on Pierce at least.

Jack Carter, on the other hand, was a completely different story.

What kind of person would refuse to give back such a sentimental piece that was acquired by accident?

That was strike one. Then, after asking to meet the artist, insinuating that he would agree to exchange the portrait, and subsequently refusing to when Tristan had introduced himself, that was strike two.

He didn’t give a shit what words the man had actually used. The fact was that how Carter said what he did sent a clear message that if he could meet the artist, meet Titian, he would return the drawing. And then he didn’t, and that was unacceptable.

Each member of the Guild had their own process when it came to producing pieces for their exhibits.

They never went into much detail with each other, but the rumors weren’t completely baseless.

They all formed physical relationships with the models that they chose in order to capture and portray that depth of emotion that made their work so entrancing and unique.

Not that they forced anyone; well, at least he hadn’t, he couldn’t speak for Pierce.

The models always had a choice to leave, not that they ever did, but they could have and he would have just picked someone else; if you knew of the Guild’s work, you knew what you were signing up for as one of their models.

Although, after the first few years of the rumors and hype, the newer fans of their works seemed to be less concerned of what was involved in their artistic process.

Tristan was pretty certain that Jack Carter would have never requested a portrait of his daughter if he knew what delivering on that request might entail.

The hot shower helped to remove some stress from his toned and muscular form, but it was the promise of vengeful satisfaction that brought comfort to his tormented mind.

True, he could just draw the girl and be done with it, get his mother’s portrait back, but the status quo was no longer acceptable.

Jack Carter had essentially blackmailed him into going against everything that he stood for, into doing something that he had expressly agreed never to do.

No one forced his hand like that without consequences.

Oh, and Elsa Carter, there would be consequences.