He headed out onto the second level of the gallery, a broad balcony all the way around the room. He took the opportunity to look down and check the guy out. He was currently staring at the Waylan Winthrop bronze that Brian had just placed on display in the center of the gallery. A strong piece, entitled Teeth. Price, a modest $38,000. The jaws of the beast reared toward the heaven in a wordless shriek of inchoate rage, its snarl of teeth pointing straight up, like spikes.

The guy looked baffled at the spectacle, but maybe that was the default expression on his thick face. Brian sized him up as he headed toward the stairs. A behemoth. Six four, but an extra eighty pounds on him. Brian brushed his hand over his own washboard abs as he trotted down the stairs. He had only contempt for such a lack of discipline. His own body was buff and toned. Seven days a week in the gym. He watched every bite he ate, made sure it was pure, organic, and calibrated to fine-tune his health and well-being. His body was his prized possession. He honed it.

This guy did not. Brian analyzed the guy’s wardrobe, pricing every stitch, as Damiana should have done. Off the rack, bargain basement. Not even particularly clean. And his breath, God. He was going to have to send Damiana around with a lemon essential oil spritz bottle. The stench of the man’s halitosis was sucking all the prana out of the room.

He extended his hand and smiled. “My assistant said you’re looking for me?”

“You’re Brian Wilder?”

The man’s voice and manner were not cultured. He sounded like he’d come from the wrong side of the tracks in some depressed industrial town upstate. This guy was not walking money. Brian retracted his outstretched hand and gave him another smile, carefully dosed this time. Briefer, thinner. “That would be me. And you are?”

“My name is Craig Wilcox,” the man said. “I was told you once handled the work of an artist my client is interested in acquiring.”

Brian stuck his fingers into his pockets. “And your client is?”

“My client prefers to stay nameless at this time.”

Brian waited. “And the artist? He or she will stay nameless, too?”

The guy’s eyes squinched in the puffy fat of his eyelids, not appreciating Brian’s quip. His black hair was the wrong color and texture for his face, Brian thought. Wig, or dye job. Strange.

“The artist is Vivien D’Onofrio,” the man said.

If Brian had needed anything to convince him that his time was being wasted, hearing that woman’s name was it. “I no longer handle D’Onofrio’s work. In fact, I make a point of seeing that none of my professional colleagues handle her work, either. I don’t even think she’s a working artist anymore. For her sake, I hope not.”

The guy blinked, stared with those strange dark gray eyes. Flat, opaque, and metallic, like hematite. “Why?”

“She’s unreliable and unprofessional,” Brian announced, as he did to anyone who would listen. “And her work is uneven and derivative. Let me suggest some far better investments for your client. There’s a new artist I’ve just taken on who’s created a stunning series of—”

“My client’s only interested in D’Onofrio’s work,” the man said.

“I’m the last person you should ask about her,” Brian informed him. “I’m not in touch with her, and have no plans to be in the future.”

“That’s a terrible shame,” the man said blandly.

Brian was about to tell the buffoon to stop wasting his time and leave when he caught the man’s eyes. Brian’s eyes stuck there. As if those hematite eyes were magnets. Sucking at his vital energy, like a vampire.

The fleeting thought gave him an irrational stab of fear. He shook it away. “It’s not my problem,” he said.

“That’s an unhelpful attitude, Mr. Wilder,” the man chided. “My client hates to be denied. Price is no object. He likes to indulge himself, especially when things are forbidden. Surely you can relate to that? Can’t you, Mr. Wilder? I think…maybe…you can. Hmm?”

Fear stabbed, deeper. “What do you mean?”

The other man lifted his shoulders, in a casual shrug. “I make it my business to inform myself about people. I’ve heard about your late-night assignations from the escort agencies. You like them young, right? No more than fourteen? Slim, small breasts to none, big eyes, no makeup? A different one every time? Perv.”

Not possible. Brian stared, transfixed. The man began to smile. He stepped closer, words coming fast like a concentrated venom. “You like those little lost waifs, hmm? Poor vulnerable creatures, no big strong daddy to protect them. What do you do to them, Wilder? Do you like to make them cry?” He studied Brian’s face and let out a muffled crack of laughter. “You do! You sick, sick fuck.”

“G-get out of here,” Brian quavered. “Are you threatening me?”

Wilcox laughed. “Threatening? God, no. My client has so much money, he has no need to threaten.”

“Then why…why—”

“Let me reiterate. D’Onofrio is the one my client wants. If you want someone else to sell her pieces to my client, and let that person enjoy my client’s good opinion and all that it entails, that would be a big shame—for you. Think about that, Mr. Wilder. And think fast.”

“I don’t know where she is,” he repeated. Fear loosened his bowels. He struggled to control his physiological functions.

The guy’s grin looked discolored. “I bet you could run her down. The art world is small. It’s worth getting over your differences.”

Brian needed to sprint for the bathroom, but he didn’t have the nerve to just walk away from Wilcox. “I, um…”

“Take this.” The guy handed him a card, with a cell phone number scribbled on it. “I’ll be back to see you, if I don’t hear from you first. I know some people are shy about calling. Don’t be shy, Wilder.”

Wilcox walked out. Brian made his way up the stairs, clenching the banister and his sphincter muscle with the same desperation.

Damiana came out of his office, eyes big with curiosity. “So what did he want? I am so sorry, but he kind of creeped me out, so I—”

“Go get my electronic organizer. Get on the Internet,” he snapped. “I want you to find Vivien D’Onofrio for me. Now.”

“Her? But I thought you…I thought she—”

“Do it!” he bellowed, and she darted away, heels clicking.

He lurched into his office, dismayed to see Coco taking her own sweet time putting away all her oils and colored crystals. “Get out!”

She shoved her stuff into her case and scurried.

He got to the bathroom just in time to avoid the unthinkable. He sat there so long, his ass fell asleep on the cold ring of porcelain.

How had that man known? No one in his life knew. He kept his dirty little thing so fucking secret, it was practically secret from himself.

He had many lovers. This had nothing to do with his love life. This was a private thing. Deep in the night, he got that secret, nasty itch. To play with a fantasy that had started with his affair with Vivi D’Onofrio.

So small, so slender. A lost kitten. So young. She’d been twenty-one when he met her, but she could’ve easily passed for fifteen. And so talented. He had secretly hated her for that. All that talent, coming out her fucking pores, and she didn’t even know it. So goddamn innocent.

The talent was wasted on her. It had driven him mad with envy.

The next best thing to having talent was controlling talent. And he had tried. God, how he had tried. But she was like an unbroken horse. Ungrateful, whining bitch, biting the hand that fed her. They’d have made money hand over fist, if she’d just done as he told her. But no.

He’d wanted to play her, like an instrument. Wanted it so bad, he lay awake in the dark of the night, grinding his teeth, milking his dick.

After she left, he’d held his nose and done a little digging into the seamy underworld of the New York sex industry and commenced a brand-new secret indulgence. Re-creating a scenario calculated to make himself feel exactly the way he needed to feel. To get off. Explosively.