❝Your secret is a painting?❞ I took a few cautious steps; the hairs on my arms stood on end.
❝Not just any painting.❞ Dorian approached the easel, shadows on his face as he touched the cloth protecting it. ❝It's a dark object, the manifestation of m...
Compared to a paint brush, the camera felt awkward and clumsy in my hands, but as far as my mother is concerned, painting pictures isn't much different than taking them. Making my way through the crowd at the Fairway, the oldest and most respectable building in Harbor Village, I obliged the young, attractive couple who approached, and snapped their picture. I handed over the Polaroid and scurried away, before they could ask for another. The only thing more insufferable than making tedious conversation with the Village's elite is taking their picture.
"Martini, Miss Thorne?" A passing waitress extended her tray of gifts with a smile.
"I shouldn't really drink on the job," I said. "Oh, what the hell." I tossed back the drink and moved on, trying not to dwell on my growing resentment at feeling less like a member of the family and more like the help.
My self-pity was momentarily forgotten when my gaze wandered in the path of a ridiculously handsome stranger walking by. With a face I could paint, and a physique I could sculpt naked, his electric blue blue eyes were so magnetic they compelled me to snap a picture before he was lost to the crowd. I caught the photograph, shaking it absentmindedly as he cast a coy glance of his shoulder, and was gone.
"Late again, Amelia. But at least this time you're properly dressed for the evening."
I turned. The woman standing behind me was tall and graceful, slender curves defined by a backless champagne gown. Her deep brown skin sparkled under the ballroom lights and chandeliers, glinting like the sequins on her dress.
I sighed, allowing her to fuss with the curls that had escaped my bun.
"Wouldn't have missed it for the world, Mom. Never mind the fact that Jeffrey couldn't bother to make it to my very first art showing." I cleared my throat, avoiding her sharp gaze by pretending to inspect the camera.
"He's the governor. Your father has certain responsibilities--"
"He's not my father."
A tight moment of silence passed. Ten years since this argument first began and still no truce in sight. Jeffrey could marry her, whisk us into his fancy mansion, and play house with my mother and sister all he wanted. I didn't owe him.
"The donors are here." Her reply was curt, tighter than my dress. "We need you at his side during the speech. Tonight's important, Amelia. Don't let us down."
As mom sauntered away, I remembered the picture in my hand, taken aback at the sight of the stranger's handsome face, which was nothing more than a twisted, ghostly blur.
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After another hour of taking pictures, I finally hung up my camera, escaping to the bathroom for a quick touch-up. I pushed up my cleavage, inspecting my teeth for lipstick in the bathroom mirror. Any other time I would have felt sexy and powerful in my little black dress. Tonight I just felt...
