His Black Pearl by Colette Howard

 
     
     
    Chapter One
     
    The painting was tucked into a recess along the corridor, its dark mahogany frame lit from the sides. A table of the same dark wood and bearing the weight of an ornate glass case stood beneath the portrait. Hyper-aware of Aaron Ioannides, her host, standing behind her, Hallie Brandt approached the canvas. She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets to quell the urge to reach out and touch it.
    “I’ve never seen anything this old that wasn’t behind a velvet rope.” She glanced over her shoulder to find Ioannides had dropped his gaze to her ample bottom. She stole a few seconds to study him in return. He was in his late thirties, powerfully built with thick black curls crowning his head. He was about half a foot taller than her five-feet-eight, his skin a sun-kissed bronze to her deep ebony. He’d been blessed with the kind of face, body and money that would leave all but the most devout nun fantasizing about him after an up-close meeting like this.
    She sure as hell wasn’t a nun.
    Not even Catholic , she thought, turning back to the painting before he could catch her ogling him. They would be talking business in a little while and he already had her at a disadvantage.
    He stepped beside her and reached up to adjust one of the lights. “Are you familiar with the Carracci family?”
    The painting in front of her was of Hades. He was sitting nude, Cerberus curled protectively against his side. On the god’s head rested the black crown of hell; in his hands were its keys. Not her favorite of the artist’s work, although she could hardly admit to Ioannides what her favorite Carracci was. Not, at least, when he was standing so close.
    Biting back a smile, she cleared her throat. “Somewhat. Late 1500s. This one is Agostino’s?”
    “Yes.” He ran his hand along the side of the glass case sitting on the table and another display light came on. “As is the engraving.”
    Knowing the nature of Agostino Carracci’s engravings, Hallie felt a prickle of heat fan across her face before she so much as dropped her eyes to the engraving. Reaching out, she touched the glass, resting only the weight of her fingertips against the air-conditioned surface.
    Ioannides had shown her dozens of museum quality pieces; this was the first to be so explicitly erotic. The engraving depicted Achilles stepping onto a bed platform. He was carrying a woman -- Briseis. Both were naked from the waist down. Achilles was already inside Briseis as he carried her, his thick cock spreading the heavy folds of her labia.
    “I Modi.”
    “Right again, Miss Brandt.” He flipped off the light. “Great skill in technical detail, of course, but the pleasure -- the passion -- it never quite reaches their faces, does it? Not that we can blame Carracci. He was painting for his times.”
    His voice had changed from contemplative to cold. Following him out from the recess, Hallie braced herself. She’d spent enough time at gallery showings to recognize the tone -- Ioannides had gone from amiable host to art critic.
    “In some ways, his work reminds me of yours.” They had reached the open door to his library -- the room they had started in -- and he motioned her to a long table. “You use a strong, rich palette. On the surface, the characters and settings are intriguing, full of promise.”
    Here it comes . She forced a smile onto her face.
    “But then I look at the faces, at the way they connect to one another, to their surroundings.” He stopped, seemed to pull back, and she urged him to continue with a lift of her brow.
    “Well, I’ve seen more emotion at a Botox clinic, Miss Brandt.”
    “Hallie, please.” She had reminded him of her first name half a dozen times during the tour of his personal collection. He nodded, just as he’d done the other times, and she went on. “Certainly you find something to recommend my work. You’ve purchased several pieces.”
    She studied his face, looking for the slightest hint