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our host.”
    “What about him?”
    “You’ll be staying the night.”
    I dug my fingers into my thigh.
    “And you will do what he says.”
    I went back to staring out the window. “What about his wife?”
    “He’s not married.”
    “Girlfriend?”
    “He didn’t mention one.”
    “What did he mention?”
    “He might have a colleague with him.”
    “Is that what they’re calling fuck buddies now?”
    “Don’t be a jerk.”
    Why? Obviously, I didn’t mean anything to her. To anyone.
    “If you impress him, he might buy more of your paintings.”
    “Is that how you rationalize this?”
    Julia pursed her lips. “What are you talking about?”
    “Whoring me out.”
    “I do not whore you out.”
    “Really? You take money for sex. I say that’s whoring me out. Which makes you my pimp.”
    She slapped me. The contact left a stinging pulse in my lip. “Be careful or you might screw up my makeup, and then all the bruises and cuts will show when they take my picture.”
    “If you don’t get your attitude in check, smeared makeup will be the least of your worries.”
    The driver pulled up to the curb, and the valet opened the door. Julia followed me out. The doorman’s muddy brown greeting floated off into the light. Inside the mansion, against the ivory walls and shining marble floors, the colors were much brighter, filling the vaulted ceiling in layers.
    Around me, conversations stuttered to a halt. Anywhere else I was no one, but among these socialites, like my paintings, I was something to be coveted.
    A man walked up. His deep skin tones, dark eyes, and hair suggested Italian descent, but when he spoke, his accent was something out of the Deep South. “Julia, Paris, how wonderful to see you.” He kissed Julia’s hand and shook mine. His touch lingered. At that point, no introductions were needed.
    “Paris, this is Paul Bransford, our host for the evening.”
    I gave him my best smile. “Pleasure.”
    “All mine, I assure you.” He swept an arm in the direction of a room in the back. “I have all three of your paintings up. They’ve been a hit.” He led the way into a windowless library.
    A Van Gogh, a Monet, and a Seurat separated my three paintings, making them all the more a boil among perfection.
    Julia beamed. “You have an impressive collection.”
    There were more. Some paintings, some sculptures. I wandered over to the bookshelf, pretending to be interested in the mass of disjointed shapes and stray wires.
    The scent of sandalwood cologne drifted around me. “What do you think?” Paul rested his hand against my lower back.
    “It’s interesting.”
    “Don’t lie, it’s horrific. Worst piece of art I ever bought.”
    “Then why did you buy it?”
    “I was drunk.”
    “At least it wasn’t a tattoo.”
    He chuckled. “Oh, I have one of those, but it’s by a far greater artist.” His touch drifted south, and his words left on a heated breath close to my ear. “You’ll have to tell me what you think.”
    “Tattoos are hardly my expertise.”
    “But you’re an artist.” Closer and his chest framed my back. “I’m sure you’ll know talent when you see it.”
    I rubbed my ass against the line of a hardening cock.
    He hissed. “Be careful or you’ll miss dinner.”
    “I’m not particularly hungry.”
    “But we have guests.”
    “Guests or voyeurs?”
    Paul growled against the back of my neck. “You are going to be very entertaining, Mr. Duvoe.”
    He stepped away, and I let go of the breath I’d been holding. A passing waiter offered me a drink. I took two, drank one in two swallows and left the empty on the tray. The other, I sipped while wading through waves of conversation.
    “…did you hear about…”
    “…pregnant?”
    “My broker said I should invest…”
    “…a new boat. Can you believe that? He bought another new boat.”
    I wandered from the library to the dining room.
    “Greg thinks we should buy…”
    “…Yale turned down their