written by Jane Peden

I probably shouldn't have gone out tonight. The Manhattan club scene used to be exciting, but lately it bores me - I'd rather have stayed home and worked on my painting.

But it is Saturday night, so.... The plan is to hit a couple of different clubs, and since there are three of us I can leave anytime and not feel like I'm abandoning a friend.

"Come on, Lena!" Morgan and Natalie tug me out onto the dance floor. "It's time to par-tay!" Morgan says, as her drink sloshes in her glass and narrowly misses splattering me. It's bright red - the drink and my silky jumpsuit - so it probably wouldn't show. I'd still prefer not to be bathed in grenadine.

"Get rid of the drink, Morgs," Natalie says, reaching for it, but Morgan is quicker and simply downs it in one large gulp.

"There," she says, "happy?"

Natalie laughs, the glass disappears somewhere, and the three of us are absorbed into the throng of pulsing bodies.

For a moment I'm glad to be here. Then my senses go on alert with the certainty that someone is watching me.

I spin around and try to spot whoever is giving me this feeling, but no luck there.

"I feel like someone is watching me," I say, leaning in toward Natalie.

"Of course someone is watching you," Natalie says, her gaze traveling up and down over my body. "Everyone is watching you."

She's probably right. The vintage pendant once owned by my grandmother is nestling in the deep v that barely conceals my breasts, the diamonds reflecting the lights in the club. The pants of my jumpsuit end snugly just above my ankles, and I'm wearing strappy gold heels. The blood-red polish on my nails matches my lips, and my naturally red hair is cascading in waves down my back. It's a look that screams for attention, and it got us past the doorman without a VIP pass.

"You look like a model," Morgan says, and rolls her eyes. "Who wouldn't notice you?"

I'm 5'9" and with the heels I'm wearing, 6 feet at least. So yeah, guys tend to notice me in clubs.

But this is different.

I feel a sudden chill, even in the overheated milieu.

I shrug it off, but the feeling persists.

The music gets faster and the club gets hotter. I have the beginnings of a headache. So when Natalie snags a table, I'm more than happy to take a break and order something cold to drink.

We crowd around the small table and look for our server, just as another one comes over with a magnum of champagne and three glasses.

"Come this way - I have a booth for you."

I look up at her, perplexed. "Sorry, we didn't order bottle service."

"Courtesy of the gentleman at the bar." She gestures across the crowded dance floor, and I glance over and feel his gaze - confident and a touch arrogant - lock on mine.

"Who?" Natalie asks, straining her neck to check out our benefactor. "I hope he's not 50 years old and butt-ugly."

"He's not," I say as we stand up to follow the server. "It's the one in the black suit. Third from the end." I knew it the moment our eyes connected. And now I can't seem to look away. I've got a prickly feeling on the back of my neck, and my entire body just flashed from a cold chill into intense heat all over again.

"Banging!" says Morgan. "He's hot. Come on, girl."

"You know him?" Natalie asks.

"Not yet." But I expect I will very soon.

We slide into the plush booth, and our server expertly pops the cork and fills the three flutes, leaving the open bottle in a bucket of ice that seems to have magically appeared. Along with a tasteful array of tapas and other small bites, served on a silver tray.

"That's the good stuff," Natalie says, studying the label on the bottle, then lifting a glass to her lips for her first sip.

I'm wondering why he didn't send four glasses, since he's obviously planning to join us. Maybe champagne isn't his drink of choice, at least for himself. It's not mine, either, but I appreciate its style. And the bubbles feel cool on my throat.

I glance back at the bar and don't see him, so he must be on his way over. I scan the crowd, but there are just too many people.

Natalie and Morgan are already on their second glass of champagne and doing serious damage to the platter, but I'm taking my time, savoring the feel of the sparkling wine on my lips, my throat, sampling morsels of the salty and the sweet while contemplating what kind of reception to give our benefactor when he shows up.

Not that his gesture isn't appreciated, but it was also presumptuous. Morgan and Natalie don't seem to mind. But if he thinks any of us are going to be spending the night with him just because he dropped $1000 on champagne and a booth, he's going to be disappointed.

"We should do something for Valentine's Day," Morgan is saying. "Since we're all single this year."

I shift my attention back to the conversation. The guy with the dangerous eyes still hasn't shown up and I'm starting to wonder if maybe he isn't coming over. But how weird would that be?

"We should come over to your condo for a pajama party, Lena." Natalie smiles at me over her champagne flute. "You've got that kick ass sound system and the biggest screen. Morgan can make her killer sangria and we'll watch movies and eat popcorn and chocolate all night."

"Hmm. I don't know," Morgan says, as our server comes back, lifts a card from her tray, and sets it down in front of me, simply says from the gentleman, and leaves. "Lena might have a date."

I pick it up and the three of us stare at it. It's a black card on expensive stock, with just a name printed in burgundy on the front.

"Miles Belmont," I read, then flip the card over. The other side is blank.

"That's weird," Morgan says. "I mean, how are you supposed to get in touch with him?"

"I guess he'll have to find me."

And something tells me he will.

* * *

I have no time to think about the mysterious man in black. I'm consumed for days - maybe weeks, as I've lost all track of time - with the need to paint, and I barely come out of my condo. The rest of the world disappears.

Then I'm just done, the canvases are leaned up against the wall, each more disturbing than the last. Images filled with dark power. The last one is the one I can't take my eyes off. Something about it pulls at me, draws me in.

I take a clean drop cloth and cover it, but I still know it's there. Suddenly my Upper East Side condo, with its coveted view of Central Park, is closing in on me. I strip off my clothes, leaving them behind me in a trail on my way to a hot shower. Then I pull on a pair of jeans and a loose, silky t-shirt, clip my damp hair up in a messy bun, shrug into my classic long wool coat, and slide my feet into flat-soled ankle boots that are good for walking.

I'm close to both the Guggenheim and the Met. Today I choose the former. I pass by the exhibitions of contemporary artists on the lower ramps of the rotunda, then take my time studying the reverse chronology of the Vasily Kandinsky exhibit.

I'm midway through the exhibit when I sense him nearby. A sidelong look confirms that he's dressed all in black again - of course. But this time it's skinny jeans, a pullover sweater that's probably silk, and black leather slip on shoes. A leather jacket is draped over his arm. A monochromatic New York style you wouldn't look twice at . . . unless you did. And then, like me, you wouldn't be able to look away.

Up close he is even more strikingly handsome than was apparent in the club. And later in my dreams.

But I won't give him the satisfaction of staring at him. I purposefully shift my gaze back to the painting.

He leans forward, reading off the discreet card under the corner of the work. "Group in Crinolines, 1909." He looks over at me then, and I realize his eyes are the pale blue of arctic ice when the sun hits it just the right way.

"Are you a fan of Kandinsky, Lena?"

"As a matter of fact."

"What is it you see in his work?"

The answer comes easily to me. "Metamorphosis. A new beginning." I shrug. "What he does with colors."

He looks back at the painting again. "I can't quite picture you in crinoline."

"Did you follow me here, Miles? Are you stalking me?"

I think at first he isn't going to answer. Then he does.

"Don't be stupid, Lena," he says. And then he walks away.

He sent champagne to my table. He knows my name. He knew where to find me.

And I am anything but stupid.

* * *

Morgan and Natalie arrive together, late afternoon because why not, bursting though the door with shopping bags of goodies they didn't find at the gourmet shop around the corner. Morgan pulls out a can of spray cheese and laughs.

"You haven't lived until you squirt this in your mouth with a champagne chaser."

I smile dubiously, and lead them to the kitchen island, where they unload a giant heart-shaped box of candy, jumbo bags of three different flavored chips, a box of crackers to go with the squirt cheese, and other miscellaneous movie treats, while I pour sangria from the huge Mason jar Morgan brought into a fancy pitcher.

"Seriously, Lena," Natalie says, checking out my meager snack offering. "Baked brie, caviar, and. . . pretzel sticks?"

"It's a weakness."

"I'm making popcorn," Morgan announces, heading to the microwave with a bag labeled extra EXTRA butter, while Natalie wanders into the open living area, then stops short.

"What the fuck, Lena!"

She's staring at wall where the paintings are still leaning. "I mean, these are amazing, but where was your head?" She shivers, and I know she's wondering what she's going to do with all this. Besides being my friend, Natalie represents my art, setting up showings at local galleries and keeping track of commissions on sales to private collectors. But I've never shown her anything like this before.

Morgan follows us in.

"You know, it's crazy good," she says, standing on one foot and tilting her head to the side as she studies the largest of the pieces, which is on a 6 x 6 foot canvas. "That's a road I'm not walking down."

The painting portrays a narrow street, more of an alley really, that disappears between a picturesque cottage and a darkening forest filled with twisting vines. But when you look closer, even the cottage seems not as innocent as it first appears.

"Gives me the shudders," Morgan says. "Every one of them."

Natalie glances toward the draped canvas at the end of the line. "I'm afraid to ask what that one is."

"That one's not done," I lie. "I'll show it to you later."

"I can hardly wait," Natalie say wryly, then grins at me. "Oh, they'll all sell if that's what you want to do with them, and probably make me rich, like you already are. But, honey, the places your mind goes I sure don't want to visit."

"Yeah, well," Morgan says, "I'm glad the couch faces the other direction."

I grab the pitcher of sangria and three glasses and put them on the coffee table in front of the huge sectional that easily accommodates all three of us stretching out and settling in.

"OK you guys," I say, "which sappy rom com should we watch first?"

Midway through the second movie I mention my strange encounter at the Guggenheim.

"So, he like didn't even ask you out?" Morgan says. "He just insulted you and walked away? I think he's creepy."

"Come on," Natalie says, her hand searching around the bottom of the popcorn bowl for some of the M&Ms we dumped in - along with peanuts and butterscotch chips - just to liven things up. "You have to admit this guy is mysterious and a little romantic. Maybe that's what it takes to break through to Lena-who-is-so-bored-with-dating."

Morgan snorts. "Telling a woman Don't be stupid isn't romantic. I'd have decked him."

Then we all laugh at the image of petite Morgan decking anyone, let alone the leanly muscled six-foot-tall Miles Belmont.

"Ok, ok," she says, "so maybe I'd just punch him in the stomach. Or maybe a little lower," she adds, winking, and the two of them dissolve into giggles again. Part of me is laughing with them, but a separate part of me is wondering what his next move is. And waiting.

By 10:00 and at the end of the third movie, I'm not at all surprised to hear a knock at the door.

Natalie rubs her eyes and sits up from where she's been sprawled on the couch in a semi-haze from too much food and way too much sangria. "Hey, how'd somebody get to your door without being announced?"

"Shit," Morgan says, her voice slurring. "Don't open it, Lena."

I ignore them. And am not the least surprised to open my door and find Miles standing in the small foyer.

No jeans this time. He's wearing a dark suit, with a black overcoat. In my yoga pants, bare feet, and a paint-splattered t-shit, I'm seriously underdressed.

"Are you going to invite me in?" he asks.

"Of course," I say, stepping back, and he smiles. As he walks into the living area he stops short and stares at Natalie and Morgan, who are staring back at him. For once, Morgan is speechless.

"I didn't realize you had company, Lena," he says, and his voice sounds low and edgy.

"Maybe you should have called first," I tell him.

He looks over at the paintings for a long moment, and sighs. Then without asking, he strides over to the last one and flicks the cover off. Natalie and Morgan gasp as Miles' eyes, darker and more dangerous, stare back at him from the portrait.

"Is this how you see me, Lena?"

When I don't answer, he turns quickly, his coat swirling around him like a cloak, and walks toward me. He presses another of the black cards into my hand, but when I turn this one over it has an address printed on the back.

"Upper West Side," I say. "I should have figured."

"I teach at Julliard," he tells me. "I like living close to where I do my best work."

"What do you want from me?" I ask him, and I swear his eyes go a shade darker.

"Come to me at midnight . . . tonight," he says, "and find out." He looks over at Natalie and Morgan, glances at the open heart box and the chocolate wrappings strewn across the table. "Happy Valentine's Day, ladies."

And then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

"What the hell was that?" Morgan says.

But Natalie is already over at the painting, transfixed.

"Girl, you never told me you do portraits."

I shrug. "It's not my thing."

She turns to look at me. "Well, maybe it should be."

Morgan comes over to look more closely at the painting.

"It's scary good," she says, "but it's not a portrait of him. It's something different . . .something more."

"It's a darker version of him," I tell her.

It's the version of him I see when I close my eyes at night.

* * *

They both try to talk me out of it, but I know what I have to do. And by now they are both too drunk and sleepy to put up much of an argument. I had as many glasses as they did, but feel absolute clarity about what comes next.

It's getting closer to midnight, as I fasten the diamond and bloodstone pendant around my neck. Natalie and Morgan are on separate ends of the couch, Natalie snoring softly and Morgan unintelligibly sleep-talking. I intend to be a match for the immaculately groomed Miles tonight. My stiletto boots come up to my knees, smoothly fitting over my narrow black leather pants. My red wrap sweater is soft cashmere, a mix of sexy and classy. I draw a perfect cat eye, then slick the deep red lipstick on. No more jeans or yoga pants or paint-splattered t-shirts; tonight I'm dressed to kill. My hair is loose and wild, the way I prefer it, and my dark lined trench coat is sleek and expensive and warmer than you would expect.

I nod to the doorman as I step outside, where the snow has begun to swirl. The ride in the Uber Black is quick and I arrive at Miles' building just before midnight. It's not as fancy as mine, but it's an old structure with charm, and I imagine his apartment here costs him more that he could afford on his salary from Julliard alone.

The security guard at the desk doesn't even look up when I walk past. Then again, Miles is expecting me.

As I come down the hallway I hear someone playing classical music on a piano. The sound stops abruptly as I reach Miles' door. When I raise my hand to knock the door opens, and Miles is standing there. He's wearing the same suit, but now his jacket is off, his shirt is open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up. And against all reason, I want him.

Our gazes lock and for a moment time seems to stand still.

Then he takes a step back.

"Are you inviting me in?" I echo the words he spoke to me earlier this evening.

"Of course," he says, gesturing.

Miles has a view as well, and a baby grand piano is positioned to take advantage of it. I walk across the room, conscious at all times of exactly where he is. I drop my trench coat onto the sofa and turn to face him.

He's close now. Very close. He reaches toward me and I stand still as he lifts my pendant to examine it.

"May I?" He looks into my eyes, his own going a shade darker.

"Have you suddenly developed manners?"

He shakes his head. "And I wonder why I'm obsessed with you."

Miles studies the bloodstone, then looks at my face again and exhales slowly.

"Exquisite," he says. "I've been searching for you for a long time."

"I know what you want from me."

"Do you, I wonder?"

"You want my soul. Assuming I have one."

"I didn't used to think so. But, no. Not anymore. It's your heart I want, Lena."

"To drive a stake into it? That's not going to happen." I feel the sharpness of my incisors slipping down, a familiar click into place.

It must have been in his pocket and I curse myself as I see it, thinner than you'd imagine, sharp and topped with a handle decorated with precious stones. My lips part and I'm a mere breath from his neck.

"Trust me, Lena," he says, holding it between us. "As I am trusting you." Then he sets it on the piano, where it glitters against the ebony surface.

And I decide. 

<<<THE END>>>

Jane Peden writes sexy contemporary romances set in the exciting South Florida city of Miami, and thrillers in exotic locales. Law, Lies, and Love Affairs, in Wattpad Paid Stories, recently topped 2.7 million views. Her newest book, The Millionaire's Intriguing Offer, updates weekly. Check out Jane's other short stories on Wattpad!