h, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Pain
and his apartment. I don’t know what to feel about that.
“Just you, Anastasia,” he whispers.
I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way,
he does care about me.
“Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not
portraits. Let’s look round.” He holds his hand out to me,
and I take it.
We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a
couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me.
It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young man
is blatantly staring. Odd.
We turn the corner, and I can see why I’ve been
getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven
huge portraits—of me.
I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining
from my face. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious,
amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.
Holy crap! I remember José messing with the camera
on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when
I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s
assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these
invasive candids.
I glance up at Christian, who is staring, transfixed, at
each of the pictures in turn.
each of the pictures in turn.
“Seems I’m not the only one,” he mutters cryptically,
his mouth settling into a hard line.
I think he’s angry. Oh no.
“Excuse me,” he says, pinning me with his bright gray
gaze for a moment. He turns and heads to the reception
desk.
What’s his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he
talks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and Red
Lipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his credit
card.
Shit. He must ha一ve bought one of them.
“Hey. You’re the muse. These photographs are
terrific.” A young man with a shock of bright blond hair
startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian is
back.
“You’re a lucky guy.” Blond Shock smirks at
Christian, who gives him a cold stare.
“That I am,” he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to
one side.
“Did you just buy one of these?”
“One of these?” he snorts, not taking h
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