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“Fine, let go of my arm so I can undress.”

When he looked as though he did not believe a word of
this, Sara added more. “I mean it, Griffen. You want a pole dance out of
me…you’ll get a pole dance—to perfection.”

Casey’s hand slowly slid off her arm. He relaxed his
shoulders. The tight pinch to his mouth eased into a slight smile.

She tried to bolt for the door, but a much larger,
more determined man caught her before she could get away. He slammed her body
against the mirrors, cracked one from impact, and without thought ground his
mouth against hers in the purest form of anger ever made.

A mere second later, Sara knew the man could taste
blood in his mouth. She’d bitten his tongue as a defense mechanism, nothing
more.

The sound of material ripped from her body echoed
within the enclosed room. The red glow of the light over the pole mocked her as
a fool. The smell of fury increased their game into an all-out battle. A hard
swung fist at his head caught air. A nasty kick only hurt her toe.

Casey did not rape Sara, as she’d thought he was going
too. He merely tore the clothes off her body, took the punch to his face and
kick to the shin like a man, and once done walked out of the room with his
prized possessions in his hands. He also locked her inside the mirrored room
and turned on the music to drown out her threats made at his person through the
thick wooden door.

Sara could not get out and Casey did not care.

She turned and stared at the cracked mirror; saw her
face and body distorted by jagged lines of glass. The tears welled quickly and
spilled unchecked. She was a fool to have thought her lies wouldn’t be found
out. Then again, only one man had ever called her out on those lies.

Sara backed away from the mirror, her legs hit the
cushions behind her, and she dropped onto the plush leather. She lay over,
curled into a ball, then cried her heart out. The one thing she desired more
than air was the man who locked her into a room; and only a fool would still
desire that man after all this.

****

It wasn’t until many hours later, after a full night’s
rest on his part and a hearty lunch put into his stomach, when Casey came back
to the mirrored room to let Sara out.

Punishment could be dealt in many forms and he’d felt
as though her lie deserved more than what he’d given her last night, so he’d
extended the punishment until nearly noon because of his bit tongue. To his
slated opinion, he’d been a little easy on the punishment.

A few hours of having to look at her body from all
angles should have certainly done the trick to curb her nastiness. If not, he
could always leave her in there until her shift tomorrow night.

He found Sara asleep in a fetal position on the center
cushions; she looked as though she’d been crying all night and most of the
morn. Her face was pale. She was shivering. There’d been nothing in the
mirrored room to ease either of those problems: for the soul, or the
conscience.

Regrettably, he had no idea Sara was terrified of
confining spaces and a bi-polar, nearly psychotic mother had locked her into
closets on more than one occasion to reaffirm her dominance toward the weaker
of two. He thought her tears were for what he’d done to her in the heat of
anger. Instead, they’d been tears of pure unadulterated terror of the dark.

The instant he put a hand to her shoulder to wake her,
her eyes opened, and within that brief second he saw what she’d never let
another human being ever view of her. He saw the absolute horror of last night,
the vulnerability she could not hide, the phobia that outshined them all.

Last night had gone too far—he’d gone too far. He
never meant to hurt her or scare her, nor tear her clothes off. He felt sick to
his stomach for what his angered actions created. The sight of her dried tears
only proved as much.

Very gently, he eased her shivering body into his arms.
She did not fight him. She did not push at his chest. She did not say a single
word to him. As he carried her from the room, he caught sight of the cracked
mirror and groaned. He never meant to slam her into any mirror. It just
happened. Yet, didn’t all bastards use that excuse—
it just happened
.

As she held onto his body, likely to gain warmth
through his T-shirt, he whispered, “I am so sorry for what I did to you last
night. I was angry. I should never have said what I had…nor ever do this to
you. ”

Deep blue eyes locked with his. No spoken words came
from her mouth, only fear, trapped lies, and tempered desire through the shine
of her eyes.

Casey carried her up to his bedroom, set her onto her
feet beside his bed, and found a robe to cover her nakedness. He guided her
onto the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid Sara’s covered form without any
protest under the warm blankets. He then sat down on the side of his bed and
ran his hand over her hair.

She turned from him to curl back into the fetal
position; flinched from the gentle touch to her shoulder.

This flinch hurt him as a man more than if she’d taken
a knife to his heart. He felt it to the core of his soul. “God, Sara. I am
so…so…sorry for what I did to you.”

Her fist balled against his pillow, but she wouldn’t
make any emotional contact with him—at all.

He stood, removed himself from the bedroom, and headed
downstairs. He would let her sleep for as long as she wanted to, but he had to
get to the club. Two of the wholesalers would be there by three, and if he did
not get his ass moving, he would miss their deliveries.

When she was ready to talk, he would then ask her why
she lied about her identity, more importantly, why she looked so utterly
terrified from one night locked inside a mirrored room.

Casey drove to the club, put in four full hours of
payroll, dealt with more than he cared or even wanted to with the wholesalers,
then drove back home and headed straight up the stairs.

There were no lights on in his house. Nothing made any
sound. In fact, the moment he moved through the doorway, an ill-feeling crept
up his spine.

He found the master bedroom eerily empty.

Griffen knew why the second he set foot inside the
posh suite. His robe lay neatly across a made bed. His pillow was tucked under
the quilt. However, the shattered mirror Sara scattered all over the carpeting
spoke volumes to him as a man.

Sara Rogan—aka Mecca Jones—had left Casey to pick up
the pieces of a night that went terribly wrong.

He hadn’t known her leaving was for good until three days
later when she did not show up for her shift. All he’d wanted of the woman was
answers, and she gave him the biggest answer of all. He’d finally opened up,
enough to care about a woman, enough to open a small crack in his heart and let
someone see the real man, and out of all the women in the world, Sara was the
one woman to shut him down. He had to find her, tell her exactly what he
couldn’t lie about anymore.

Casey had fallen in love with Sara without any
physical contact to goad him there. Christ! He’d fallen in love with her even
knowing about her lie from the moment he’d hired her.

Somehow, someway, he had to fix this huge mistake
before it couldn’t be fixed.

Chapter Seven

“
D
eb? You got a minute?” Tepper’s sexy tone
beckoned from behind a partition wall.

Sara turned her head to the sound of her new name,
while she held in her hand a million-dollar painting she’d readied to hang on
the wall.

A minute? Hell!
She had about a thousand of those, and all of them at the tip of her
fingers. However, when asked she would deny this and say she’d less than a half
second of time to spare, the day hectic; the week more so.

Yet it was six months past her hasty escape, and she
still wasn’t used to the name Deb. She liked the name Mecenna better, but
beggars couldn’t be choosy under regrettable circumstances, and Deb was what
she’d come up with on short notice. Debra Batton.

“Yeah. What’s up?” Her voice produced loud for Tepper
to hear.

Sara then followed the lane leading to the back of the
gallery. The design of the gallery was to see the customers through while
walking a garden path—and still be within the confines of the building. Artwork
sold better that way, or so she was told. Sara had yet to sell a damn thing off
these walls. She did better with the numerous sculptures set out as pricier
displays up front.

She set down the painting and moved toward Tepper’s
desire for her presence.

Tepper Le D`oun, who owned the gallery, looked quite
perplexed with the object in his hand. He placed the large plaster leg on the
table and watched her walk his way.

She came to him with a smile on her face while his
look of confusion changed to something she’d never before seen. The
playfulness, of which no man could hide, filled his eyes.

“Anatomy 101?” she teased, glancing at the plaster leg
he still had to attach to the other three limbs. It was supposedly a sculpture
of the male torso, but by all intents of what Tepper had pieced together thus
far, it looked more alien than human.

He sent her a quick, shame-free smile. “101 would be
easy if it came with color-coded instructions,” he determined.

Sara feigned shock. “Really, a man, wanting
instructions…ones he would actually use?”

He gave her another easy smile; this one edged with
devilish intent. “Yes. And with lots of pictures, if at all possible.” A quick
jerk of his head was made toward those in his possession
not
having
pictures. “Who the bloody hell designed this shit?”

“Your favorite artist, that’s who. And the man who
netted you over a quarter mill last year…and likely another two more this
year.”

This was a daily reminder from Sara to Tepper of the
immense wealth the gallery brought in.

Tepper Le D`oun ran the largest, most profitable art
gallery this side of the Mississippi. He was well known for his highest
standards and reputable tastes. He was filthy stinking rich, and he loved every
single minute of it. The man lived life in the fast lane, drove fast cars and
raced sailboats. He loved his gourmet food. But he was truly inept at the
assembly of near priceless artwork.

“Why the bloody hell doesn’t my favorite artist come
here and put this contraption together on his time, not mine?” Tepper was never
one to mince words.

He might pretend to be mad, but Sara could see right
through the ploy. He wanted her to assemble the piece so he could go off and do
something else—something fun.

Sara stepped forward and picked up the plaster leg.
Her eyes gave the limb a quick once over. She read the instructions that came
with the assorted appendages. Within less than a minute, she had the limb
attached to where it supposedly belonged, atop a headless torso.

Tepper stepped back to survey her handiwork. As he
did, he ran his hand over his chin. Last night’s endeavors drifted into today’s
multi-tasking activities and the five o’clock shadow was quite pronounced
within his palm.

Sara stepped back as well and looked at the art piece
when done, then hurried a glance to Tepper. She could not help her smile or the
chuckle that followed it.

“I’ll give you back one week’s paycheck if this thing
sells within ten days.” It was a bet she knew she would not lose. No one in
their right mind would buy the torso, properly titled
Up Shit Creek.

 
Where the
creek was, was anybody’s guess—without instructions. Nevertheless, it
definitely resembled a piece of shit and would likely grace its final
destination for quite some time; until Sara moved it to storage, disassembled
it, and then sent it back to the artist as not purchased. All work was on pure
consignment in the Le D`oun gallery.

“What do you think he was trying to achieve with this
piece of crap?” Tepper questioned. Never before had he called a work of art a
piece of crap.
But if the shoe fit…

Sara shrugged her shoulders. “Damned if I know.” She
was as dumbfounded about this change in the artist’s behavior as he was.

Tepper turned, took her hand in his, and gave her arm
a hearty shake. “You’re on, Little Lady, ten days, one week’s paycheck, and we
just shook on it.”

The touch of his hand sent shockwaves up Sara’s arm.
She had to glance at her limb to make certain it hadn’t gone up in smoke, or
found
Shit Creek
all on its own, because every time Tepper touched her,
she melted upon impact.

The man had the softest hands of any man she’d ever
known. He did work with them, but he took care of them when the work done. He,
as well, had the most unusual eyes. They were teal in coloring. And there was a
rugged handsomeness about him Sara would sell her soul to obtain.

Tepper Le D`oun was French, hot, and gorgeous. Good
God! Even his name turned her on.

Most Frenchmen Sara had been privileged to meet had
dark eyes and dark hair. Not Tep. Tanned skin, created from the outdoor life he
led, and light brown hair, this guy was every woman’s sexual fantasy. But he
wasn’t interested in her, at least he hadn’t shown any interest in her other
than a perfectly legitimate business arrangement—employer, employee. Sara ran
the art gallery. Tepper brought in the artists and clients paying her salary
and the gallery bills. A win/win setup for both, sort of.

She felt a bit cheated in this win/win scenario.

Had she mentioned he was nearly six feet six, built
like a solid brick wall, was so buff she nearly drooled whenever he took off
his shirt while he unpacking the wooden crates the pieces came to them in…and
he looked more like a lumberjack than a multi-million dollar art gallery owner,
French playboy should?

Sara made five times as much as she had while she’d
been Sara Rogan and Mecenna Jones
combined
—within only six months’ time.
Life was good. She was back on track; even had a bit of spare change saved for
a rainy day. She loved coming to work. She loved her job as curator. She loved
to watch Tepper. Whenever he seemed so deep into his work, she was there to
draw him back out. Whenever he needed her assistance, she was there to give the
man her helping hand.

Now if she could only draw his attention her way, life
would be near perfect.

“You do know you just shook on a possible million
dollar exchange in income within ten days, right?” she asked innocently.

Of course, he knew. Tepper never betted anyone
anything unless he expected to win. He nodded his head, then smiled her way.

“How do you know it won’t be me to sell this damn
thing before you even get the chance…and it will be my million dollars handed
over to your bank account?” he quibbled.

“Had it snowed in Haiti this week? I’m not sure. I’ll
have to check and get back to you on that,” she informed her boss.

Tepper touched her arm. His tone turned soft, almost
reassuring. “You can sell this as easily as I can, Debra, and you know it.”

“But I’m not the one with extremely wealthy friends
willing to purchase something poorly titled
Up Shit Creek,
now am I?”

“I may have the friends but they are up their own shit
creeks most days. They sure as hell don’t need a visual reminder of it.”

In fact, Tepper’s closest friend was in the grips of
dealing with another messy divorce. The man’s fifth, he hadn’t quite learned
his lesson from marriage one through four. Or, if he had, he simply enjoyed the
process of divorce more than the rewards of a fruitful marriage.

Sara chuckled at Tepper’s easy statement toward his
rather careless friends, and returned her eyes back to the sculpture. She took
a moment to absorb the plaster monstrosity into her brain. Whatever the artist
was trying to go for when he created this masterpiece, he hadn’t quite met his
target audience. In her opinion, it
was
a piece of shit. He got the name
part correct. However, there were no big piles of the stuff, nor any creek
within sight. It was a man’s torso, ribbed, one arm stuck out the back, one arm
made as a leg, a leg coming out of the neck, and the other where most men would
not want it put—ever
.

It looked quite painful attached there.

Ironically, he’d reassembled this particular piece in
the middle of a fake stream made out of concrete, paint, and mock stone.
Supposedly, he wanted it set in better context, than have stuck it with the
more valuable items, reducing their values. All this effort wasted on this one
piece of work only made it less appealing than if he’d stuck the torso out of a
garbage can filled with solid gold. It was still a piece of shit and Sara would
not be able to sell it, any more than Tepper would be able to get someone to
pay for it.

She was quite willing to give it a try, however. A bet
was a bet, especially when shook on. If a million dollars came out of the sale
from trying to pedal the damn thing off on the first unsuspecting idiot who
walked through the doors of the art gallery and that idiot had the required
small change to purchase such a
lovely
work of unnatural art, then so be
it. Sara was going to try to sell her heart out just to win this bet.

Tepper turned and started to collect the packaging of
the other limbs sent them. Sara helped him out, grabbing a handful of bubble
wrap. As she did, her stomach growled—loudly.

Her boss caught the sound and glared. “You skipped
lunch, again, didn’t you?”

She was going to lie this time, but knowing he would
see right through it—as always—decided not to. “I’d been too busy hanging
tomorrow’s showpieces, forgot to eat. I’ll grab something on the way home.”

Tepper growled at this news. He dropped his bubble
wrap, grabbed her by the wrist, and practically dragged her to the back room,
where the office was located.

She thought they would stop there. There was a
refrigerator in the staff lounge, and he usually kept something on hand in case
they worked late—Chinese leftovers or a few slices of pizza. This was more
often than not the norm.

However, Tepper kept going, dragging Sara behind him.
He took her out the back exit door, directly behind the gallery, and literally
shoved her inside his SUV.

“Next time you skip lunch, I will deduct twenty grand
from your paycheck,” he warned, then walking around the vehicle to climb into
the driver’s seat.

Her eyes widened. “Twenty grand? What the fuck for?”

Le D`oun eyes narrowed. “Two for swearing at me. And
the other eight thousand is for disobeying my strict order that my favorite
employee eat three square meals a day. And ten more, just because I can… and
will.”

Sara glared at such an impetuous man. “You haven’t
eaten today, either, you know.”

His shameless grin back came to her within a
heartbeat, as he backed the SUV out of its stall, then headed down the alley
toward the main street. “Why do you think I am taking you to lunch now?”

Sara glanced at her watch. “It’s four thirty in the
afternoon, Tep. I would call it an early supper—old-folks Floridian time.”

“Potato, patato.” A quick shrug of his massive
shoulders stated it was the same difference to him.

“We need to hang up the rest of those paintings. We
don’t have time for this nonsense,” she ruled primly.

“As your boss, I say we have the time for nonsense.
Those paintings will wait until we get back. They don’t have legs coming out of
their ass to walk away with. But yours and my stomach cannot.” To add insult to
injury against any further argument, Tepper’s stomach growled, too. He’d been
reassembling the torso for the better part of three full hours and she knew
well and good he’d skipped breakfast, same as lunch.

Who would’ve thought such an ugly work of art would
have taken so long to put together?

Sara turned her eyes to the road. She loved being with
this man while in the gallery. But inside a restaurant—in public, yet private?
This would be a new change for their relationship, and it would be different.

Sara wasn’t quite certain she was ready for new and
different—in public. She still hadn’t gotten over Casey Griffen’s discovery of
her identity. Nor, what he did to her when he’d found out, then felt the need
to punish her for it. What if that happened again? What if she dove into this
relationship, way too deep, became far too involved with another man, and
couldn’t get out as easily as she had from Griffen’s life, as well, Boyd
McCarlye’s life?