To Want
February 14th:
I have never been anyone of great significance. I was raised in an Anchorage shack of a house to a woman who collected more men than things, and through the years her heart had been broken so many times I had to wonder why she bothered. To her, love was an eternal hope, a way to make this bitter life shine like the many little trinkets she collected. To me, love was something a person gave up a piece of themselves for and never walked away from.
I quickly learned that if I wanted anything, I had to work for it. Where my mother fruitlessly dreamed, I preferred reality. That's not to say my mother doesn't love me. She does, with every fiber of her flighty, spirited being. Our family dynamic left me more the parental figure than her, but I never lacked for anything and my need for control didn't mind.
I worked my ass off to get a scholarship to college and earned a Fine Arts degree so I could move us out of nowhere to somewhere. And I did. In a beautiful location pocketed between Anchorage and Prince William Sound, I bought my own gallery in a postage stamp of a town called Tartok Crest. Not for my own art. I have no artistic talent other than being able to recognize it. I showcase brilliant Alaskan photographs and once a year publish those pictures in a book collection. The tourists eat it up. It was a step up from the little girl who got picked on constantly by classmates or ignored throughout high school as if nothing more than dandelion fluff caught on a breeze.
Since opening the gallery six years ago, my clientele has soared from local artists to some international while still maintaining the intimate charm. Showings at Elements Gallery are in high demand. And though all this seems well and good-a rise from poor upbringings-I remain someone of little consequence. I linger in the shadows, letting the artists shine. That is their place, not mine. I merely give them the means. I much prefer it this way, for reasons I dare not pull from memory or I'll sink back into the dark.
So when my assistant strolled into my office on the second floor of Elements and set her palms flat on my desk one idle Tuesday morning, I had no way of knowing this would be the moment everything changed. A series of dominoes tipping with a clack, all leading to an unexpected and crazy end. One I fear I won't ever recover from.
Raven Crowne took in her assistant's strawberry blonde hair, loosely flowing over her shoulders in soft waves, and sat back in her office chair. Nicole's green eyes were a mix of excitement and shock, framed by the palest, longest eyelashes known to mankind. Her willowy body had caught the attention of more than one artist they'd showcased, and was now wearing an emerald green wrap-around dress that would make Raven look frumpy.
Because Nicole was one of the closest things Raven had to a friend, she never minded her interruptions during the workday, often and pointless as they were sometimes. Besides, Nicole was a work horse and Raven could appreciate that. A smile tugged at her mouth. "Yes?"
"You'll never believe who's downstairs." Nicole's words came out in a rush, as if keeping them inside would cause a rupture.
Raven's gaze darted over Nicole's shoulder to the gallery below. She'd designed her office with a glass wall facing the show floor, partly to be able to see the comings and goings, and mostly to not feel closed in. Standing just outside Nicole's small office was a man in a gray suit. She didn't recognize him, but she'd dealt with a lot of people through the years. Still, she was good with faces, and his she didn't know. He was lean and tall, with dark hair cut too short to compliment his face and hands deep in the pockets of his pants.
"Who is he?" She didn't have any appointments today. They'd just finished a week-long showing for a Washington artist who liked working with black and white. They were two weeks from another show.
"He says he's Hoan Dwell's agent." Nicole squealed and slapped a hand over her mouth.
Raven sucked in a shallow breath, hiding her own excitement. Hoan Dwell, originally rumored to be from the San Diego area, was a photographer unlike anyone they'd ever worked with. He captured women, in various stages of undress, in nature settings. He wasn't particular with his models either. Some were full figured, others thin as a rail. He made them all beautiful. Desired.
She owned one of his photographs from very early in his career, of a blonde in a white sheet, laying over a boulder near a waterfall in Argentina. What was he doing in Alaska?
"What does he want?"
Because, in honesty, Hoan Dwell was out of her league. Though they did work with established artists, none were of his caliber. He'd had shows in New York, Milan and Paris. Most of Elements' bookings were new, upcoming artists and very small market. They'd launched quite a few careers, but-wow.
"He wants to see you." Nicole bounced on her toes.
Raven closed the program she was working on and put her PC into sleep mode. "All right. Send him in."
As Nicole sashayed away, Raven blew out a calming breath and steeled her face to pleasantly neutral. He nodded once to Nicole and ate the distance over the bamboo floors to the open staircase. Smoothing her hands down her plain black dress, she rose when he reached the doorway.
"I'm Raven Crowne, and you are?"
He accepted her handshake with a firm, brief grasp and sat in one of the brown leather chairs across from her desk. "Michael Hawthorn. Agent for Hoan Dwell."
She nodded, as if this were an everyday occurrence. "What can I do for you today, Mr. Hawthorn?"
His eyes were a cold gray, but his smile was assuredly amused. "My client would like to discuss having an exhibit at your gallery."
She leveled him with a stare, raising her brows. "No offense, Mr. Hawthorn, but why would Mr. Dwell be interested in such a small gallery in Tartok Crest?"
"Can you not handle a showing for him?"
Her hackles rose, but she didn't take his bait. "Of course, we can. Elements has every means to accommodate his work. My question is why would he want to?"
"Mr. Dwell's quite enamored with your gallery."
He looked around her office, taking in the burnt sienna-colored walls and small prints she'd collected from new artists. Her tastes ran wide from surrealism to impressionist. If it struck a chord with her, it stayed. She designed the gallery below her second floor loft with clean, simple lines and naturist elements. Glass and wood. Wide open floor plans. Beams carved from indigenous birch. A frosted glass ceiling made to look like branches weaving out, as if standing on a forest floor with sunlight spilling down. She knew what she'd created was a work of art in itself, utilizing both the vast region that surrounded the location and new touches.
It had taken five years, but she'd paid off the investors. The gallery was hers now, and she was so damn proud. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, nodding his head.
And then she realized what he'd said.
She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the black walnut desk. "Mr. Dwell has been here before?" Surely not. She wouldn't have missed that. Then again, Hoan Dwell was an elusive mystery of a man. He didn't have his own portrait taken and he avoided media. Aside from his models, who supposedly signed a confidentiality agreement before posing, no one had laid eyes on him.
"He saw the article on your gallery in Architectural Digest this past fall. He came to one of your showings last month."
The information rattled around in her brain, and she came up blank in connecting the dots. She didn't know what the man looked like, so she wouldn't know if she'd seen him. "He didn't introduce himself."
One corner of his mouth quirked, not including her in the joke. "He's a private man."
"So private he can't strike up a conversation with someone he wants to do business with?"
Slowly, he unbuttoned his suit coat and reached inside the breast pocket, pulling out a business card. He slid it across the desk with one finger. "My card, Miss Crowne. Call me if you'd like to set up a meeting. Mr. Dwell is unconventional. I'm instructed to tell you he'd like to arrange dinner with you, at a restaurant of your choosing, to discuss-things. Soon." He rose from his seat and nodded. "Good day."
Good day? That was it?
She stood. "I need more information than this, Mr. Hawthorn. I don't just meet men I don't know for dinner-"
"Consider it a business transaction, Miss Crowne. You'll be meeting in public."
His tone suggested he knew about her fear of strangers, men specifically. And why. A bead of sweat trailed down her back. Yet this could be huge for the gallery. Bringing in Hoan Dwell would not only secure Elements financially for quite some time, it would bump up their prestige, too.
"I'll meet him. With the understanding that there will be no promises."
Mr. Hawthorn turned to face her fully. "Where?"
Her gaze drifted over his shoulder as she ran through the options in her mind. It would have to be a location close to Anchorage, with a well-lit parking lot. Italian was too messy, but Salvatore's had booths spaced pretty far apart so they'd have a semblance of privacy. Gino would let her park right out front and see her to her car if necessary. She'd used him before for catering an opening.
She looked up and gave Mr. Hawthorn the address. "I can't make it this week, not until Friday."
He nodded once. "Friday at seven. I will relay this to Mr. Dwell." He reached into his breast pocket once more. "I've been instructed to give you this if you agreed to dinner."
He held out a small pink envelope, non-threatening in nature, but her heart stopped on a dime. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, a contradiction to the heat that churned in her gut. All pretenses of professionalism gone, she took it from him with trembling fingers and whispered a thank you.
She stood for several moments after he left, staring blankly at the envelope. She'd gotten others like it by carrier with no return address and no signature. One every year on her birthday for the past five years. On occasion, for seemingly no reason, she received three others. Eight in total, and all eight knocking her thoughts straight into orbit without gravity for anchor.
They'd been anonymous, hand-written letters. Until now. Did this mean they'd been from Hoan Dwell all along? She pressed a cool palm to her forehead. What was someone like her doing on his radar? She stared at the envelope, wanting to tear it open and read the sensual words she knew would be inside.
Nicole rushed into her office. "Well? What happened?"
Raven cleared her throat and drew in a deep lungful of air. "Mr. Dwell wants to set up a showing. We're meeting for dinner on Friday."
"Shut the front door! Seriously?"
"Yes." The envelope weighed heavy in her hands. She needed to get out of here. The letter couldn't be read where anyone could see her reaction. Besides, Noah was coming for dinner tonight and she still needed to stop by the market. "I'm going to head home early. Why don't you lock up and call it a day?"
"Will do." Nicole paused. "Why aren't you more excited?"
"I am." She laughed nervously. "Just in shock, I guess."
Nicole grinned. "I can't wait to find out what happens on Friday. Happy Birthday to you! Best present ever. Showing Dwell's work will put us in the black for years."
A smile curved her lips. "I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks again for the bracelet."
Nicole had shown up for work today with a large mocha and a small present for Raven's birthday. The two people who never forgot were Nicole and Noah. The greatest friends a gal could ask for. Her mother had yet to call but, judging by history, she'd ring at ten tonight as an afterthought, her mind too scattered to remember sooner.
Bundling into her coat and scarf, she stepped out into the biting January wind and walked the few feet to her SUV. The seemingly eternal dusk for this time of year would be pitch black in a couple of hours. After hitting the market to pick up fresh crab legs, she made her way to the edge of town and parked in her apartment complex's lot, directly under a street lamp and closest to the entry.
Once inside, she stripped out of her dress clothes and into pajamas. Noah wouldn't care. They'd been best friends since day one of college when they'd literally slammed into each other rushing to class. He'd seen her in worse getups and she'd known him before he made his millions with his tourism recreation company. There were no pretenses with him. For that, she was grateful.
After putting everything away, she started dinner and stared again at the envelope on the counter, teasing her to pick it up. When the first letter arrived six years ago, she'd been frightened at first. Even though arousing in context, it still was an unknown. Unknown sender, unknown admirer, unknown reasoning. She didn't like the unknown. Not even a little. The one surprise party Nicole threw for her birthday a few years ago created a panic attack that Noah had barely managed to calm. The rest of the party had been nice, once she got over the shock.
Noah had found the letters amusing, claiming she should be flattered. Raven wasn't so sure. But then time passed and nothing more than letters came. Except now she knew who they were from and he wanted to meet.
Unable to take the suspense anymore, she lifted the flap of the pale pink envelope and drew out the embroidered card. The stationary was always the same, a cream-colored embossed card with a lace overlay. Simple and elegant. Feminine.
Miss Crowne,
The time has come. I've watched you from afar for many years. You are beauty personified and sexual desire emblazoned. I've kept my distance, imagining the day I could claim that clever mouth in a kiss and ravage you the way you deserve. I believe we're both ready. I know you, and now you will know me.
Ever Yours.
He always signed them that way. Ever Yours. There was never anything threatening about the letters, other than him blatantly stating he'd watched her. The sensual quality of his words washed over her, leaving her hot and aching. And embarrassed. They were just words on paper but, for someone like her, who hated attention, it was a rare treat to know she'd been desired by a man to this degree.
He was probably eighty years old and hideously scarred. Or had bodies buried in his yard. Hoan Dwell. What could she possibly have done, or how had their paths crossed, to enlist this kind of response?