Undressing Mercy. Deanna Lee

      Walking into the art gallery twenty minutes later, I felt a little of my past lift away. The work I had done with Holman Gallery had fulfilled me in a way that I had never known before. My world was just fine without a man.

      On the gallery’s top floor, I found my assistant, Jane Tilwell, hovering near my office door. She was wearing an Armani pantsuit that displayed a slim, athletic figure many women would have cheerfully killed for. She’d cut her honey-brown hair, and I liked the short, spiky do. It gave her a modern and slick edge. Something that jibed, I suppose, with the image she was trying to project. Jane was one of my favorite people.

      When I had joined Holman Gallery, I’d realized immediately that Jane Tilwell was being wasted in her current position and that she should be made Assistant Director. That was a situation I had hopes of resolving when I became Director. She offered me that quick and easy smile of hers.

      “What’s up?” I asked, pausing in front of her and peeking into my office.

      “Mr. Storey wants to meet with you before the Montgomery contract discussion.” She handed me the folder that held the contract for Shamus Montgomery.

      “Where is he?” I asked and glanced at my watch. Frankly, the last thing I wanted to do was chat with Milton Storey once again about the Montgomery contract.

      “Mr. Storey is already in the conference room.” She jerked her head toward our large conference room, which was on the opposite side of the building from where we stood.

      I looked her over and shook my head. “I hate how good you look in that suit.”

      “I got it on sale.” She smiled the smug smile of a woman who’d saved a lot of money.

      “You bought an Armani suit on sale and didn’t call me?” I glared at her briefly. “That could be grounds for dismissal.”

      Jane laughed as I went into my office, shoved my purse into a desk drawer, and picked up my handheld. The important meeting, with Shamus Montgomery himself, was my last one of the day; it was funny how that didn’t do anything to put me in a good mood. My office in the art gallery was the second largest on the third floor, and something of a fishbowl. The wall facing out into the bull pen was made entirely of glass. The architect who had designed the building had favored glass, metal, and modern design. I hated him. I would’ve given my best Gucci purse for a real wall.

      The rest of the room was painted off-white, and the furniture blended right in. At first glance, visitors might think the furniture grew right up out of the carpet. I found it unsettling. The bull pen was no different, with lots of glass and steel popping up out of the metal-gray carpet like a garden of metal.

      I picked up the file folder that held the Montgomery contract, and a pen. Putting off a confrontation with Milton wouldn’t make the meeting or the day go any faster. The men and women working in the bull pen grew quiet as I left my office and walked through the area. There were people in the gallery that supported me, and there were those who didn’t. Milton Storey had been the director of the gallery for nearly fifteen years, and the Board’s decision to bring me in had ruffled a few feathers among the staff. I knew that in August, when I became Director, I would probably have a few positions to fill.

      When I entered the conference room, Milton Storey was talking on his cell phone. I sat down several chairs away from him and dropped the folder on the table in front of me. I’d only been at the gallery six months. I’d spent that six months rearranging and reorganizing the gallery to suit me. Milton had taken most of the changes in silence, yet he’d grown adept at picking his battles.

      He ended his call abruptly and turned to me. His face appeared calm, but his eyes betrayed his irritation, and a fear I wanted to ignore but couldn’t. Milton Storey was being forced out of a job he loved. He finally spoke. “This contract with Montgomery is a mistake.”

      “James Brooks wants this contract with Shamus Montgomery. In fact, he made it clear that he has a significant amount of personal interest in this contract succeeding.” So much so, that he’d made it clear that losing the Montgomery account could be bad for me. “I realize that he isn’t an artist that you would’ve pursued, but we both know the Board has plans for this gallery that you are unwilling to even consider.”

      “You don’t have my job yet.” His face was flushed with anger, but it was the coldness of his eyes that startled me.

      I replied, “What do you hate the most about me? My gender, my age, or that the Board no longer chooses to believe that you know what is best for this gallery?”

      “I don’t like you, Ms. Rothell. Your age and gender have nothing to do with it,” he snapped and then sat back in his chair. It was the first time I could ever remember him actually admitting that he resented me specifically.

      “I was brought to Holman Gallery to do this type of project.”

      “All you’re doing is tearing down a gallery I’ve spent years building. You’ve brought in a series of vulgar and profane works that will alienate our clientele.”

      “Our revenue has doubled in the six months that I’ve been handling the collections.”

      “Money earned through thinly disguised pornography.”

      “If you have a problem with the way things are being done around here, talk to the Board.”

      I watched his face redden with anger, but he said nothing else. Achieving my failure and dismissal had been number one on his to-do list since the day I’d replaced the young and frankly ill-equipped woman he’d had in the Assistant Director’s position.

      I wasn’t worried about his plotting. I knew what the Board of Directors wanted, and I was providing it in spades. The door opened, and we were both forced to put smiles on our faces as Jane showed Shamus Montgomery in.

      I’d spent three days preparing for my first meeting with Shamus Montgomery. Yet as I set eyes on the man for the first time, I knew I hadn’t prepared nearly enough. My grandmother once told me that men are like wine. Some are bitter and hard to swallow, and others lie on your tongue with a full-bodied sweetness that can make your toes curl.

      I wondered what he would taste like.

      Shamus Montgomery, known for his passionate and erotic sculptures, was one solid and sexy reminder of my empty bed—and he was stripping me bare with his gaze. I returned his brazen inspection with one of my own.

      Dark brown skin. Eyes so dark they were nearly black. And a strong and chiseled face any model would love. His hair was shaved close to his head in a style that most black men seemed to prefer. A soft slant to the corner of his eyes reminded me that he had a Chinese grandmother.

      I knew a lot about Shamus Montgomery as an artist. However, the need to know more about him as a man surfaced within seconds of seeing him for the first time. There was no mistaking the lust stirring in my body. My physical reaction surprised me. It had been a long time since a man had stirred my sexual interest.

      I stood up from my chair and offered him my hand. I sucked in a small breath as my fingers disappeared in his. Warm, calloused, and strong were the first things I thought about his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Montgomery. Holman is honored to be the first choice for your next show.”

      There, two whole sentences. I pulled my fingers from his and fought an overwhelming urge to crawl across the conference table and into his lap. I sat down.

      I used the