Читать книгу Scandal - Julie Kistler, Julie Kistler - Страница 10

How to Be a Scandalous Woman, Rule 4:

Leap before you look.

T HE PICTURE WAS TINY , and there wasn’t a lot of detail, but it was definitely an arch. Could it be Isabella’s?

“Too small to tell for sure,” she decided, peering at the picture. Her eyes swept over the poster-size reproduction on her wall, and then back at the tiny illustration in the brochure. They looked the same, but…

Stunned, Jordan took a deep breath. It couldn’t be Isabella’s arch! Not in some crazy advertisement stuck to her door. That was too easy, too weird, too coincidental. Her arch? The one that might provide the missing piece of the puzzle she needed so desperately? Showing up out of the blue?

Jordan had done all the research, looked high and low for references to the arch in every collection, every museum, every estate, leaving no stone unturned. How could it turn up like this?

It would almost be insulting if it were her arch.

“Okay, this is no time to stand on pride,” she chided herself. “If there’s even a tiny possibility it’s the right one, I have to go. I have to find out. If this is it, there could be a paper trail to tell me where it’s been all the time. Maybe all the way back to Isabella. Oh, my God.” She gulped. “That would be huge .”

Even without a paper trail, the arch would be a crucial, dramatic addition to her dissertation. Exactly what she needed to finish and prove to herself and to Daniel that she was a serious scholar.

“Art Institute, opening Friday,” she read aloud.

Damn. It was only Tuesday. Maybe if she grabbed a cab and got to the Art Institute right now, she could talk her way into the gallery where they were setting up the exhibit.

Deciding quickly, Jordan pulled open her yellow messenger bag and stuffed the slim brochure in there, alongside her wallet, cell phone, PDA, keys, an umbrella, a package of gum, a small notebook, several pens, aspirin, a lip balm and all the other things she usually carried. She liked to be prepared.

But then she looked down at her outfit. It’d been blazing hot and humid all week, and she’d planned to be in the office with no appointments for most of the day, so she hadn’t exactly dressed professionally. In fact, she’d thrown on clothes that made her feel more free and saucy, in the hope of sparking enough creativity to get around her dissertation impasse. Which meant she was wearing a too-short jeans skirt, a slinky camisole with a bold red-and-black print on it, and her favorite high-heeled sandals, the ones that made her taller and more confident. For a woman who believed in emphasizing brain over body, it was actually kind of a shady outfit. One not likely to convince museum officials that she was a trustworthy academic type.

She briefly considered going home and changing into something more businesslike—at least throw a jacket over the cami and change into a longer skirt—but she was too impatient. This might be the arch. Her arch. It might be a breakthrough. Finally!

Jordan had never believed in karma or fate or anything crazy like that. Never. But maybe this was the time to start.

“It can’t just be a coincidence that something so close to my arch showed up in that brochure. It was meant for me,” she said with determination. “It’s the message I’ve been waiting for.”

Hefting her bag over her shoulder, she took two steps toward the door. But at the last minute, she turned back and scooped up her lucky Columbian Exhibition half-dollar out of the cup, sticking it in her pocket. And then she leaned over far enough to edge open the drawer, grab the two photographs of Nick Tempest in their plastic sleeves, and carefully slide them into the bag next to the “Sex Through the Ages” brochure. It didn’t make any sense to take Nick with her, but she didn’t care. She wanted him along for the ride.

Jordan stewed all the way to the Art Institute on the “L”, wishing the train would move faster, pulling out Nick’s pictures to make sure she hadn’t lost them, rubbing her coin for luck, and then checking the “Sex” flyer one more time to be sure she’d really seen what she thought she’d seen.

“It sure looks like my arch,” she whispered.

But what would she do if it was? Actually locating Isabella’s arch would change everything. How far back into the dissertation would she have to go if it was the right arch and it had a paper trail? What if it wasn’t as magnificent as she thought from the sketches and not a masterpiece at all? What if Isabella was just a mediocre artist with a smutty arch that didn’t mean anything to anybody?

What if it did provide the answer and she could now write the ending and that was it? Over? Done? No more Nick haunting her dreams?

Jordan closed her eyes and tried to stop herself from coming up with more questions and driving herself even crazier. “If it changes everything, maybe it’ll be in a good way,” she said out loud, getting a strange look from the person across from her on the train.

Finally, she hit her stop and practically ran over to Michigan Avenue, hustling down the sidewalks and then huffing and puffing up the stone steps of the Art Institute. Luckily she was a member of the Institute, so she didn’t have to wait to pay. Still, she stopped at the information desk.

“‘Sex Through the Ages,’” she said impatiently to the woman behind the desk. “Which way?”

“Well, it will be in the Beckwith Gallery, southeast side of the second floor,” the clerk responded, “but that exhibit isn’t open yet.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you!” Jordan called back, already dashing for the stairs.

If she’d been anxious before, she was practically humming with impatience by the time she ran up one flight of stairs, down two long halls and into an elevator, until she was finally standing in front of the tall, imposing doors to the Beckwith Gallery. Unfortunately, the doors were closed, with a chain fastened between the handles, and a sign placed in front of them that said No Admittance During Installation Of New Exhibit.

She stopped for a minute, testing the chain, noting that it wasn’t tied or secured, just dangling there. She bent closer to the crack between the doors, squinting. There wasn’t much to see. It was dark and quiet on the other side.

Quickly, she made up her mind. Jordan wasn’t exactly the breaking-and-entering type, but she could at least try to get in there. After sending a quick glance around, seeing no one, hearing no one, she drew back carefully on the chain.

It jangled loudly, surprising her, making her drop the end, which caused even more of a racket when it banged against the brass handle. She jumped away, all ready to act innocent if a guard came running.

But no one came. Thank goodness. After waiting for one long minute and then two, Jordan gathered her courage and sidled up to the door again. This time she pulled the chain all the way through to one side, with a fast yank, ignoring the noise. And then she grabbed the handle, tugging, expecting the doors to be bolted, wondering how she was going to jimmy the lock.

But…Her eyes widened and her hand trembled around the knob. She couldn’t believe it. There, under her fingers, the handle was turning. It wasn’t locked .

The massive wooden door creaked as she dragged it open enough to sneak through, and the sudden sound almost gave her another panic attack. She figured at this point she should be immune. She would have plenty of time later to reflect on just when she’d decided to break and enter and become a criminal. It wasn’t like her at all. The usual her, anyway. So she was acting like somebody else, somebody wilder and more reckless. Too bad. For now, she was going to get into that gallery and find the arch come hell or high water.

Once the doors closed behind her, the air felt hot and stuffy. Or maybe it was fear making her overheat. It was also shadowy and dim, but she didn’t dare search for light switches. She crept along, as quiet and careful as she could manage. The only thing she heard was her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears.

Jordan sneaked farther into the gallery, peering into corners, her eyes adjusting to the dim surroundings as she tried to figure out if there was any rhyme or reason to what was where. There were no guards, no museum staff puttering around, just paintings and pottery here and there, some unopened crates and boxes, and quite a few placards already in place on brass stands, detailing the exhibits to come. She saw parts of “The History of the Condom” in one room, and a display of phallic-shaped household items recovered from the ancient city of Pompeii in another.

“Who knew Pompeii’s patron god didn’t wear pants?” she asked out loud. Every piece of art devoted to him was all about his huge, erect penis, right out there in the open. It seemed the citizens of his town celebrated his amazingly large asset with all sorts of things shaped in its image. There were spoons, cups, vases, jewelry and more penis-shaped wind chimes strung up than seemed reasonable. They tinkled when she walked by, as if they were happy to see her.

Jordan backed away from the Pompeii exhibit, only to find herself up close and personal with a series of gorgeous Japanese woodcuts depicting women having sex with sea monsters.

“I guess I’m in the right place,” she murmured uneasily. This was definitely all about sex. Everywhere she looked. Sex, sex, sex. It was making her a little dizzy.

Under other circumstances, it might’ve been a fascinating exhibit and she might’ve been able to switch gears into Jordan Albright, Academic, so she could look at it objectively, without all the funny feelings. Hot, lightheaded, starting to perspire…

“They really need some air conditioning in here,” she muttered. Sure, blame it on the lack of AC.

She raised a hand to swipe at the moisture on her forehead, reminding herself fiercely that she was on a mission, a professional mission, and she needed to block out all the salacious etchings and naughty bits of pottery if she was going to find the elusive arch before anybody noticed she was there.

As she turned into a larger room, she noticed tall statuary shrouded in white drapes. It created an eerie mood, with giant, looming figures casting deep shadows into the rest of the space. She reached out to test the edge of a drop cloth.

And a hand touched her elbow.

Jordan jumped about a foot, shrieking something indecipherable, as she spun around to face the intruder. She raised two fists in the air, prepared to act menacing.

But all she saw was a small, older man in a uniform, with wisps of silver-gray hair escaping from under a smart military cap. He sort of looked like Captain Kangaroo in that uniform. He was even smiling kindly. Nobody scary. She set her hand over her pounding heart.

“So sorry to frighten you,” he declared. “I’m the curator of this exhibit. May I help you find something in particular?”

What? It took her about two beats to get the sense of that. He wanted to help her? She was expecting him to kick her out or have her arrested for breaking and entering and skulking suspiciously around a museum full of priceless objets d’art.

She inhaled, trying to get her breathing back to normal. If only the air weren’t so hot and heavy in this place. Her silk camisole was sticking to her skin, and she felt as if she were suffocating. “I’m so sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I—”

“No, please, don’t worry.” His smile widened, and there was a definite twinkle in his bright blue eyes. ‘“Sex Through the Ages’ is a very unusual collection, and not everyone’s cup of tea. So it does my heart good to run into someone so eager to see it that she couldn’t wait for the official opening.”

“That’s true, I suppose,” Jordan managed. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m here to help,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.

“Okay, well, there’s one piece in particular I need to find.” She scrambled to pull her bag around to the front, quickly tugging out the flyer for the “Sex” exhibit and opening it to show him the tiny picture of the arch.

“Oh, that’s a spectacular piece,” he said with hushed awe. “One-of-a-kind.”

“Do you know who the sculptor is?” she asked quickly, but he didn’t answer.

Without another word, he turned and marched from that room, motioning for her to follow. She did. She didn’t have much of a choice.

Down the hall, around a corner, passing several dark rooms, he led her into a narrow hall lined with statues. If possible, it was even more stifling and confining in this small space, even harder to breathe. The curator was wearing a long-sleeved jacket over a shirt and tie and he had set a brisk pace to get to this corridor, yet he looked immaculate, without a hint of perspiration. It was freaky.

“Here it is,” he said quietly, flipping a switch.

Jordan blinked. Holy hell in a handbasket .

With one lone light bulb shining directly above it, the marble sculpture gleamed like a beacon in front of her. Isabella’s arch?

Isabella’s arch.

Six feet tall, Greek gods and goddesses entwined in eternal embraces, oozing sex and sin from every marble pore…She took a deep breath, exhaled and then just stared. She dropped her messenger bag next to her feet with a thump, edging closer, wiping her sweaty palms against the fabric of her denim skirt.

She’d never really believed she would ever see it. But this had to be it. Even without authenticating the marble or the signature or anything else, Jordan knew in her heart that this was Isabella’s arch.

“Wow. Just…Wow,” was all she could get out.

In person, it was so much more than she expected. So much more everything. It was powerful and beautiful and overwhelmingly sensual. All Jordan could do was gape. Even in the midst of “Sex Through the Ages,” with flesh and passion depicted at every turn, she could feel the erotic power of the arch reach out and wrap around her, pulling her closer.

Leaning in, mesmerized by the sensuous figures carved into the cool, creamy stone, she couldn’t seem to breathe or move. Her skin was glazed with sweat and there was a haze in front of her eyes.

She couldn’t get her fill of gazing at it. Just taking it in.

The people on the arch pulsed with life and vitality, wound together with their blatant sexuality. It felt like an invasion of privacy even to look at them.

Jordan blinked again, seeing stars dancing in the air between her and the statue. But she couldn’t glance away.

Her fingers ached to feel its surface. If she touched the piece, she was afraid she might combust right there. One touch and poof, she’d be a pile of dust under winged Eros’s foot, down there at the base of the arch, where he was making love to blindfolded Psyche as she twisted with an orgasm so real that Jordan was surprised not to hear Psyche’s cries of pleasure echoing right there in the Beckwith Gallery.

Her gaze trailed over Psyche and Eros, the back of Pygmalion’s head between Galatea’s marble thighs, Aphrodite and Ares, tangled in a net but more entangled with each other, Narcissus with Echo’s eager mouth hovering near his erection…

Fighting against an arousal of her own, so sharp it threatened to topple her right over, Jordan glanced away. Was it just the effect of a stuffy room, too many oversized penises back in the Pompeii room, a day already marked by memories of Nick in her dreams, or was the erotic lure of Isabella’s arch driving her mad all by itself?

The curator’s voice puffed soft near her ear. “Would you like to touch it?”

She was dying to. But she still wasn’t sure.

“Touch it,” he whispered.

The statue was mesmerizing. Impulsively reaching out, she filled her hand with the marble curve of Apollo’s sinuous buttock, three-dimensional now instead of merely sketched, flexing as he pressed himself into Daphne.

Her fingers closed over his flesh. Jordan gasped. How was it possible that marble could feel warm and alive against her skin?

She pulled back, shocked, burning, at the exact moment the curator said intently, “Don’t forget, Jordan, you must come back the same way you go.”

“What? I don’t underst—” But there was no time to finish her words before he inexplicably shoved her. Hard.

One minute she was gazing spellbound at Apollo, and the next she was tumbling under the arch. She tripped, skidded, reached out to catch herself and…

And fell headfirst into open space.