Grounded (Up in the Air, #3)(56)

“He’s a Dom, as I’m sure you picked up. Purely BD without the SM. You were attracted to him.”

Uh oh. “Well, I’m in love with you. I like him, just like I said. As a friend. He’s an attractive man, I can’t deny that, but that’s it, James. You can’t think that every Dom I meet is going to have some impossible pull on me, just because you did.”

And it was actually that easy. A few reassurances and he relaxed back into his smiling, amenable persona. I thought that boded well for us. The little things were already resolving themselves with ease.

We met Danika at the tourist gallery of the Cavendish Hotel & Casino the next morning. Danika managed both the L.A. and Vegas galleries, which was especially impressive since she looked to still be in her early to mid-twenties.

With all of the talk the night before, my mind started trying to pair Danika and the physically imposing Tristan up the moment I saw her, and it was almost disconcerting to picture the two of them together. He was so massive and muscular that he could have been an MMA fighter. She, on the other hand, was the epitome of delicate grace.

She was maybe five foot seven, with smooth, straight, pitch-black hair that fell to her mid-back. She was thin, but she definitely had curves in all of the right places. She had a pale complexion, but her heritage was very obviously mixed. Part of the mix was Asian, but the rest was anybody’s guess. At least part Caucasian, by her clear gray eyes.

Tristan had been right. No one could deny that she was exquisite.

She was dressed for business in a pencil skirt and a tidy dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She wore flats, I realized as she stepped out from behind the podium as we approached. I would have pegged her as a stiletto girl just because she was so painfully poised. I saw in an instant why she didn’t, though.

She had just the slightest hitch to her step as she approached us with a lovely smile. Some old injury, I guessed. It was the most graceful limp I’d ever seen, as though she’d just absorbed the injury and made it a part of her, neither emphasizing or hiding it. That seemingly effortless gait told me a lot about the woman. She looked delicate, but there was steel in her.

“So nice to finally meet you, Bianca. I’ve been privileged to get the distinguished honor of being your first big fan. More will come, though, I can assure you.”

“Hey, now,” James said, shaking her hand with a smile. “Don’t discount my adoration of her work. Remember who discovered her.”

She inclined her head. “Touché, James. Please, follow me. We have a lot to discuss.”

We sat at a large conference room at the back of the swank gallery. Danika pulled out a huge leather binder, and I only realized that it was a portfolio of my work when she flipped it open.

“Let me start by saying that art is my life, and I simply adore your work. It is, however, a rather eclectic mix of paintings. This can be handled in a number of ways. My personal preference would be to divide all of the different themes by rooms, since we have so many paintings to work with, and we will be utilizing every room in the L.A space for the showing.”

I nodded. “That sounds good.”

She looked a little nonplussed, as though she’d been expecting an argument. “Well, that was easy. If all of the issues are that easy to resolve, we can schedule a showing for next week!”

The entire meeting went similarly. Danika had very helpful suggestions about all of the things I needed to green light for the showing, and I was more than happy to defer to her expertise on something that I was a complete novice at.

She was swift and professional, covering details that I hadn’t even considered, until she was satisfied that she had the showing thoroughly mapped out.

James stayed reasonably silent throughout the meeting, which I appreciated. If he had taken over, as he did with so many things, it wouldn’t have felt like it was mine. But working with Danika, seeing every step in the process without his interference, it began to feel real, like I had a career here, instead of a hobby that was being funded by my rich boyfriend.

We went to lunch with Danika after we finished. Sandra, the assistant manager of the Vegas gallery who worked directly under Danika, joined us.

She was a small, brown-haired woman with brown eyes and a rather austere demeanor. If I had to guess, I’d have said she was in her late thirties.

I’d completely forgotten about Danika’s limp until she was moving away from the table to use the restroom. Sandra murmured something about needing to check on the gallery, scurrying off.

“What happened to Danika’s foot?” I asked James.

“It’s her knee, I believe. And I don’t know. She never talks about it, but I’ve gotten the distinct impression that it was somehow Tristan’s fault.”

I frowned. That sounded beyond ominous.

We wrapped up a productive and pleasant morning with Danika, setting up a date the following week, when she swore she’d be well into the thick of planning the showing. I was excited and elated when we parted. The crazy dream that was my painting career felt like it was shaping into something real and substantial.

James gave the staff at his house the afternoon off, and we spent hours swimming in his ridiculous pool. The thing was obnoxious, with fake mountains and fountains, and four different pools, and yes, a grotto underneath one of the falls.

“I didn’t realize we were staying at the Playboy mansion,” I teased him.