Player & the Game Read online

  “You’re like the fourth one tonight! I swear you guys are stupider than you look! Get a clue! We . . . don’t . . . shoot . . . models . . . here,” she said to Dawn in a patronizingly slow voice. She then tossed her cigarette to the ground before stomping it under one of her dirty Converse sneakers. “This is an art studio, not a photography studio. Razor may screw models, but he won’t take pictures for your portfolio so . . . bye-bye!”

  She then waved Dawn away like she was shooing off a fly. Dawn’s frown now shifted into a scowl.

  Just who the hell is this little girl, and does she know she is five seconds away from getting cursed out?

  “God, Katy,” lamented one of the young woman’s male companions. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

  He was more eccentrically dressed than Katy with his bowtie, cargo shorts, and a beard that was entwined with several rubber bands and colorful beads. He lowered his beer bottle and turned to Dawn, giving her a sympathetic smile.

  “Sorry, she’s just saying that Razor isn’t a photographer. A lot of models make that mistake. But that just isn’t his thing.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” Dawn snapped, now more than just a little irritated.

  She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or pissed that she was now being mistaken for a model, especially since present company seemed to have such a low opinion of those who made their money on the runway.

  “Look, I’m not here to get Razor to take my picture,” Dawn explained. “I’m here to see his work. I’m a gallery director.”

  The group fell silent.

  “So if all of you could just step the hell aside, I’d really appreciate it.”

  Katy’s brown eyes went wide as quarters. She cleared her throat and her face visibly paled under the dim streetlight. “Shit, I’m sorry! I . . . I just thought you were . . . well, because of the dress . . .”

  Dawn ignored her and continued to climb the stairs. The crowd parted, making a path for the angry black woman in stilettos.

  “Hey!” Katy shouted. “If you’re looking for stuff . . . umm, I’m an artist too! I’ve got some paintings if you’re interested. I’ve—”

  “Not really,” Dawn replied bluntly before strolling through the open doorway.

  She must be drawing close to the party. The music was getting louder. She climbed another flight of stairs and pushed through another crowd.

  “Heads-up!” someone yelled as soon as she entered the doorway, making her hop aside. She just barely dodged a partygoer who stumbled toward her, holding his mouth as he ran for the door. He made it to the hall just before losing his lunch all over the black linoleum-tiled floor, drawing a series of shouts and groans from those who were smoking and lingering in the stairwell.

  Dawn cringed.

  “Sorry,” his friend said with a shrug as he passed her. “Carl’s a real pussy when it comes to Jägermeister.”

  “That’s . . . quite all right,” Dawn said.

  She was just glad that none of it had splattered on her Alexander McQueens.

  Dawn gave his nauseated friend a wide berth, turned back around, and gazed at the jam-packed studio.

  The music from the live band on the other side of the room was almost deafening, but the rowdy attendees managed to rival the noise. Those who weren’t shouting, laughing, and dancing were lip-locked in corners. One amorous couple hadn’t even bothered to find a secluded spot and were making out in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.

  Standing there, watching the scene around her, Dawn felt all her thirty-six years. She felt like a geezer among teenagers. She hadn’t seen partying this hard since college.

  “Well, no use in just standing here,” a voice in her head egged on. “Go and find Razor so you can get the hell out of here and go back to the hotel.”

  Dawn sighed resignedly. She just hoped Percy appreciated how much she did for this damn job.

  She began to make her way across the room, spotting Razor in the distance. The photographs in the newspaper and online hadn’t done him justice. He was even more handsome in person—and just as smug looking. The artist was holding court by the band, surrounded by a gaggle of young women who were fawning over him. Dawn excused herself as she went, though few heard her over the noise.

  “Dawn?” someone shouted behind her. “Dawn, is that you?”

  She hadn’t expected to run into anyone she knew tonight, especially not in a place like this. She turned and smiled, relieved to have someone at the party who wasn’t high, wasn’t a decade younger than her, and didn’t vomit Jägermeister. But her friendly smile withered when she realized who it was.

  “Oh,” she said flatly. “Hello, Sasha.”

  Sasha Duncan grinned and embraced Dawn, kissing her on the cheek, making Dawn flinch.

  “I thought that was you! What on earth are you doing here?” The fifty-something blonde stood back and looked Dawn up and down, still holding her shoulders. “And what on earth are you wearing, dear?”

  Dawn shrugged out of Sasha’s grasp and scanned her eyes over Sasha’s short, blue, sequined dress with its fringed bottom. “I could ask you the same thing!” she shouted in return.

  Sasha was the director of Sawyer Gallery in downtown DC—one of the major competitors to Templeton Gallery. But that wasn’t why Dawn disliked her. She disliked Sasha—in short—because the botox-laden, St. John-wearing woman was a sneaky, conniving, two-faced bitch!

  When Dawn got the job as gallery director at Templeton, Sasha was one of the first to welcome her to the DC art community, introducing her to the movers and shakers in town. They ate lunch together on occasion and had even attended a benefit or two together. Dawn thought that in Sasha she had found a mentor and a friend. She had even consulted Sasha when she found out that a whisper campaign about her had started around town. Rumors had circulated within the art community that Dawn was a talentless hack who came from a family of brazen gold diggers. Some whispered that she hadn’t gotten the position at Templeton on merit, but because she was sleeping with Percy. Worse, there were rumors that Dawn was robbing the gallery’s artists blind, and no one would be wise to work with her.

  Sasha had counseled Dawn to simply ignore the gossip.

  “What’s that old saying? ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words would never hurt me,’ ” Sasha had advised one day. “You should just rise above it, dear.”

  Dawn took Sasha’s suggestion, until word got back to her that the orchestrator of all the dirty gossip had been the very woman she had considered a confidante and friend: Sasha. When Dawn confronted Sasha, the woman vehemently denied the accusations . . . at first. But when Dawn gave her name after name of each person who had finger-pointed Sasha as the gossipmonger, Sasha finally relented and showed herself for the Brutus she really was.

  “You should be grateful that I gave you entrée into some of the best social circles in town, Dawn,” Sasha had said snidely. “It’s not my job to be your cheerleader too. And it’s not like what they claim I said was a lie. You have gotten around, dear, and you do love men with money.”

  The last dig made Dawn particularly angry, considering that everyone in town knew that Sasha—in her day—had “gotten around” quite a great deal herself. But the prim and proper married woman now looked down her nose at others who had done the same.

  And there is nothing I hate more than a sanctimonious ho, Dawn thought. She had run into many in her life: women who looked down on her and her family in public, but would hop from bed to bed when no one was looking.

  Also, Dawn had caught Sasha more than once being rather touchy-feely with Sawyer Gallery director, Martin Sawyer. Dawn highly doubted from the way those two carried on that Sasha’s and Martin’s relationship was strictly platonic and professional.

  Since her discovery of Sasha’s betrayal, Dawn had cut off their friendship and hadn’t trusted the woman as far as she could throw her. But for some reason, Sasha insisted on pretending that they were still on pleasant terms.
r />   “So what are you doing here?” Sasha shouted. “Don’t tell me you came to see Razor!”

  The live band had benevolently decided to take a short break so Dawn didn’t have to shout her reply.

  “Actually, I did come here to see him . . . not that it’s any of your business.”

  Sasha’s grin disappeared. “Well, frankly you’re wasting your time, dear. Razor would never be interested in showing his work in the DC market. Not when he has the chance to show in some of the best galleries in Manhattan. Any gallery director worth her pay would know that!”

  “Oh, really? If that’s the case, then why are you here? This doesn’t exactly look like your type of crowd. Was there a ‘bring one fifty-year-old, get a beer free’ deal at the bar that I wasn’t aware of?”

  “Very funny. No, I simply came tonight to meet a friend.” Sasha tossed her hair over her shoulder and raised her nose into the air. “Unlike you, I do have contacts in New York. Not all of us are limited to the Washington cultural wasteland.”

  I’m sure your patrons would love to hear you refer to their hometown as a “cultural wasteland,” Dawn thought. And she didn’t believe for a second that Sasha hadn’t tried to get Razor to show his artwork at Sawyer Gallery. More than likely, the young, up-and-coming artist had rejected Sasha’s offer outright.

  “Well, ta-ta,” Sasha said, waving her fingers. “Good luck with your little endeavor, though I highly doubt it will work.”

  Dawn laughed. “Just because Razor turned you down doesn’t mean he’ll do the same for me, dear.”

  Sasha hadn’t been trained in the ways of charm and seduction like all the Gibbons girls had. Dawn believed she could use those skills to convince Razor to do what Sasha could not.

  “But hey,” Dawn continued, “maybe I can even squeeze you onto the invite list when his exhibit opens at Templeton Gallery . . . You know, a little favor for old time’s sake.”

  Sasha clenched her jaw. Her face turned a bright crimson.

  “Ta-ta!” Dawn then turned around and continued on her path toward Razor.

  She paused to strip off her jacket. If she had to walk around in this sparkling minidress then she might as well use it to her advantage.

  Razor isn’t going to know what hit him!

  Dawn could tell from the double-takes some of the men gave her as she passed that the dress was working. One hapless guy almost dropped his beer-filled plastic cup because he was gawking so much. He managed to catch it before it fell to the floor, only to spill half of it on his T-shirt.

  “Razor,” Dawn called out as she drew near the artist. He was regaling the group around him with some bawdy story that had them cackling. “Razor!”

  “What?” he snapped, rolling his eyes and annoyed at being interrupted. He turned away from his adoring fans and tore the blunt that he had been smoking from his lips. But when his eyes settled on Dawn, the look of irritation instantly disappeared. His face broke into an impish grin.

  “Well, hello!”

  Two women who stood beside him glared at Dawn. One pouted while the other walked off.

  “Hi, Razor,” Dawn said, extending her hand. “Dawn Gibbons. Pleased to meet you.”

  He hesitated for a beat and looked her up and down. His bloodshot eyes lingered on her long dark legs, then her breasts, before finally settling on her face. He shook her hand. “Good to meet you too. But no need to be so formal, babe. We’re pretty chill around here.” He then extended his blunt toward her. “Want a hit?”

  She blinked in shock, momentarily knocked off guard by his offer. But she hastily recovered.

  Play it cool, she reminded herself. Be charming.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks though.”

  He shrugged and smoked a bit more himself. “So what can I do for you? You’re smokin’ hot, but I hate to disappoint you. I don’t shoot models.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Dawn took a step toward him. “No, I’m not here to ask what you can do for me, Razor. I want to know what I can do for you.”

  He lowered the blunt from his mouth again and licked his lips. He leaned toward her so that they were almost nose to nose. “Well, what exactly did you have in mind, babe?”

  She opened her purse, pulled out one of her business cards, and handed it to him. “You already have the acclaim and the money, but I’d love to extend your reach. Let me help you, Razor.”

  His shoulders slumped. Obviously, she wasn’t offering what he had expected. He glanced down at her card and took it. “Oh, you work for a gallery?”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  He shoved his fingers through his dark, shoulder-length hair. “Look, babe, I’m not really into that business stuff. I couldn’t give a shit about ‘extending my reach.’ I just wanna make art, make love, and chill. You know?”

  “And who says you can’t do all that and more?”

  “Yeah, but I—”

  He was stopped midsentence by a finger she placed on his lips. He stared at her in shock.

  Dawn shook her head. “Don’t say no yet,” she ordered seductively. “OK? Just think about it. Keep my card and think it over. Take your time and then get back to me.” She lowered her finger. “Enjoy your party,” she whispered against his lips.

  She then turned and began to walk away, but halted when he grabbed her arm and tugged her back toward him, catching her by surprise. She landed hard against his chest. He linked an arm around her waist while his other hand cupped her bottom.

  “Hey, where you going?” he asked, licking his lips again. “You don’t want to stay? Have a drink with me?”

  Her seduction plan was working. A lot of lust lingered in those green eyes. But she wanted his work in her gallery, not to end up in his bed. She obviously had underestimated the twenty-something libido.

  Time to put on the brakes, Dawn thought.

  She slowly peeled his arm from around her and his hand from her ass. “I’m afraid not, Razor. I’ve got to get back to DC early tomorrow.”

  “But it’s not even midnight!” He grimaced. “Come on! Let’s—”

  “You’ve got my business card. You know where to find me.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but she lightly kissed his cheek, turned again, and walked off.

  Dawn grinned as she made her way through the crowded studio.

  She could be wrong, but she suspected she would hear from Razor again and maybe she’d hear from him soon.

  Chapter 14

  Keith jotted down on a piece of notepaper the address of the woman in South Carolina whom he was supposed to track down. He then gave a quick good-bye to Mike before grabbing his duffel bag and heading to the office door.

  “Give me an update once you get there?” Mike called out.

  Keith nodded. “Will do. And lay off the bear claws while I’m gone, OK?”

  Mike waved his hand dismissively. “Go! You’re worse than an old lady with all your naggin’!”

  Keith laughed and let the door fall shut behind him.

  It would be a long car ride, but he hoped it would also be a fruitful one. He wasn’t crazy about leaving the state. His PI license was limited to the state of Virginia, but he felt like he had royally screwed up this investigation. He had let Isaac slip out of his hands because he had allowed himself to be distracted. Keith took a foul-up like that personally, and the only way to rectify it was to find Isaac again. He would be operating like an average citizen now though, and not a PI during his search. But Mike was right, it could still be done. He just had to tread carefully.

  He walked down the flight of stairs to the street below. He pushed open the door and looked up at the sky. It was a sunny day. Not a hint of a cloud was on the horizon, meaning he stood a chance of making good time at least during the first part of his journey if the rain held back and the traffic was good. He threw on his sunglasses as he strolled to his Ford Explorer. He loaded in his gear then slammed his hatchback closed. He walked toward the driver’s-side door and was just about to climb behind th
e steering wheel, when he paused. He caught sight of something in the corner of his eye that made him stop and look more closely. He then did a double-take.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  Miss Pain-in-the-Ass also known as Stephanie Gibbons was standing by her BMW on the opposite side of the street. She had her python purse draped over one arm and a Louis Vuitton luggage bag in her other hand. She wore a tight-fitting, low-cut red dress and red stilettos. She smiled and waved at him.

  He didn’t wave back, but only glared in return.

  “So I guess we’re finally leaving now?” she called.

  His eyebrows rose in surprise as she crossed the street and walked toward him. “We?”

  “Yes, we, Keith.”

  She stopped in front of him and once again, he was overwhelmed by her scent. He wondered what perfume she wore because every time he smelled it, it made his mouth water.

  Her ample cleavage was on full display today. When she tossed her long hair over her shoulder, her breasts jiggled, drawing Keith’s attention despite his noble efforts to concentrate on what she was saying and why she was here.

  You’re going to fall out of that top, honey, Keith thought with amusement. He hoped she used double-sided tape.

  “Uh, Keith,” she said. She loudly cleared her throat. His eyes left her cleavage and snapped back to her face.

  “I spoke with Mike and he said you’re heading to South Carolina today to try to find Isaac,” she explained. “I made sure to clear my schedule for the next few days so that I could come with you.”

  “You’re . . . You’re kidding, right?”

  “I most certainly am not!” She dropped a hand to her hip. “You’re working for me now, and I want to make sure my money . . . well, my brother-in-law’s money . . . is being put to good use. So I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Oh, yes I am!”

  “Lady, I said that you’re not!”