THE ARTIST (chapter 1) (1) On the first floor of the opulent art gallery, Lance Barnes heard the phone ringing behind the door of the office upstairs, but his head did not turn. He calmly continued the tour he was giving his customer, walking him slowly past the oil paintings and stopping in front of each to supply background information and a lengthy assessment of profit potential. At the insistence of his wife, Henry Singleton was there to make purchases, and Lance made sure their inspections were thorough, and slow. There was a reason for his dalliance. He knew quite well what might be going on behind that closed door on the second floor, and he meant to keep Henry occupied on the lower level as long as possible. The Singletons had stayed late into the evening, had waited for the last of the throngs of New York's high society to leave so they could conduct their deal without distraction. Henry and his socialite wife Carol had been art enthusiasts since their early years, and the pieces that now hung from their walls of their estate, gathered during the eighteen years of their marriage, rivaled any private collection in the country. The two men had been down on the gallery floor for some time, and Mr. Singleton was becoming annoyed at the sluggishness of his host's promenade. Sensing that, knowing he had kept the man away from the office as long as could be expected, Lance led him toward the works of the local artists. Abstracts by Kenneth Kopac. Charcoals by Dirk Ubl. Then, Lance and Henry stopped where Carol had insisted that her husband browse, in front of the oils by the fabulous Phillipe Cousineau, owner of the gallery and personal friend of Lance. Henry stared at them quizzically, his head askew and his brow furrowed, attempting to understand exactly what it was that his wife saw in the highly unusual work. With Henry momentarily occupied, Lance glanced up at the office. The ringing phone had stopped immediately, and he surmised that Phillipe had answered it. The great painter whose work Henry Singleton was shaking his head at was up there, behind the door. So was Henry's wife. She would remain to discuss price she had told her husband, and asked him to go down and examine the paintings, and choose his favorites. Lance, having seen Phillipe's charm dazzle so many women before her, understood Carol Singleton's motives. The chance at a private sitting with this famous and captivating man, even for a moment, had struck a deep chord in her. Struggling now to maintain the beauty that took no effort at all in her younger years, she craved the flattery that the attentions of such a young and enthralling stranger might provide with his risqué compliments and provocative glances. Such harmless flirting is safe yet fulfilling for such women, supplying the benign excitement of imagination without the hazards of truth. The young artist had bewitched her quickly, and understood from the subtle changes in her body language and her breathing that she found his bait mouthwatering. Rich, pampered women like Carol were Phillipe's lifeblood. Phillipe had nodded stealthily at Lance, and Lance understood what was required. Off he took Henry Singleton, shutting the door as they left, leaving Phillipe and Carol alone together to allow her to soak up the enticing stares and praise without worrying about her husband's reaction. Henry had gone willingly at Carol's request, unable to conceive that his wife might have an ulterior motive. He could not imagine that she might be somehow attracted to a man like Phillipe. To men, the artist seemed flighty, even effeminate, with his pretty face and genteel carriage. They could not see the unparalleled dynamism, the smoldering sensuality. But their women understood. The crowded exhibit had begun several hours earlier, the first unofficial viewing of Phillipe's latest set of oil paintings, new works by an artist of such unprecedented brilliance and sweep they had the stunned art world turned on its head. Already a legend at the age of twenty-two, Phillipe's success had brought him fame and spoils beyond imagination. Hailed as the new Picasso, as a prodigy rare in history, his reputation and riches had multiplied and swelled. No one but his confidante Lance had even the slightest inkling that young Phillipe cared for none of it, not the notoriety or the money. No one else knew what Lance Barnes knew about Phillipe, that he desired only the people that his name and wealth could bring to him. Enticing treasures like the breathtaking Mrs. Singleton and her rich husband, for instance. Despite possessing such singular skills, once-in-a-generation talents with oils and brushes, Phillipe did not paint for the love of art, or even for the art itself. No urgent voice within him demanded it, no sense of history's loss could have swayed him toward it. If he had put his brushes down, forever, they would never have called to him again. He had another gift, one far more precious to him. He had known it since the day puberty took his childhood from him. It was that other talent which drove him, which controlled him, which called his name at night. In his mind, in his heart and soul, in every inch of every bone of his being, he drew breath for no other reason but to pursue that solitary desire. He lived for one thing, and one thing only. To seduce other men's wives. The thrill that power gave him, the electricity, could not be attained anywhere else. Even brush to canvas, in the hands of one of the century's most acclaimed artists, could not generate a small piece of the emotional fire and sense of control he felt the moment his manhood entered another man's wife. That twisted gratification was all Phillipe needed or wanted, the knowledge that he was capable of taking a woman of culture, a woman of endless means and resources, and making her unhappy with her husband and available to him. A woman like Carol Singleton. "Pardon me, Carol," Phillipe had said as the phone rang. Even with the receiver at his ear, his hot eyes remained on the beautiful woman seated across from him, as they had been since her husband had left the room. He ran them up and down her body with neither embarrassment nor shame. To her thin, shapely legs in their black hose, crossed tightly, high heel swinging, and to her deep cleavage, at socially acceptable depth yet supplying more than a clue of her ample breasts. To her powder-brushed cheeks, their hue subtle and expert, and the deep, red lipstick that provided a mannequin-like contrast to her snow white skin, and to her magnificent white-blonde hair, colored no doubt to hide the gray hints of time that could be disguised but not deterred. Phillipe took her in to the last detail, his scorching eyes setting little fires on her body as they went. His gentle manners, his aggressive staring, his intense masculinity had been working on her from the moment her husband had gone, and Phillipe could feel her wilting slowly. Another rich and attractive socialite, aging and frustrated with her life, ripe for the suave charm of a gorgeous man whose true art was seduction. He winked at her and smiled, making her blush as he spoke. "Hello, Arlene," he said into the receiver. A tinge of jealousy arose in Carol at the sound of another woman's name. Though she had just recently met Phillipe, his effect upon her had been so strong that she viewed Arlene Leeson's call as a competitive intrusion. From the moment he had kissed the back of her hand, his stares and touchings had been raising goose flesh on her arms and legs, and now the mere mention of another woman's name had provoked sharp jealousy. "I'd love to, yes," Phillipe responded to a question from Arlene that Carol could not hear. "Discuss other things? How mysterious you are! My sweet one, I have a guest with me. May I call you back? We can meet later in the week. Fine. Ciao, my love." Sensing her bristling with envy, Phillipe answered Carol before the question left her lips. "Just another art dealer, my dear," he said, soothing her suspicions, "asking me to lecture at her gallery." And then, Phillipe got back to business. He rose slowly, and moved toward Carol. "How extraordinary you look today, Carol," he said, his voice soft and flattering. "I hope I do not embarrass you by saying so, but I always find it impossible to keep such impressions to myself." Phillipe approached her, looking not into her eyes as he spoke, but at her long legs, exposed halfway up her thigh as she was seated. He stood in front of her in silence then, and his powerful physical presence worked its magic on her. She tried to hide the fallout, but her nervousness was impossible to camouflage. The pace of Carol's breathing increased noticeably as he complimented her, and grew deeper still as he came near. Despite her husband's proximity, the tiny, illicit daydreams Phillipe was sparking in her had her heart pounding fiercely in her chest. "Come," he said politely, extending his hand. "We'll see how the gentlemen are doing." When their fingers touched Carol felt a stirring in her loins, that foreign sensation her husband had long ago lost the ability to arouse in her. She had never dreamed there was a man who could impact her the way Phillipe was, and he had done it in minutes, with intense flattery and with his powerful eyes. Here she was, an experienced woman, a faithful wife, feeling suddenly like a schoolgirl alone in the cloakroom with her loverboy. She assumed they were going downstairs, but they walked instead toward the huge window that overlooked the gallery. Standing directly behind her, Phillipe raised his arm over her back, and pointed across the large floor to where Lance and her husband were inspecting his work. His elbow rested softly on her shoulder. "There they are," he said. There were other things going on now. His chest was brushing up against her back slightly, and Phillipe heard Carol take a deep breath at that contact. He knew he was melting her, the way he could any women. He sensed her vulnerability burgeoning and he moved a bit closer, his thigh grazing against her buttocks then. "Which one of the paintings do you think he will choose?" he whispered into her ear, placing his hands gently on her hips. Carol's tension grew at that new and daring contact. Things seemed to be moving too fast, and in an attempt to halt that progress she motioned and waved through the glass toward her husband, who was glancing up at the window as he spoke to Lance directly beneath them. She waited for him to wave back. "He can't see you," Phillipe informed her, his deep voice low and intoxicating, his mouth inches from her ear. "He can't see either one of us. This glass is made for privacy, for secrets." As he spoke, Phillipe pressed his hands against her harder, and them slid them slowly and heavily forward, toward her stomach. Shocked and fearful, Carol drew a very deep breath deep into her lungs. "Do you really want him to see you, Carol?" he asked her. Phillipe's palms moved slowly across her ribcage as he spoke. They closed softly over her large breasts, and the air rushed from Carol's mouth in a long moan that was unquestionably feminine. Behind her, Phillipe continued to speak as he felt her nipples stiffen into sharp points against his massaging palms. "It is glorious, is it not, to be the observer," he said, "to be able to do what you want, whatever you want, in full view of everyone, yet still not be seen?" Against her protests, Phillipe began unbuttoning her blouse, and peeled it away from her. He lifted her breasts out of her bra, making her gasp again as she felt his hands on her skin. Carol's sporadic and troubled breathing increased perceptively as young Phillipe's aggression continued. His hands were pressing her bare breasts toward him, flattening them, squeezing then gently, and he felt them swelling in his hands. He was fully erect now, and he began slowly rubbing his erection against her jutting backside. "Oh...no," she protested, but the action of her body began saying something completely different. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her head fell back against Phillipe's chest as his hands continued their work. Instinctively, she pressed her hips backwards, and the contact with Phillipe's stiff manhood became solid and constant. She was moaning in earnest now, and one of her own hands involuntarily found Phillipe's thigh, gripping it strongly. "You know, Carol," Phillipe said informally, speaking as if they were across the room from one another. "We could make love right here, and no one would know," he told her, one hand between her legs then, able to feel right through the fabric the moisture that had built up on her blazing vagina. "Even as your husband looks up at us, so close, as if he is our audience, I could take you and he would never know." His roving hands were making the beautiful woman wild. Her head began tossing side to side, and her long, white hair slipped across her shoulder and covered her face. Phillipe slid one hand down across her abdomen, slipping it past the waistline of her dress and into her panties. As she felt him on her flesh, the noises she made became those of a woman in need. His index finger began sliding thickly along the dripping lips of her vagina, and his thumb slowly revolved on her swollen clitoris. "Ugh...ugh...ugh," she uttered in cadence, her hips bucking, feeling a climax building with startling rapidity. She was overwhelmed, no longer caring that her husband was twenty feet below then, staring up at blank glass behind which this gorgeous young stud was molesting her. "Yes, beautiful Carol," Phillipe whispered as he felt her knees bending to allow his fingers deeper penetration. "Look. Your husband is watching us." When she didn't, he said more insistently, "Open your eyes," pinching her thigh to bring her back. Carol obeyed then, even as she moaned, even as her hips thrashed forward and back. She looked at Henry. Her husband was indeed staring up at the window, staring straight at her, as if he could see. Phillipe increased the speed as he sensed her impending orgasm, his thumb rotating quickly and two fingers deep inside her. "Look at him," Phillipe demanded. Carol was grunting in passion now, about to reach her crest. "Look your husband in the eyes as I make you come." A smile crossed Henry's face, as if he were enjoying the view, and he began laughing at a remark by Lance. Behind the glass, his wife exploded. The volcanic orgasm hit her like a train, and her whole body began trembling fiercely. All the while, as Phillipe had instructed, she was looking at the face of her husband, doing so while she willingly let the artist take her. The expertise of Phillipe's hands had brought her to climax quickly, and the sounds she made when the eruption hit could be heard faintly on the gallery floor. Henry looked up at the strange noises, wondering what they were and where they came from. "Isn't it wonderful," Phillipe whispered, his fingers still inside her, "as if we are looking down on them from heaven?" Carol was limp in his arms, her knees sagging slightly, her spasms subsiding. Never in her life had she felt like this before. The sexual satisfaction was mind-boggling, and total. "Isn't it wonderful," the artist said to her, "to feel like a God?"