But Harriet is the queen; she’s the one whose work I chase.
I visualize her in a quaint French country town, painting outdoors on an easel. I wonder how many years ago she painted this and at what stage in her life she was at?
Was she young or old, in love?
And who was fated, the love of her life . . . and their child?
I exhale heavily as I stare at my beloved painting. I’m going to look deeper into this, I have this need to know who she is.
I own twenty-seven of her paintings, have spent a fortune, and yet the hunger to meet her still eats at me.
Why . . . I don’t know.
What I do know is that I don’t want to be thinking about Kathryn Landon, I need a distraction.
I’m going to make some calls on Monday to try and find out more.
I have to, it isn’t even a choice anymore. I need to know the person who affects me so deeply . . . if only just to tell her so.
I open my phone and am reminded of the fake profile on that cheap and nasty dating app.
It’s misleading, I have to get it taken down. I go to search on the app and it won’t let me past the front page unless I join and make a profile.
I roll my eyes in disgust. Fuck’s sake . . . what is this shit?
I lean on my hand as I watch the red skirt twirl, the way her hips move, the long legs, the sexuality of the whole package . . . I’ve replayed this security footage more than I care to admit, maybe on the hour. I can’t stop watching it, again and again.
It’s a guilty pleasure, the ultimate kink in porn.
Although I would like to, I can’t deny it, Kathryn Landon turns me on.
A knock sounds at my door and I quickly minimize the screen. “Yes,” I call.
Christopher puts his head around the door. “I’m going downstairs, want to come for a walk?”
“Where to?”
“IT.”
My eyebrows rise. “IT?”
“Yeah, I have to check a few details with Kathryn on that report.”
I’m standing before I have time to answer.
“You’re coming?” he asks in surprise.
“Yeah, why not? I need to stretch my legs.”
We take the elevator and two minutes later we arrive on level ten, the IT floor. There are workstations throughout and at the back are six offices with glass walls as partitions, slimline black venetian blinds offering privacy to each office.
I follow Christopher down the corridor as people dive for their desks and pretend to work. I never come to this floor. Never needed to; not exactly sure why I’m here now.
Christopher stops to talk to someone and I continue on, get to the first glass door and read the sign:
Kathryn Landon
Hmm, even reading her name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Knock, knock.”
“Come in.”
I open the door. “Hello.”
Kathryn looks up from her computer as if surprised. “Hello Mr. Miles, and to what do I owe this honor?”
I press my lips together so I don’t say something snarky; this woman brings out the smart-ass in me tenfold. “Just doing a tour, thought I’d pop in.”
She fakes a smile. “How lovely, the king has come to visit his faithful servants.”
I glare at her as I clench my jaw.
How can someone who when she dances is so happy and joyful, not to mention insanely hot . . . be filled with pure venom?