Wild and Untamed: An Intimate Photographic Exploration of North American Wolves, by Nathaniel Kahn.
“Wolves,” I repeat, too dumbfounded to say anything smarter than that.
“Like your sculpture,” she says. “I knew you liked them, so when I saw the ad for this opening, I thought…” She trails off, furrowing her brow as she studies my face. “I’m sorry. Is this not okay?”
I’m not sure what she sees in my expression. Awe? Gratitude? Sadness? All of those things, maybe, but I’m determined not to let it show. “It’s awesome,” I tell her, which is true. “I’m blown away that you thought of me.”
Her smile returns, and she grips my hand again. “I’m so glad. The artist is supposed to be amazing. He’s a photographer who works mostly in black and white images, but this is the first time he’s done a show of wildlife photography.”
“What does he normally do?”
“He specializes in erotic imagery. Very artistic.”
“Erotic?”
“Not like that,” she says, probably recognizing intrigue in my voice. “It’s not porn or anything.”
“That’s too bad. I kinda like porn.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s not really annoyed. “He usually does abstract, boudoir photography. The sort of thing where you can’t tell whether you’re looking at a thigh or a shoulder or a breast. Very unique.”
“That sounds…confusing.”
She grins and pulls me toward the door. “It’s mysterious.”
We walk into a room filled with well-dressed intellectuals gazing thoughtfully at massive, well-lit photographs. Two men near the door sip from champagne flutes while debating the use of light. Next to them is a woman in a black cocktail dress holding a tiny white dog in a sequined bag. Across from her, a trio of well-dressed hipsters stand with faces tilted upward in that snobby, high-society pose that always sets me on edge.
I’m so busy being a judgmental prick that it takes me a second to notice Lisa has gone ghostly pale.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I just—I know that guy over there.”
I follow the direction of her gaze to a dark-haired man in the corner wearing a crisp navy suit and a bored expression. He looks like old money and probably smells like cognac and expensive cologne. I’d rather not get close enough to sniff him. I glance back at Lisa.
“Is that Gary?”
“No.” She shakes her head and squeezes my hand. “Stop staring. I don’t want him to come over here.”
“Who is he?”
“A client,” she says, then makes a face. “An ex-client. He made a pass at me when his wife was out of town and I was finishing up one of their summer homes. He got kind of aggressive about it.”
Everything about that statement irritates me. The fact that this prick tried to screw around on his wife. The fact that he’d try it with Lisa. Hell, I hate that he has multiple summer homes. It’s all I can do right now to keep from storming across the room and punching him in his smug- bastard face.
“Come on,” Lisa says. “Let’s get that drink.”
I take a deep breath and pat myself on the back for having the self-control not to hit anyone at a swanky gallery party. I stop patting when I see the guy headed our way.
“Lisa? Lisa Michaels? I thought that was you.”
Douchebag struts up to us and leans in like he’s going to kiss her cheek. Lisa’s grimace is the only cue I need to run interference.
“I’m Dax,” I announce, wedging my body between his lips and Lisa’s face. I don’t bother with a last name. The asshole deserves as few syllables as possible. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
I don’t extend a handshake, and neither does he. Lisa rests a hand on my back but keeps most of her body tucked behind me. If I had any doubts about whether she’s okay with me stepping in, they’re erased by that one tiny gesture.
Douchebag stares me down. More like up, actually, since I’ve got a good eight inches on him. “Miles,” he says. “Miles Pritchard the Third.”
