The Contract Read Free

conversation or attention. I guess it’s about being in his creative zone, because when he comes into the gallery, he’s very friendly. But he’s hard to figure out, and I didn’t expect him to notice me. I never do. But . . . for some reason, today it bothered me.

Evening . . .
    T here were hardly any customers in the gallery, so I had to cold call and try to get people into the store. Mary was busy preparing for a private party being held at the gallery tomorrow night. She wasn’t happy that I didn’t want to help. I think she gets some sort of bonus for booking these events, and I think it motivates her more than the art. And it’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s simply not a smart use of my time. Booking a ten-thousand-dollar event that we net only five thousand on doesn’t equal selling one expensive piece of art. So today I was snubbed by a famous artist and Mary was irritated at me. And now I’m staring at the contract.
    Somehow, I don’t think tonight is the night to call my would-be “Master” and tell him I can’t let him tie me up and have his wicked way with me, no matter how tempting that sounds at this moment. I’m not sure what that says about me—that I want to be tied up and at his mercy on a night I feel weak. Maybe it’s what he said. That I need a safe place where I can just let go. The problem is, the contract makes that incapable of truly happening.
    And on that note, I’m going to end this day the only way I can. I’m going to eat an entire bag of potato chips to go with my box of cereal. I’ll regret both in the morning, but at least I’ll still be in control of me.

Friday, February 25, 2011
    Lunchtime . . .
    M ark called me into his office this morning, before I left for a private showing at Ricco’s gallery. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I always steel myself for the impact of being alone with him. He owns you when you walk into the room. He owns you when he walks into a room. And while I’m not immune to the impact he has on everyone around him, I’ve often been challenged by him, eager to prove I can hold my own. Today was odd for me, because I never had a chance to do that. But it really shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. I’m still rattled by the way he confronted me over Josh and Ricco.
    He didn’t get up from his desk. He simply steepled his fingers together and ordered, “Shut the door.” I did as he said and he added, “I know you’re leaving for a meeting, so I’ll make this quick. You do know Ricco doesn’t allow private showings?”
    “No. I didn’t know.”
    “He doesn’t even allow us a full collection here.”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “He’s all about leverage. And to be clear, Ms. Mason, I will not allow him to use his art to manipulate you. We do not need his business—not with our Riptide connections. And you do not need his commissions. Not with the potential Riptide offers you.”
    “But you said you don’t want to lose him as an artist.”
    “I repeat, I will not allow him to manipulate you,” was his only explanation of the conflicting messages.
    “I won’t let him.”
    “I won’t let him. Do you understand, Ms. Mason?”
    “Yes,” I whispered.
    “You aren’t convincing me.”
    “Yes,” I said more clearly. “I understand.”
    I left his office confused and bemused. I’ve gone from having virtually no men in my life to being surrounded by powerful, talented, rich, controlling men, and it’s messing with my head. I can’t seem to figure out where I stand and where I belong.
    When I took the client to Ricco’s gallery, the woman didn’t make a purchase and I felt embarrassed. I wanted to impress Ricco and Mark with a sale. I wanted Ricco to know I am not wasting his time. He looked at me with gentle, understanding eyes that twisted me in knots. There is nothing about him that says manipulative to me. Nothing that says he is what everyone else says he is.
    I left with my client, wishing I could have stayed