The Casanova by T L Swan

Chapter 2

I pack up my desk with haste—I want to get far from my computer as quickly as possible. I close it down and with one last look around my office, I head to the elevator, hit the button with force, and exhale heavily.

I’m rattled: it’s rare that a woman gives me a physical reaction anymore. Lately I’ve been struggling with attraction issues, nobody seems to be doing it for me, no matter how beautiful they are, and I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve dated some of the most beautiful, extraordinary women in the world, and yet, still. I haven’t found what I’m looking for. Perhaps my brothers are right about my standards being unrealistically high.

But, a rock-hard boner from an employee I despise, Kathryn Landon.

Just fucking no.

I march out of the elevator and into the lobby, and see Jameson, Tristan, and Christopher waiting out on the curb for me. Jay and Christopher are looking at something on Jameson’s phone, deep in conversation.

“We going?” I snap impatiently. “Or what?”

Tristan looks up. “We’re waiting for you, dick. What do you think?”

I roll my eyes as I run my hand through my hair. “Drinks?”

“Yeah,” Jay mutters.

We turn the corner and begin to walk, and Tristan digs his phone out of his pocket; his eyes narrow when he sees the name on the screen.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Malcolm, my neighbor at home.” He answers it. “Hi Malcolm.”

He listens as we walk and then he narrows his eyes at me and gives a subtle shake of his head.

“What?” I mouth.

“Harrison,” he mouths.

I chuckle. Tristan’s middle son is sending him grey.

Wild as a bear.

“Okay, thanks for letting me know, Malcolm, I’ll take care of it from here.” He listens. “No, I appreciate you not calling Claire, she has her hands full with the girls,” he says. “Thanks again.” He hangs up and immediately dials a number. “I’m going to kill this fucking kid with a smile on my face,” he mutters under his breath.

I smile as I walk along and listen.

“Harrison,” he barks. “Do you mind telling me why Malcolm just called to tell me that you were speeding down our street late last night? Said you were going way over the speed limit.”

He listens.

“Listen,” he barks. “I spoke to you about this only last week. You are driving way too fast for someone who only just got their license and I’m not putting up with it.” He listens again. “Don’t give me that bullshit. Why would Malcolm make this up?” He rolls his eyes in disgust. “Malcolm is not trying to get you into trouble. No, I warned you. You’ve lost your car for a month.”

He listens again, his face murderous.

I chuckle and turn to see Jay and Christopher trailing behind us, still looking at a phone. “What are you two doing?” I snap.

“Looking for something,” Chris replies. He gestures at Tristan. “Who’s he yelling at?”

“One guess.” I sigh.

Jameson smirks. “What did Harry do now?”

“Speeding.”

“Hand your keys over to your mother right now, young man. . . or I am getting on the first flight home,” Tristan growls. “Do you understand me!”

He listens again.

“This may come as a shock to you, Harrison, but you are not invincible,” he snaps. “You’re going to cause an accident or, heaven forbid, kill yourself, and I’m not having it. Hand the damn keys over.”

“Dramatic bitch,” Jameson says as he rolls his eyes.

I laugh; watching Tristan navigate rebellious teenagers might just be my favorite pastime.

Tristan hangs up and stuffs his phone in his pocket, fuming mad. “That fucking kid, every single time I go away he gets into shit.” He punches his hand into his fist.

We walk into a bar and take a seat at the back; the waitress approaches us. “What will it be?”

“I’ll have a Blue Label Scotch please,” Tristan replies way too fast. “Actually, make it a double.”

“I’ll have a Corona.” I smile; nobody riles Tristan up like Harry does.

“Same,” Christopher replies.

“Make that three,” Jameson says.

Christopher laughs as they see something on Jameson’s phone, and then they pass it over to me.

“What’s this?” I ask as I take the phone from them. I look at the screen and see a photo of myself and frown as I try to make sense of it. “What is this?”

“This dating app is using your photograph.” Christopher smirks.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I snap. “Surely anyone with half a brain knows that I would never go on a dating app.”

“Well, you look pretty and they’re just using your image to hook up with chicks.” Tristan smiles. “However, if they really wanted to pull the chicks they should have used my photo.”

I scroll through the app angrily. “Where do I report this shit? I want this taken down immediately.”

“There should be some kind of info or admin section,” Christopher says as our drinks arrive. The boys fall into conversation and I keep flicking through the app as I look for a contact page where I can report this piece of shit. I’m scrolling through when something catches my eye, the ugliest cat I have ever seen, fat and hairy with bulging eyes. Who the fuck would use that as a profile picture on a dating app?

My eyes roam over the profile and the name Pinkie Leroo.

Pinkie Leroo. I frown. What kind of name is that?

I read her ad.

Below-average appearance. . . who says that?

Taxidermies. . . She stuffs dead animals for a living? Who is this freak? I’ve officially heard it all.

I can’t believe that people actually find dates on this website. . . How?

I get a vision of a pasty-white, pink-haired woman sitting on a couch with twelve cats, surrounded by stuffed animal corpses, and I cringe.

Good grief.

I read on.

I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.

Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.

Oh please. I roll my eyes.

I screenshot a picture of the profile that has been stolen from me and I send it to myself to deal with later.

It’s late, after dinner and drinks with the boys, and I’m back in my apartment, unwinding. The moonlight streams through the window and I sip my Scotch and sit back in my armchair.

I stare at the colors, the way they fade into the darkness. The beams of light that filter down from the heavens.

I do this often, sit here late at night and inhale the beauty of the painting on my wall.

I read the title:

Fated

What was she thinking about when she painted this?

A possession, a situation. What was fated?

A person?

I lift the glass to my lips and feel the heat as the amber fluid slides down my throat.

Harriet Boucher. . . the woman I am enamored with, a woman I don’t even know. As strange as it sounds, I feel like I do know her.

There’s an honesty to the brushstrokes, a deeper connection to her emotion, something I don’t feel from other paintings. It’s the weirdest thing and something that I can’t quite explain.

Looking at Harriet’s paintings is like looking into her soul.

Breathtaking.

I smile as I imagine the older woman; I know she’s beautiful, perhaps not physically any longer, but definitely spiritually. . . emotionally.

She’s French from what I’ve heard and only recently came onto the scene. Harriet Boucher is an artist that I follow, I’ve got all of her paintings apart from three. There are only thirty in circulation, she’s a recluse and nobody knows who she is—there are only whispers.

I only have interest in the finest, most unique pieces of art. I’ve spent millions of dollars and my collection is one of the best in the world.

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?

I walk in and close the door behind me, take a seat at her desk and link my hands in front of me.

She stares at me as she waits for me to speak. . . I don’t, we remain silent.

“Well?” She smiles.

I narrow my eyes as I stare at her; what is it with this fucking woman?

Nobody treats me the way she does, my mere existence pisses her off.

She smiles as if she’s happy, but what comes out of her mouth is always low-key aggressive. She’s the ultimate temper bait.

“Well what?” I reply.

“Are you going to talk to me on your visit?”

I dust my jacket off as I try to think of something to say. “How do you like working here?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you going to try and pay me off to resign again?”

I wince. I did do that. . . didn’t I?

“Of course not,” I snap. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She exhales heavily and turns back to her computer. “Well, do you want to discuss anything?”

That little red dress you own.

“Not particularly.” I run my pointer finger back and forth over my lips as I stare at her.

“So . . .” She raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“Why are you acting weird?” she asks.

“I’m not,” I scoff as I stand. “I came to visit you, but obviously you don’t want visitors.”

“Mr. Miles.”

“Elliot,” I correct her.

She frowns as she stares at me. “Okay, you asking me to call you that is weird in itself. I’ve been here for seven years and never once have you asked me to call you that or bothered to visit me.”

“I’ve been very busy,” I fire back.

“For seven years?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Precisely.” I move for the door. “And now I know why I’ve been so busy.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re a very bad host, Kathryn.”

A trace of a smile crosses her face. “Are you high?”

“What?” I snap. “Of course I’m not fucking high.”

“Okay . . .”

I inhale deeply as I try to think of something to rectify this fuckup of a conversation. “I’m leaving,” I announce.

She smirks. “Okay . . .”

“Is that all you can say today. . . okay?”

She narrows her eyes. “Mr. Miles.”

“Elliot,” I correct her.

“Elliot, are you feeling alright?”

“I was until I visited you.” I exhale heavily. “Now you’ve completely ruined my day.”

She smiles as she puts her hand over her chest. “There he is, oh thank God, I thought I was going to have to call a doctor.”

I glare at her. “Goodbye, Kathryn.”

She smiles sweetly and waves with her fingertips. “Goodbye, have a nice day, my favorite boss ever.”

“Don’t patronize me,” I snap.

She turns back to her computer. “Just being a good office host. How am I doing?”

“Failing miserably.” I march out of her office and back to the elevator.

I push the button with force and clench my jaw as I try to think of a reasonable excuse as to why I came down here.

Nope . . .

I’ve got nothing.

The woman’s a bona fide bitch.