Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Read Online Free

in the back room of the gallery, preparing to unveil the highlight of the exhibit. If you hurry, you’ll get to see the unveiling, along with the artist’s comments. And if you’re nice, he might even give you your press kit back. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
    He turned on his heel and scooted off to greet a new group of gallery guests, leaving me standing there, gape-mouthed. I wasn’t exactly doing a good job of professional-journalist-slash-art-critic that evening. I would be lucky to get out of there with anything of substance at all, and at this rate I only had the kind of material suitable for a tongue-in-cheek humor column, not a review. I considere d leaving right then and texting Hannah that I’d blown it, but I decided to give it one last shot before giving up.
    A good reporter always gets her story , I told myself, and made a beeline for the back room of the gallery. Or rather, her art review ----and this one would be beyond scathing. I kept my eyes down as I passed the increasingly erotic art that lined the walls and pedestals all around me, willing myself not to get aroused.
    It didn’t work. By the time I crossed the threshold into the final exhibit room, my heart was racing and my crotch was on fire.
    When I got there, I found the handsome stranger I’d seen before---he could be no one but Peter Rostovich himself---standing in front of a large, drape-covered object. Based on the previous rooms I’d expected that this one would be filled with all kinds of photos and art in different media, but this room had only the drape-covered object and nothing else, except for a few scattered chairs and benches. And the shape of the object gave nothing away. It could be a sculpted nude, or a Sherman tank, or an Egyptian obelisk. There was no way to tell.
    My eyes scanned the room, searching for any evidence of my press kit or satchel. There was none. There weren’t any other spectators here either; I assumed everyone else was still working their way through the rest of the gallery. I regarded Peter Rostovich coolly. He was certainly a pompous ass if nothing else. What kind of person tied up art critics to the point of being rendered unconscious within thirty seconds of meeting them? This guy, apparently. Talk about having some serious issues.
    Well, I wasn’t going to take that kind of treatment lying down. It was a matter of professionalism, not to mention some good-old-fashioned self-respect. “What the hell did you think you were doing back there?” I demanded, staring hard into those ice-like eyes of his. “You had no right to tie me up like that.”
    “I was merely helping you get the full experience of the exhibit,” he replied, his tone neutral. He had that same slight hint of accent that I couldn’t quite place. I knew he was originally from the Ukraine, but he didn’t sound the least bit Slavic. With that accent, he could have been from England or Germany or even South Africa---what my linguistics professor would have dubbed “International Generic.” It was exotic, yet in a totally unfamiliar and anonymous fashion. “Much of my art is participatory in nature,” Rostovich explained. “I want the viewer to empathize with my subjects.”
    “Do you make all of your subjects pass out, then?”
    He chuckled. “No. You are the first.”
    I suddenly felt lightheaded again and sunk back onto a nearby bench. “I really don’t take any comfort in that,” I said.
    His expression softened and he took two small steps towards me. “Are you all right, Miss---“
“Delaney. Nancy Delaney. Though you could have read that on the cover of my reporter’s notebook, which I am assuming you stole from me while I was unconscious.”
    “I didn’t steal anything, Miss Delaney. I am merely holding your belongings for safekeeping. And are you sure you’re all right? You just went deathly pale.”
    Though I hated to admit it, I did feel very strange. Lightheaded, dizzy, and warm all over, especially between