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get away for now …
    I saw Neil McManus, Ethan’s executive partner at Blackstone Security, and waved to let him know I was on my way out of the building so he could relay it to anyone who might wonder about me.  I was getting the hell out of here and waiting around for a roll call wasn’t happening.  I might see him again.  Mr. Ivanhoe.  I’d die if I had to face that man again right now.  Just collapse and die right here on the steps of the National Gallery.
    So I did something I’ve done before in similar situations. 
    I ran for safety.
    Fleeing down the steps, I made for the street, hailing the first taxi I could.  When a London black cab pulled up to the pavement, I pushed out a big breath of air in sheer relief, realizing I’d been holding it.  I slid into the back seat and gave the driver my address, feeling suddenly exhausted. I kept my head down and wished I could disappear as he pulled quickly out into traffic.
    “What’s all that then?” he asked.
    “The fire alarm just went off and they told everyone to get out.  I don’t know, but I heard the words ‘bomb threat’ as I passed by a security guard talking into his earpiece.”
    My driver snorted in disgust , and mumbled something about the country going to “bloody hell,” and went back to navigating the streets.
    I allowed myself to silently fall apa rt in the back of his cab, still in shock at what I’d done with a man I didn’t even know.  What was wrong with me?  How could I have permitted him to—touch me like that?  To kiss me like that?
    If the situation I found mysel f in wasn’t so horrifying I’d be far more concerned about the reason for the evacuation and the safety of the art in the first place.  The sad truth was I didn’t give the alarm much thought at all beyond the fact it had interrupted something I shouldn’t have ever been doing.  My head was so screwed up right now with thoughts of what’d just happened in a side room with Mr. Ivanhoe I couldn’t spare any more of my emotions on worry about the paintings, or otherwise.  An orgasm happened, you freak.
    What in the bloody hell was he about anyway?  Who does that?  Goes up to a random woman and seduces her in a closet?
    The better question was what woman allows such a thing to happen with zero protest?  That would be me.  Slut.  You’re such a slutty whore, and you have zero self-control, that’s why!
    I tried to sort out the sequence of events but none of it made any sense.  He’d walked up behind me and said, “ I found you,” as if he knew I’d be there waiting for him.  Mr. Ivanhoe hadn’t seemed confused at all, but acted as if our meeting had been planned in advance.  He’d even mentioned my green dress.  I wondered if Paul Langley had arranged for the VIP tour and forgotten to tell me.  But that didn’t make any sense either because Mr. Ivanhoe was not about getting a tour of the museum.  He’d been all about getting a blow job from me.  And you had his cock in your mouth, and were giving him one when the alarm went off!
    I slashed at the tears leaking from my eyes and stared out at the busy city traffic, wishing for the millionth time my life was different.  That I was somehow different.  But we are creatures of habit, and are who we’re born to be.  This was me—the real Gabrielle Hargreave.  And as disgraceful and abhorrent it felt to accept the idea, it didn’t make the situation any less true.
    You reap what you so w, Gabrielle.
    Yeah, I’d learned my lesson the hard way.
     

     
    BEN called to check on me as soon as he saw the news on TV about the National Gallery being evacuated.  I wasn’t surprised about the call, or the fact he knew something was up with me the minute he heard my voice.  When he asked me if I was okay, I lied to my dear and caring friend.  I lied and told him I was just upset about the possibility of a trove of priceless art being destroyed in a bomb blast, and further justified my “mood”