It was not a pretty sight. In fact, it was nothing short of gruesome.

Zia swallowed hard against the rising acid in her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was the cheap champagne, dry hors d’ oeuvres or the horror show she was forced to witness.  She should have steered clear of the second tray of pastries but she’d been starving. The night was all going south. Just her luck. This was her first mission and she was blowing it.

Disjointed and butchered limbs lay in a pile, discarded in a nondescript wasteland. Skin and flesh, flaccid with the onset of decomposition, compelled the eye to a ghastly scene while crooked beaked vultures waited patiently in a fiery background.

She gulped down the last of the champagne.

“What do you think?”

Zia looked at her companion, Carlo De Moy. His face, a piece of art she could appreciate more than the one they were studying, was animated with boyish eagerness. She braced herself for another glance at the Dante-inspired oil painting that was illuminated by a flood of unnecessary light and searched her mind for an appropriate response.

“You’re a genius.” A smile stitched up her face as she reinstated eye contact with him. A dull ache began at the base of her head. But she could not tend to that now. She had to swing things around. Somehow she managed to inject as much enthusiasm into her next words. “This is pure genius!” pointing to the canvas that spread across an entire wall.

The perfect planes of his face broke slightly into an uncertain smile. How typical of an artist, she thought, they insist on approval and when they get it, they’re suspicious of it.

“I see what you were going for… body parts in desolation.” She hoped she sounded convincing. It was hard to look away from him, his lovely features, which even in uncertainty, were in perfect harmony.

Carlo scowled. Still beautiful. Zia reminded herself that he was the target and not the reward. It was not difficult to deduce that he was a philanderer. He had certainly broken the heart of the latest client. Well, soon he would get a lesson in the broken-heart department and it won’t be a pretty one.

“Tell me, how did you manage to arrange your subject matter in such a compelling composition?” Compelling? She had to force herself to look at the painting again but she needed to salvage the groundwork she was fast losing. Concentrate on the task at hand, she scolded herself. Besides, he is the enemy and it was up to her to take him down.

“Cadavers,” he said with aplomb. “A friend with the state morgue helped me gain access to body parts. Their composition was incidental. But as you can see, it is simply magnificent!” He kept his eyes fixed on his masterpiece, his expression conveyed anything but the disgust she felt.

Zia knew she had to keep the momentum of the conversation but this time she was really lost for words. Desperately she surveyed the room for some inspiration, some interesting art inference to borrow. Surely the many patrons who were still in attendance had some positive comments she could repeat! Instead she found herself observing a man across the room. He seemed perfectly out of place. Who wore a tuxedo to art exhibition? Especially one in the seedier part of Soho. She had to admit he could certainly wear a tuxedo though. Like James Bond, she thought. Every perfectly proportioned body part was tailor made for the clearly expensive cut.

“Don’t you think so?” Carlo interrupted her thoughts.

Zia zapped her attention on Carlo again. She had to think quickly. Focus on the mission, she told herself. But the plea in his eyes took her by surprise. For a moment she almost felt sorry for him. Could he have really broken all those hearts intentionally? He seemed too insecure to be a womaniser, let alone a vindictive cheat. She shook her head to push away the wayward thoughts. She needed to work this out. She remembered the five-step plan. Number three – ego boosting. She touched his arm, which seemed enormously gratifying to him.

“You have such incredible talent.” She accentuated incredible. “This exhibition is going to certainly be the exposure you’re hoping for.” She tried not to think of the double meaning – she had to keep to the plan. This was her first rodeo show and she was not going to bungle it up.

A familiar voice all but shattered her newfound resolve.

“Carlo? Carlo…”

“You got to be kidding me,” Zia mumbled as she closed her eyes in frustration. Carlo swung around at the sound of his name. Zia followed his gaze to see the gorgeous redhead whom she knew belonged to the saccharin-laced voice, throw her hands up in the air and sashay toward them. Zia rolled her eyes at the dramatic entrance.

Clearly intent on having a conversation with Carlo regardless of who overheard, the red-head exulted, “Carlo, you have simply outdone yourself.”

“Don’t tell me, I absolutely get it,” she continued, “this painting just speaks volumes to me.”

Surely Carlo could see through the false proclamation. Zia sought out his reaction ready to back it up. But he bought it hook, line and sinker.

“The deconstruction of humanity; we’re all body parts after all, sewn together in unique ways but ultimately just limb for limb.”

 “YES! That’s exactly it.” The earlier doubt vanished from Carlo’s pretty face and his eyes grew round and bright.

The redhead stuck out her hand, after the gushing, now a little bashful.

“Dina Coombs, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Carlo ignored the hand and pulled her into an embrace. Zia was in awe. Dina had accomplished what she’d been trying to do for the last hour, in a flat minute.

Without even a backward glance they were walking off in search of Carlo’s other frightful works. Zia stood there not knowing whether she should be fuming or grateful.

“Rather a bit over the top. I for one can’t see the art for the horror.”

 The voice broke through Zia’s thoughts. The accent was a mixture and she tried to pinpoint its origin. Australian, with a touch of English and maybe a little French Canadian? It baffled her but she let her eyes collide with tuxedo-man who was suddenly at her side. He raised his glass and nodded a greeting.

“In my humble opinion I think art should be something beautiful to look at.”

He placed one hand in his pocket and stared.

His dark eyes travelled the length of her with deliberate leisureliness. She felt her skin tingle where his eyes dared. Zia was almost glad she had worn the strapless emerald silk number she’d designed and stitched only a winter ago. The Indian summer spell had daubed her skin in a golden hue, and jewel tones, although a somewhat scorned trend that season, was nothing but perfect for her complexion.

Zia found herself studying the man too as she searched her mind for an appropriate response. It was not a face an artist might appreciate, features were a combination of round and sharp and perhaps individually remarkable but together it could be construed as fascinating instead of beautiful– especially juxtaposed with that of Carlo’s. She had to admit though, that he was compellingly attractive.

 “Art is meant to be a means of expression. It should evoke emotion. It speaks the language of truth. Of reality. Of society in its most decrepit state.” She did her best to sincerely believe the words she borrowed verbatim from Carlo. “I suppose not everyone has an eye for art,” she said as tartly as she could. Zia had no idea why she defended the piece since he echoed her very thoughts. But he seemed too at ease with himself and his words were dipped in an arrogance that simply riled up some female instinct within her.

The man’s expression was dubious. “You’re an art critic, I take it. Here to review the show?”

He regarded her carefully before he continued, “I would not have pegged you for a connoisseur.”

She felt the sting of his counter. “The artist was inspired by greats like Bortecelli and Da Vinci.” She hoped she had thrown out the right names to sufficiently put him in his place. An eyebrow lifted and she did not know if she impressed him or embarrassed herself.

“And you think this is a worthy comparison?” His eyes fixed on hers, daring her to respond.

Dina’s shrill laughter prevented Zia from replying. She glanced in the direction it came from to see that Dina had Carlo practically eating up her every compliment. Zia realised that the feeling she had been unable to decide on was anger, not gratitude. What on earth was Dina up to? It was obvious that she was deviating from the carefully orchestrated plan. That should have been her with Carlo. Dina was too close to the art-world for the mission to work. Oh, hell! Dina must have cooked up something new. This was turning out to be a disaster. What would the others say? 

“I suppose you must know Dina then.” The man was saying.

Zia tore her eyes away from the spectacle Dina was deliberately creating and looked at her companion. A pretty waitress blushed as she handed him a glass of champagne, which he took without any acknowledgement. Instead, he watched Zia carefully.

“Which publication do you work for? Dina has been covering the art and theatre scene for the Chronicle for a while now. I’m sure you two have crossed paths.” He had a sharpness about him that Zia found both appealing and frightening.

Zia thought about her words carefully. “Yes. I know Dina.” She said cautiously. “More through reputation.” She knew it was a lie but they were on a mission and she could not exactly reveal the nature of their relationship. Not to this very perceptive and inquisitive man at least.  “And no I’m not an art expert nor do I review art for any newspaper.” It suddenly occurred to her that the man knew way too much about Dina. “Do you know Dina Coombs?”

“I’m afraid by reputation as well. I’ve been looking into her work. She is quite a tenacious critic.” He smiled. And Zia stared. the smile transformed his face. He was almost as beautiful as Carlo when he smiled. And damn, was he sexy. No, no! She was not here to have complicated conversations with sexy, attractive James-Bond-lookalikes.

This evening was getting away from her and Zia felt the pressure of playing a part.

A waiter with a tray of canapés stood nearby. She grabbed one and quickly bit into it. Chewing avoided further talk.

But tuxedo man was staring again. Then he was pointing to something on his chin. Zia tried but failed to decipher the weird perfunctory sign language. Without warning, he reached out and swabbed the pad of his thumb across her lips. Her reaction to his touch surprised her. The simple act sent a shock wave of current right down to the tips of her red-painted toes. She waved away his hand while the glob of pastry in her mouth caught in her throat then glided down the wrong pipe. Zia grabbed at her throat. Losing grip of the champagne glass in her free hand, she heard it crash to the floor. Desperately, she tried to cough in the hopes the errant piece of food would dislodge.

Then arms circled just below her breasts – strong and hard arms. They pulled her upward and backward and she felt the air squeeze out of her lungs.  With it, went the glutinous glob. It sailed through the air, watched by wide-eyed patrons who had not bargained on a display of living art – not that her ugly chocking fit was anything artful. With a very audible plop, it landed in one wide-mouthed spectator’s champagne flute.

The ring of muscles remained steadfast about her, thrusting her toward a very hard and warm body. Her feet seemed to buckle under her but her captor pulled her closer. When she had found her feet and her wits, she tried to shake loose from the steely embrace.

“You can let me go now,” she bit out through clenched teeth.

His arms loosened. “Well, you don’t have to be snippy about it.”

There was something about that voice, she thought. It purred like an engine running on fine whiskey. With her body still practically attached to his, she could feel its vibrations run through her. And it did funny things to her insides. Finally released, she turned around to find herself still just a frustrating breath’s distance from him.

“You could thank me, for saving your life, at the very least.”

“Well, now that’s interesting, because if I recall clearly, you were the one who put me in danger in the first place.”

Eyebrows shot up. “Is that the way you see it?” He looked amused. “This would make quite a story I imagine. I think you all but lightened up the dreary mood of this sordid display.”

It was at that moment Zia decided she had enough of the evening. “I’m glad I was able to entertain you, and the rest of the room.” She turned on her foot. Her peripheral view just managing to pick up Carlo and Dina who seemed quite engrossed in one another, oblivious to her or her unwelcome companion.

It was time to leave and she was going to do so without making a fool of herself again. So much for first missions!

Escaping the belly of the beast, she found her way out of the Basement Gallery, one of the lesser famed galleries, a fact she was not surprised at since they dared to display Carlo’s work.

On the street, it was far more festive with strings of lights hanging from light pole to light pole. This part of the city always surprised her. There were pockets of beautiful spaces among the dreary and decayed. She spotted a cab and hailed it over.

On the way home she realised the obnoxious man who claimed to be her saviour had not given her his name. But then neither did she for that matter. It was his smile, she told herself, that had caught her off guard. A smile that did not come easy but one that transformed his face from one that was attractive to one that was unforgettable. Putting aside his image for a moment, she reviewed the events of the night. She’d blown the first one. The ladies of the Secret Heartbreak Society will not be pleased.