Introduction

DOMINO EFFECT

An erotic thriller

21-year-old college student and aspiring journalist Nancy Delaney’s nose for news smells a hot story idea when it comes to international playboy and artist Peter Rostovich. But as she works to get her story, she soon becomes intimately entangled with the mysterious Rostovich, who finds her irresistible. He becomes Nancy’s ticket to sexual awakening, and she soon discovers she has an appetite for bondage, too.

And there’s far more to Rostovich than just his art — he’s involved in a strange, violent criminal underworld that kidnaps Nancy and spirits her halfway around the world, where she’s held prisoner and made to serve as private Dominant-for-hire somewhere in the former Soviet Union. Will the sexual powers Rostovich helped awaken in her be Nancy’s only hope for escape?

"This book really surprised me. It is a story of self- discovery, sexual awakening and the will to survive. 4 STARS"----Literati Book Reviews

"It’s a pretty exciting read all the way around. Good character development and a well written story with a cliffhanger…of course. Give it a try! 4 stars!"---Book Crush

"Superb writing by Jill Elaine Hughes, the style of writing is refreshing and intriguing. . . The emotions Nancy feels throughout the book become your emotions, Ms. Hughes was able to write POV that in detail." ---Beauty and the Book

"This book was brilliant. . .100 percent unique and enjoyable. 5 STARS." Rose's Book Blog

"This will be a great read for you. I'll be waiting for the next book and to check out what else [Jill Elaine Hughes] writes."---ReadingRenee.com

"The Domino Effect is a tantalizing story with mystery, steamy romance, murder, and intrigue. I must admit that once I started on the story, I read it in just a few hours. It was that great."---Cruising Susan Reviews

"I really enjoyed this story! There was pleasure and suspense with a few twists and turns along the way. There is a cliffhanger ending and I’m anxious to see what happens next. 4 STARS" ----The Book Blog

"There are so many elements I enjoyed in this book: it is well-paced, intensely sexy, with a very compelling thriller/suspense storyline."---Tattooed Book Review

"This series will be the next big thing!"----Falling In Fall

"This book caught me by surprise. . . .I can't wait for the next two [books] to come out!"----Book Fanatic

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

“I really need you to do me just this one favor.”

I looked up from my dog-eared copy of Bleak House. I’d been meaning to finish it for two years, ever since I started reading it in Introduction to Victorian Literature II and wasn’t able to finish it by the deadline. I’d just read the Cliff’s Notes instead so I could pass an in-class essay quiz, something I’d always considered it a major breach of ethics.

The fact I’d never actually finished Bleak House had always bothered me. And now, my best friend was getting in the way. “What favor is that, pray tell?” I asked, dreading the reply.

Hannah Greeley, my roommate of three years, flopped down next to me on the bed and sighed. “I need you to cover a gallery opening for me. Tonight.”

I marked my place in the book with a scrap of paper and set it aside. “Excuse me?”

“Please, Nancy. I promise, I won’t ever ask you to do something like this for me at the last minute again if you do it for me just this one time.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said the other eighty-seven times you’ve asked me for last-minute favors over the past three years.” Like helping her cram for literature exams the night before. Like telling her ex-boyfriends and her parents that she wasn’t home when they called on weekends. Like covering gallery openings at the last minute for shit pay, if there was any pay offered at all. “Isn’t it time you did me a favor for a change?”

Hannah rubbed her temples. “I know, I know. But I promise, this really is the last time. And I’ll even cover your share of next month’s utilities, too, as payback. How about that?”

That held some appeal. “All right. But this really is the last time.”

“Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Hannah might be my best friend, but that didn’t mean I understood her. We came from two different worlds, she and I. The only daughter of a wealthy family, she’d never wanted for anything and never would. I on the other hand had to worry about things like paying rent and utilities and studying hard enough to keep my scholarship. Meanwhile, Hannah’s idea of a crisis was running out of perfume or not having shoes to match her purse.

A former art history major herself, Hannah had worked part-time at Art News Now during her last two years of college and now worked there full-time as their chief Midwestern correspondent---quite an impressive job title for someone only twenty-two. But members of the Greeley family always managed to land on their feet no matter what they did. That was one of the trappings of being independently wealthy with strong political connections. Or so Hannah said---I really would have no idea one way or the other.

It was Hannah’s job to cover the entire art scene between Cleveland and Chicago for the magazine, but these days she seemed a lot more interested in covering the scene between her sheets with her latest boyfriend, Ted. I hated to say it, but those two fucked like rabbits. I’d learned to keep my door shut and iTunes turned up loud whenever Ted was over.

So no surprise that I started having second thoughts. “Are you sure your editors will let you pawn the work off on a freelancer? You know, since I don’t even work for the magazine, and it’s sort of your job to do these things. I don’t want to get myself blacklisted with every editor in town before I’ve even managed to graduate.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Yes, it is technically my job, but the thing is, Ted just asked me if I could accompany him to the symphony tonight, and since it’s box seats I really can’t say no. Besides, I can cover the performance for the magazine now. We tried to get press comps and couldn’t, so it’s very lucky that Ted’s parents are major symphony donors and were able to sneak us in on their subscription. Please, Nancy. It will help me out so much if we can cover both events on the same night. I might even get a raise this way.”

She looked at me with those trademark puppy-dog eyes of hers, the one expression she had that melted all my hard-won defenses. And I knew for a fact that Hannah desperately needed a raise. She earned less money working full-time for the magazine than I did part-time as a cocktail waitress on the weekends. “All right, fine. But in addition to covering my utilities next month, you’ll need to make sure I get paid for the article, as well as any expenses. I don’t want to get stuck with a $100 booze tab like I did when I covered that martini-bar opening for you last year.”

She clapped her hands and gave me a huge hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! And don’t worry, there’s no out-of-pocket anything. The gallery opening is free and the refreshments are complimentary. Though you’re on your own if you want to buy any of the art.”

I snorted. “You know that would be against all manner of journalistic ethics.” Not to mention I was far too poor for such things.

“I’m just saying.” Hannah dashed out of my room, then came back carrying a manila folder. “Here’s the press kit. The tickets and your press pass are in here, along with a bio for the artist and some preliminary photos of the work. Though it’s my understanding they’re keeping the piece de resistance under very tight wraps until the opening. Try to get a quote from the artist if you can, but don’t give away that you’re there to do a critical review. Let them think it’s just a run-of-the-mill profile. You’ll get better quotes that way.”

I flipped absently through the materials. Nothing very exciting----it just looked like standard black-and-white postmodern photography to me. The bio on the artist didn’t reveal much either, other than that his name was Peter Rostovich, he was originally from the Ukraine and came to the US as a teenager with his mother, and he was a graduate of the New York Academy of Fine Arts. “I’m not sure I’m qualified to write about something like this,” I said. “I’m an English major. I understand Renaissance and Victorian art but I really don’t get contemporary art at all. And this stuff just looks boring, frankly. No different than what any art student would put up at his senior show.”

Hannah shrugged. “If you don’t like it, then feel free to give it a bad review. In fact, give it the worst review you possibly can. My editor was complaining just the other day that we publish way too many raves and we need some balance.”

I flipped the folder shut and set it aside. “All right, I’ll rip it to shreds then. Unless of course it proves to be something that knocks my socks off, which I can pretty much guarantee it won’t if it’s headlining at some third-rate gallery in Cleveland.” We were a long way from the cutting-edge art scenes in New York City and Paris. I couldn’t help but wonder what a graduate of the New York Academy of Fine Arts was even doing in the Cleveland vicinity. He had to be pretty desperate to be doing a gallery opening here. Unless there was something more to the story, of course.

Could make an interesting angle, I thought, the wheels in my journalist’s brain beginning to turn. I made a mental note to dig as deeply as I could for anything unusual about the art or the artist himself----the stranger, the better. This kind of story didn’t merit top-notch investigative reporting, but even Bernstein and Woodward had to start somewhere.

I glanced at the clock. It was already five-thirty, which gave me only a little over an hour to get dressed and over to the gallery before the opening started at seven. “I’ll need the bathroom, so stay out of there for a while, Hannah,” I said. “By the way, how much are you paying for this fantastic opportunity?” The last two words dripped with sarcasm.

“Fifty fabulous bucks. And all the free gallery booze you can drink.”

I grabbed my bathrobe and scoffed. “Great,” I sneered. “I can retire on that. I’ll need to borrow some clothes.”

Hannah nodded. “I’ll lay a few of my best things out on your bed for you.”

I shut the door and turned on the shower.

****

I drove myself over to the opening in Ginger, my beloved twelve-year-old Volkswagen Jetta. The engine knocked and pinged the whole way and the clutch kept sticking, but she managed to make it. I really needed to consider buying a new car. Of course, that would require money I didn’t have at the moment, so I hoped I could just make due with a combination of high-octane gasoline and prayer for a while.

Ginger whined to a painful stop as I parked her just in front of the gallery. I prayed I’d manage to get her started up again. I knew it was only a matter of time before she crapped out and died, or the muffler fell out on the highway.

The Flaming River Gallery was in the Warehouse District in a converted paint factory, an area filled with bars and clubs where parking could be scarce even on a weeknight, so I’d hit the jackpot finding a space so close. The establishment was newly opened; this exhibit was only its second major show. I had to chuckle at the name of the place, a dig at Cleveland’s infamous Cuyahoga River, which literally caught fire in the seventies because it was so polluted with chemical runoff. At least someone had found a way to have a sense of humor about it. But I’d found that you kind of had to have a sense of humor about Cleveland in general, especially when it came to the arts and culture scene. I’m originally from Boston, and only chose Case Western Reserve University because of the generous academic scholarship package I was offered. That, and I didn’t get into my first or second choice schools----Harvard and Tufts---much to my parents’ disappointment. Then again, my broke college-professor parents couldn’t have paid for either school had I gotten into them in the first place, so it was kind of a moot point.

My main goal in life was to graduate college and find a job as a journalist, and taking little freelance stringer gigs here and there could only help me towards that goal. So I’d been easy pickings to bail Hannah out tonight. Then again, working as a cocktail waitress probably held a better financial future than a career as a writer. Hannah had a supposedly good journalism job and she survived mostly on credit cards and handouts from her wealthy parents. My own parents didn’t have that kind of money. I’d have to do whatever it took to support myself, and I knew that might mean pursuing a career other than journalism.

At least living in Cleveland was a lot cheaper than living New York or Boston. But it didn’t have many opportunities for writers. So I was thankful for anything that fell into my lap, even if it was covering a cheesy third-rate art-gallery opening for a magazine that almost nobody read.

I paused at the door before entering the gallery. The storefront had a large window hung with white curtains and posters that proclaimed “OPENING TODAY: Peter Rostovich.” The posters had old-fashioned black block letters on a white background, and gave nothing away about the art that might be inside. Typical gallery protocol, of course. The point was to get you to go inside, and preferably to spend money on the art. Between the couple of press gigs I’d already done and hearing about the openings Hannah had covered over the years I knew the ropes, at least when it came to how they handled publicity. Actually understanding the art was a different story.

I glanced at my reflection in the window. It was ghostly and mostly transparent in the evening twilight, but I could still see enough to check my makeup and hair. I’d worn a simple black pencil skirt with a white silk shell blouse and a tightly tailored black blazer (all procured from Hannah’s ample closet full of designer couture outfits paid for by her wealthy parents; my meager wardrobe came mostly from thrift shops and Old Navy), along with comfortable dress flats from my own shoe collection. My hair was pulled back into a simple chignon that I’d accented with a jeweled silver comb, also borrowed from Hannah. I very rarely wore makeup, but Hannah had convinced me to break my usual protocol with a light dusting of bronzer powder and a nude lip gloss---“just to give you a little color,” she’d explained. She really hadn’t needed to explain, though---my fishbelly-white Irish complexion has about as much color as a gray November day in Cleveland. She’d even loaned me her grandmother’s antique silver filigree earrings, which accented the silver comb in my hair.

I really had to hand it to Hannah. She had a great natural sense of style, and always managed to make me over from my usual frump self into a glamour girl with just a few minor adjustments. I took one last quick glance in the windowpane and was satisfied with my reflection. Chic enough to blend in at an urban gallery opening, yet comfortable enough to make a quick getaway if I started getting too much “press interference,” as I liked to call it.

Though I’d only done a few professional press gigs thus far (mostly I worked for the student newspaper on campus, which didn’t have nearly the same prestige), I’d learned early on that once people found out you were a journalist, they were all over you. It got annoying sometimes. It was best to be incognito, though I’d discovered it was pretty hard to pull off when you were walking around toting a press kit, reporter’s pad and handheld digital recorder.

I entered the gallery and showed my press kit and pass to the attendant at the door, a thirtyish woman with dyed red hair in a geometric cut and matching lipstick. She was wearing a strange-looking dress that looked like it was made from a nylon fishing net. It showed her black bra and panties underneath, along with a plethora of tattoos. “Welcome to the Flaming River Gallery,” she said, nodding at my press pass. “I hope you’ll enjoy the show tonight, Miss---“

“Delaney. Nancy Delaney. I’ll be covering the opening for Art News Now.”

Dyed Red Hair smacked her lips. I noticed she was chewing bright green gum and had a tongue ring. “Art News Now, huh? I thought Hannah Greeley was covering this for them.”

“She got called away on another assignment at the last minute,” I said. “Is the artist here? We’d like to get a quote from him if possible.”

Dyed Red Hair cocked her head, chewed her gum harder. “He’ll be here later,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me. “But he doesn’t like reporters. He likes art critics even less, so good luck getting him to talk to you.” With that, she turned away from me and focused her attention on a group of young hipsters who’d just walked in the door.

So much for going incognito, I thought. I had to give the woman credit though. She was probably a former critic herself, either that or just very press-savvy. I shrugged it off and started a first pass around the gallery.

The exhibit wasn’t at all what I expected given the glossy sample photos in the press kit. While I recognized larger versions of the two advance photo copies in a far corner, they were hardly the focus of the exhibit. Instead the gallery was dominated by nudes rendered in all sorts of different media----photography, painting, pencil and charcoal sketches, even two video installations that appeared to depict out-of-focus video recordings of the photography sessions. In addition to the nudity theme---the images depicted men and women of all ages, shapes, colors, and body types---there was another theme.

Bondage.

Most of the nudes were tied up in some way. Some of them were innocent-seeming, perhaps using only thin thread or yarn to bind a model’s wrists. Others were bolder, using things like neckties, scarves, or thick strips of heavy fabric like velvet or satin. There were accompanying items installed on pedestals beside the photographs---a piece of yarn, a spool of thread, a single rubber band. It was all very minimalist and odd. I’d never been impressed by so-called conceptual artists that placed ordinary objects in a gallery and called it art, but I had to admit that the arrangement held a certain sensual appeal. It made me think hard about how the models in the photographs must have felt when their wrists were tied, the sensation of thread against skin, the process of tying a slipknot, the restricted movement of bound wrists and ankles. I felt something beginning to stir deep in my groin, and the strange, unfamiliar sensation made me uncomfortable. And yet, I didn’t want it to stop.

In between the photographs were paintings of various types----oils, acrylics, watercolors, a few pastels---that offered differing interpretations of the photographs. Where the photos were stark, black-and-white, and simple, the painted versions were bright, colorful, even impressionistic. Some of them had exaggerated proportions that emphasized the simple bondage elements, drawing them out into thick, wide lines that dwarfed the wearers into strange alien beings.

I wouldn’t have called it porn, exactly. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to call it art, either. It was certainly unusual, even strange. And more bondage than I’d ever seen in one place at one time.

I understood the concept of sexual bondage. We’d covered it briefly in my Human Sexuality class my sophomore year, and I’d read a couple literary works about it, including The Story of O. But I’d never experienced it first-hand. Truth be told, I hadn’t really experienced anything sexually first-hand, ever. Because unless you counted me giving my high school prom date a very brief blowjob (I didn’t), I was a virgin.

I considered myself almost asexual. I’d never wanted a boyfriend---it always seemed like too much of a bother. I was too busy studying, or building my journalism clips portfolio, or working. And I’d developed a pretty thick skin as a weekend cocktail waitress. The money was good, but the work came with its fair share of sleazy drunken fratboys and balding businessmen hitting me up and trying to grab my ass all the time. It had turned me off men in general. And I wasn’t interested in dating women, so I’d pretty much just chucked the whole sex thing altogether. Hannah teased me about it and tried to fix me up with blind dates almost every other week. I always refused.

“You need to get laid, Nancy,” she’d say. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on.” I’d just shrug and mutter something about being too busy. Besides, as a virgin I really didn’t know what I was missing. And I wasn’t sure that was such a bad thing. All my girlfriends were forever going on and on about how awful their boyfriends were. They were constantly weathering breakups and the depressing aftermaths of one-night stands, while Hannah’s love life resembled a train wreck on steroids. By her own admission, she and her current boyfriend Ted’s relationship consisted solely of sex. “We don’t talk to each other, we just fuck,” she’d explained to me one night over dinner. “It’s better that way. Talking just spoils things.”

Were all sexual relationships like that? I had yet to see anything resembling a healthy sexual relationship among my circle of friends. I wasn’t sure what a healthy sexual relationship even was, or if people actually had them. And we won’t even discuss my parents. I’d convinced myself long ago that my uptight parents had fucked only once in their entire marriage, and I---their only child---was the product of that single union. Sure, it was a ridiculous idea, but it kept me out of therapy.

But this exhibit’s sensual art---if you could call it that---held my attention. As the exhibit progressed, so did the bondage levels. By the middle of the exhibit---the gallery was one long series of adjoining rooms arranged in a straight line---the thread, neckties and yarn had progressed to things like leather straps, ropes, and plastic cable ties---along with a few full-on money shots of models’ genitalia. Nothing in-your-face or super-crazy, like what you’d see on the pages of Penthouse, but plenty of exposed cocks and well-trimmed lady parts. Still, it wasn’t the money shots that troubled me as much as the plastic cable ties.

Plastic cable ties? What did something like that really have to do with sex, anyway? It seemed like an odd choice. They evoked images of Home Depot, not the bedroom. The photos featuring them were especially strange given the sharp contrast, and it seemed the artist had made a special point to use them on the darker-skinned nudes to make them all the more prominent. There was even a pile of them set out against a black velvet cloth on a whitewashed pedestal, alongside a hand-lettered sign that said “PLEASE TAKE ONE.”

I did, fingering it absently between my fingertips while I studied a black-and-white silver nitrate print of a model’s well-manicured hands superimposed on what I supposed was her naked thighs, her wrists tightly bound together with a set of thin white cable ties. The plastic straps left deep indentations in her skin, made all the more prominent by the photographer’s use of harsh lighting and stark composition. From a distance the photograph was more abstract, and reminded me almost of a Georgia O’Keefe print, but up close the sheer sensuality was unmistakable.

“Put it on,” said a raspy male voice just behind me. “Tie it tight. I can help you if you like.” Underneath the scratchy, breathy overtone the voice was a startlingly deep, with the slightest hint of an accent, but I couldn’t quite place what kind.

I spun around. Standing just to my left was a tall, slender man with an angular jaw and broad shoulders. He had a slight stubble of beard, along with reddish-brown hair and arresting gray eyes that reminded me of dry ice. He wore dark blue slacks and a lighter blue oxford shirt with the collar open, no tie. The clothes were simple, but I could tell from their cut and the quality of the fabric that they were very expensive. His shoes were sleek, black, and European-looking with square toes, and he wore a silver Movado watch with multiple dials and matching silver cufflinks. Even his scent seemed luxurious---a hint of bay rum with undertones of sandalwood and jasmine.

“Here, let me,” he said, taking the cable tie from my hand. And then, even before I knew what was happening, with a few swift movements the cable tie was fastened tight around both my wrists, its slick, cold surface digging hard into my skin.

My press kit and purse crashed to the floor. The room began to spin, and dark clouds crept into my field of vision. Everything went blank.

When I came to I found myself half-seated, half-lying on a nearby bench. Dyed Red Hair was fanning me with a gallery program, and someone had put a cold cloth on my forehead. The tall, dark stranger was nowhere to be found.

But my wrists were still bound together tightly. And my press kit was missing.

I bolted upright in a panic, searching for my purse. I found it at my feet. It appeared undisturbed, but I couldn’t open it to check as long as my wrists were bound together with the cable tie. I tried pulling them apart hard enough to break it, but the plastic binding wouldn’t budge. In fact, the motion just made the binding even tighter. I winced as the hard plastic straps cut deeper into my skin, cutting off some of the circulation.

“I see Peter got hold of you,” Dyed Red Hair said with a chuckle, casting a sidelong glance at my bound wrists. “I warned you, he really doesn’t like art critics.”

“I’m a reporter,” I lied feebly, but I didn’t even believe my own fib.

I rubbed my bound wrists against my thighs. The cable tie had wound itself around tighter still, leaving deep red marks in my skin that I wondered might even become permanent. My hands were getting a little swollen, and I was sure I’d be left with bruises, maybe worse.

Still, it was painful, but not in a bad way. It almost felt. . .good. I couldn’t get my mind around it. The stinging sensation in my wrists reminded me of how the inside of my mouth felt after eating the really spicy Indian curries that I loved----burned and a little tender, yet in a way that satiated my hunger and only made me want more.

I blinked my eyes several times, as if to clear them of an unwanted vision, and the black clouds once again crept in. When I finally opened them, Dyed Red Hair was gone and I was sitting there alone. My hands were still tightly bound together. No surprises there; I wasn’t exactly making any friends here.

I stumbled upright and trudged back to the front of the gallery in search of Dyed Red Hair, or perhaps some other representative of the establishment. My tightly bound wrists made walking awkward, especially as I tried to keep a hold of my strapless clutch purse under one cinched elbow. Making matters worse, the satchel I used to carry my notepad, digital recorder, and press credentials was missing along with the press kit. I could only guess where they might be. Perhaps the artist had confiscated them and intended to turn them into an exhibit of some kind? Or perhaps that exhibit was going to be me? There was such a thing as live art models, or so I’d been told. Though I’m sure they usually consented to the process beforehand.

So Peter Rostovich obviously didn’t care much for the press. But I wasn’t sure how tying up art critics and absconding with their professional belongings was going to help his art career. Maybe if he were already the toast of the art world he could get away with eccentricities like that, but as far as I could tell, he was a nobody. He didn’t have a Wikipedia page, or even a personal website. (I’d checked).

I am so going to trash this show, I seethed to myself. As far as I was concerned, Peter Rostovich’s art career would start and end on the same day.

Dyed Red Hair was nowhere to be seen, but I found a fortyish man in a gray suit standing at the door greeting guests. He wore a hand-lettered nametag that read “Richard Darling, Flaming River Gallery.” I guessed based on the cut of his suit and quality of his shoes that he was one of the gallery’s owners, not just a staff flunky. That and he was talking to a gaggle of wine-sipping middle-aged business types about the potential investment benefits of high-quality art and photography.

I sidled up to him. “Excuse me, but I seem to have gotten into a bit of a bind.” I held up my wrists and chuckled, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “Can you help me get out of this, ahem, tight spot?”

Richard Darling turned away from his group of potential customers and looked on me with distaste. “Oh, it’s you,” he said dryly, narrowing his eyes at me. “Peter warned me you’d be in need of some help.” He beckoned me over to the lectern by the gallery entrance and produced a small pair of scissors from a drawer. He snipped the binding with one swift cut; the edge of the scissors nicked me slightly, breaking the skin but not drawing blood. It stung, and my arms got pins-and-needles sensations as the blood started circulating again.

I rubbed my wrists, trying to stifle the pain that suddenly surged through them. And yet, it was a different kind of pain. Not what you’d take an Advil for, surely. It almost felt like a drug itself. Not that I had a lot of experience with drugs, other than the painkillers I’d gotten in the hospital after having my tonsils out, but this feeling was, well, almost like a high. At one level it hurt, but at another level I didn’t want it to stop. In fact, I wanted more of it.

The gallery owner excused himself from his group of well-heeled customers and leaned in closer to me. “The artist is 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 considered 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. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Why do you think Nancy's meeting with Peter Rostovich triggers her sexual awakening?

What parallels would you draw between Nancy and typical heroines of Victorian fiction? Why?

What do you think is Peter's true motivation for pursuing Nancy?

What type of agenda do you think Peter is truly pushing with his art?

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