Platinum

By Jeffe Kennedy

When art and kink collide, the results are volcanic...
Althea Grant lives a quiet life, and she likes it that way. Her Charleston gallery of watercolor landscapes is all hers and allows her to express her creativity in the subtle, ladylike fashion her exacting family allows. Too bad she’s failing at making it a success. Really too bad that she needs to open the privacy of her home to a renter the likes of the profoundly unsettling biker, Steel. He might be a sought-after artist, but he’s no gentleman.
Bad boy sculptor and artist of kinky subjects, Steel, falls for Althea at first sight. Her pristine albino coloring inspires his creative heart even as her shy and reticent nature tempts him to strip away her cold Southern belle exterior to discover the fiery wanton he’s certain burns within. He knows just how to do it, too: the satyr-shaped bondage sculpture he’s been commissioned to build needs a model for its helpless victim.
As Steel sets about seducing Althea, she begins to question whether she’s settled for a life of washed-out pastels and polite parties, when she could instead embrace the molten heat of her most secret desires...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffe Kennedy
• Release date: Jan 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958679159

Jeffe Kennedy

Jeffe Kennedy is an award-winning, best-selling author who writes fantasy with romantic elements and fantasy romance. She is an RWA member and serves on the Board of Directors for SFWA as a Director at Large. She is a hybrid author who also self-publishes a romantic fantasy series, Sorcerous Moons. Books in her popular, long-running series, The Twelve Kingdoms and The Uncharted Realms, have won the RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Fantasy Romance and RWA’s prestigious RITA® Award, while more have been finalists for those awards. She's the author of the romantic fantasy trilogy The Forgotten Empires, which includes The Orchid Throne, The Fiery Crown, and The Promised Queen. Jeffe lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with two Maine coon cats, plentiful free-range lizards and a very handsome Doctor of Oriental Medicine. She can be found online at her website, every Sunday at the SFF Seven blog, on Facebook, on Goodreads and on Twitter.

Book preview

PLATINUM

by

Jeffe Kennedy

When art and kink collide, the results are volcanic…

Althea Grant lives a quiet life, and she likes it that way. Her Charleston gallery of watercolor landscapes is all hers and allows her to express her creativity in the subtle, ladylike fashion her exacting family allows. Too bad she’s failing at making it a success. Really too bad that she needs to open the privacy of her home to a renter the likes of the profoundly unsettling biker, Steel. He might be a sought-after artist, but he’s no gentleman.

Bad boy sculptor and artist of kinky subjects, Steel, falls for Althea at first sight. Her pristine albino coloring inspires his creative heart even as her shy and reticent nature tempts him to strip away her cold Southern belle exterior to discover the fiery wanton he’s certain burns within. He knows just how to do it, too: the satyr-shaped bondage sculpture he’s been commissioned to build needs a model for its helpless victim.

As Steel sets about seducing Althea, she begins to question whether she’s settled for a life of washed-out pastels and polite parties, when she could instead embrace the molten heat of her most secret desires…

Dedication

To my mother, for dragging me to all the art galleries, everywhere.

Acknowledgements

The name Chalkstone Gallery is borrowed from Chalk Farm Gallery in Santa Fe, one of my favorite galleries. 2022 update: it’s no longer in business, alas.

Thanks to Jillian Chantal for snark assistance.

Thanks to Susan Doerr, who volunteered to help me set up a newsletter out of the goodness of her heart—or possibly because she couldn’t stand to watch me flailing about.

Thanks to Brenda Schetnan, who connected me to her Charleston buddies. And to Ron Gibb, president of the Charleston Artist’s Guild, for answering my stupid questions.

To the amazing, lovely and welcoming people of Charleston: thank you for being so wonderful to me. Special thanks to Joe Sylvan of Sylvan Art Gallery, for hooking me up. Many thanks to Rhett Thurman, an artist with an amazing eye for color and composition, and her husband Harry, doorman extraordinaire, for showing me around and answering endless questions. Althea’s home and rooftop garden are based off their fabulous digs. To Helena Fox of Helena Fox Fine Art—how perfect that your assistant called in to play and you were working. Thank you for giving me the inside scoop.

Thank you to the concierges at King’s Courtyard Inn in Charleston: Lisa, Jessica and James, who acted like it was their job to answer off-the-wall questions and get me cab rides to nowhere. My weekend stay there was wonderful—more than I could have hoped for.

To my fabulous editor, Deb Nemeth, who taught me the word panicles, which I now intend to use all the time. And for all the smiley faces.

To the usual suspects, my critique partners Laura Bickle, Marcella Burnard and Carolyn Crane, without whose support, both in and out of the Cone, I’d be lost. To Allison Pang and Kristine Krantz, sister Word Whores and IM buddies, who always lend an ear. To Carien Ubink, Samantha Ann King and B. E. Sanderson, faithful blog commenters and cheerleaders.

To all the readers who’ve been so generous with feedback and support—it means more than you know.

And, as always, to David, who makes it all possible and all worthwhile.

Copyright © 2022 by Jennifer M. Kennedy

Smashwords Edition

Second Edition

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.

Platinum was first published by Carina Press in February 2013.

Thank you for reading!

Credits

Cover: Ravven (https://www.ravven.com/)

PLATINUM

by

Jeffe Kennedy

Table of Contents

Title Page

About the Book

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Excerpt from Ruby

Titles by Jeffe Kennedy

About Jeffe Kennedy

CHAPTER ONE

A grating roar cut through the quiet, startling the silver-haired woman in a peach suit and pillbox hat who’d stopped to peer in the gallery window. With an aghast look at the black-leather-clad man pulling up on a large motorcycle behind her, she hurried off under the graceful arches of the palmettos lining the narrow street.

Althea sighed for the lost opportunity. Not that she could make people open their tight pocketbooks and invest in art—especially with the economic downturn—but it felt as though few customers even walked into the gallery these days. More often than not, she sat alone with the lovely watercolors hanging in silent elegance, quietly nursing the desperation to somehow keep this dream from shattering too.

Motorcycle guy cut the engine, pulled off his helmet, shook out tousled dark hair and extracted a telltale portfolio from saddlebags on the back of the bike.

Just what she needed today—another wannabe artist thinking that getting to show in a gallery in Charleston’s historic district was the ticket to success. Numbers didn’t lie. Certainly her accounts told a different tale.

Failure, the totals whispered. Fail fail fail.

Closing her laptop with a snap, she slid it into the drawer of the fragile antique desk and smoothed her chignon. She timed it well. Just as motorcycle guy strode in the door, opening it forcefully enough that the little bell clanged instead of tinkling, Althea was self-possessed and calm, ready to send the aspiring artist on his way. She would make it quick and painless as possible. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

After all, she knew how that kind of rejection felt.

Althea Grant. Welcome to Chalkstone Gallery.

He shook her hand with calloused fingers, sizing her up with a flick of his brown eyes. He wore a motorcycle jacket, faded jeans and black leather over them, like a cowboy would—and they framed his crotch in a most disconcerting way. Althea averted her eyes, feeling the embarrassed flush stain her cheeks.

I’m Steel. Your girl, Cheri, told me to come by, show you my stuff.

A giddy giggle rose up in her throat at that and she tamped it down, determinedly meeting the man’s eyes. His rough-stubbled chin implied he might be as hungover as her assistant had claimed to be when she called in sick. Or maybe he always looked like that. Cheri might have mentioned that she’d sent a wannabe over. Likely she’d been hitting on the guy and had forgotten all about it in her morning-after misery.

Well, Mr. Steel. I’m afraid that Cheri—

Just Steel.

She paused, resisting the urge to wipe her damp palms on her silk skirt. Excuse me?

Not Mr. Steel. Just plain Steel.

A smile stretched at her lips, not a polite one. This guy was a piece of work. Just Steel? Like Sting or Madonna?

His brows lowered and he narrowed his eyes at her, rocking back on his boot heels. Or Elvis.

Even Elvis had a last name.

I don’t.

A brief, uncomfortable moment strained between them. Althea clasped her hands together. Regardless, I’m sorry to have wasted your time. The gallery isn’t taking on new artists at this time. She plucked a card from the scrolled holder on her desk. However, if you’d like to take my card…

He took it but studied her. Your hair is the most remarkable color.

Self-consciously, she put a hand to it. Dropped it.

It’s nearly a pure white. Almost colorless, he continued. His rough fingers twitched on the binder he carried. An artist’s reflex she’d seen hundreds of times.

Yes, well. To put distance between them, Althea went to sit behind her desk. I’m albino.

Steel set his binder on her desk, tucked his thumbs in his belt loops. Like white deer—that kind of thing?

Ah…yes. Like that.

Your eyebrows and lashes aren’t white.

Makeup.

Shouldn’t your eyes be pink?

Not all albino’s eyes are pink, but I wear colored contact lenses.

But you wear glasses.

I don’t see well. The lenses help with light sensitivity—and looking normal—the glasses help me with visual acuity. Any other questions I can answer on the topic?

He flashed a surprisingly wicked grin, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The only other one that springs to mind isn’t something a guy asks a lady.

Her lips twitched in reflexive response. Why she wanted to smile, she didn’t know. He wasn’t remotely charming. No—though you wouldn’t be the first to wonder if the carpet matches the drapes.

He rocked on his heels again, looking tremendously amused. With his thumbs in his belt loops, the movement drew her attention even more to the bulge in the faded denim so perfectly framed by the black leather. Desperate for something else to look at, she grabbed his portfolio. What on earth possessed her to blurt that out?

Um… He put a hand on top of the binder. His knuckles were stained and rough. More like a working man than an artist. You might not want to do that.

She flicked a glance at him, feeling cool again. Didn’t you bring it here for that reason? She slid it out from under his grip, unzipped it.

Yeah, but that’s before I saw what kind of gallery you have.

She flipped open the portfolio and raised an eyebrow at him. And exactly what kind is that, pray tell?

He glanced around, his gaze landing on a lovely marble abstract on a pedestal nearby. The movement of it reminded her of an ocean wave, and she sometimes ran her fingers over the smooth sweep of it when she was alone.

Steel pursed his lips, cocked his head and gave her the same appraisal as the gallery. Ladylike.

He didn’t say what she knew some of the other, more successful gallery owners would call it—tourist art. Irritated, and annoyed to feel that way, Althea focused on the first photograph.

Flipped the page to the second.

And the third.

When she reached the end, she turned back to the beginning to look again.

Hot.

Pow.

The sculptures and paintings all radiated visceral, raw sexual power that took her breath away. The metal sculptures evoked twined figures, sometimes bound together, sometimes trying to tear apart. The paintings, less abstract, were gut-wrenching images of sensual limbs and flowing hair. Longing grew in her belly. That certain hunger to possess a work of art she loved burned brightly.

The sculptures— her voice kept a cool, impersonal shell over the shocking impact of his art, —you use found metal?

Mostly, yeah. Inlaid with precious metal plate when I can afford it.

And, the paintings? Oils or acrylics? Althea adjusted her glasses on her nose to better see the detail. This kind of thing challenged her weak vision the most.

Either. Both. Usually what I can get my hands on or…

She looked up at him over her glasses. Or what seems right?

He nodded, stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and shrugged. So?

Your work is edgy, deeply moving, yet accessible. Brilliant, really.

He looked suspicious, the scowl giving his lips an irresistibly sexy crease. Brilliant, huh?

Althea sat back in her chair, smoothly crossing her stockinged legs and folding her hands on one knee. But, not right for Chalkstone. I’m sorry.

He picked up the portfolio. Seems I told you that already.

Yes. Well. She stood and rounded the desk, ready to scoot him and his disturbing presence out the door. "I am sorry. But you won’t have trouble finding a gallery to show your work. I’m sure of it."

Steel pulled a money clip out of his coat pocket and set it on the desk.

What’s that?

Ten grand.

Are you planning to buy something?

His hard gaze assessed the misty paintings on the walls and came back to her, eyes glittering. He let the pause stretch until she thought he might not answer.

Space to work.

Not what she thought he was going to say. From the way he’d looked her over, she’d been braced for something as crude and sexual as his work.

I beg your pardon?

Your girl said you have one of the few basements in the historic district.

Yes. She scrambled to pull her thoughts together. I use the space to prepare exhibits. There’s a sump pump, but it doesn’t always keep up.

I’ll pay you the ten grand to let me live and work there for the next six months.

She blinked and pulled off her glasses. That’s a lot to pay.

He grinned. For Charleston’s historical district? No way.