Tonight was a good evening for Nate Holloway.

Strike that: tonight was a fantastic evening for Nate Holloway.

His art had been rather successful since his transition into the straight-and-narrow world. He successfully sold recreations and even some original work, supplementing his teaching income. Turning his art into money helped him stay in a standard of living that, while not on par with his conman lifestyle, certainly kept him comfortable.

More importantly, he was now, on occasion, able to take his artistic integrity and hold it high. On this particular evening, one of his paintings was being included in a high-class art show at one of the more exclusive art galleries of New York. In this case, he was being rewarded for a neoclassical piece he made in his own time, in which a warrior was being tugged and pulled from every angle by wicked succubi, whispering dark thoughts in his ear and disarming his weapons and armor. From above came a goddess wrapped in shining cloths, loosing a silver arrow through the heart of a succubus.

It was a classical example of the temptations of darkness and the protection of the gods. Nate was told that the interest in his piece came from both its appropriate themes and the high quality of the painting technique. He wanted to give credit to years of replicating masterpieces, but instead he simply gave thanks to the praise and assured the organizer that he would make an appearance.

Nate extended an offer to Quin, but to his dismay, she was scheduled to work the entire evening. He understood and she wished him luck, but it was hard to completely ignore that he would have loved to have his girlfriend on his arm to share his moment with him. She was, after all, a heavy inspiration for the painting.

The evening of the show, the artist entered through the main doorway into a foyer of socialites and enthusiasts. He considered wearing his favorite brown suit with blue pinstripes, but the invitation specifically called for black tie, so he felt like a James Bond knock-off, bowtie and all. Thankfully, he was not out of place.

Nate scanned the artwork initially, knowing he would spend more time examining the pieces shortly. For now, he was focused on finding his own work. Eventually, he spotted it: "Tempted Soul" by Artist Nathaniel Holloway. There were a few people already examining his work, so he simply walked within earshot, but out of sight.

"The artist really stayed true to the influences of Greek and Roman art, and the colors and brush strokes were expertly chosen."

Nate tried, but he had a hard time keeping a grin off his face. It was not often that he could listen to his art being praised.

"Yeah, but do we really need neoclassical art in this day and age? Seems like an attempt to forgo postmodernism and counter-cultures."

Well, undoing his grin was now considerably less difficult. He did not let the criticism get to him, but he did involuntarily roll his eyes. He walked away, catching bits and pieces of the two friends debating the merits of Nate's art.

Besides the fountain of art and knowledge provided by art shows, there was a secondary benefit to high class events such as this: open bars. Sure enough, it took Nate less time to find the bar than it did to discover his own work of art.

Nate straightened his glasses as he leaned against the bar counter. "One whiskey sour, please." Nate could take criticism, but he imagined a drink or two would help take the edge off of any nasty commentaries.

A fiddle job, plain and simple. The mark was a fumbling new money moron who had come into a surprising inheritance. Like many fools who fell into the lifestyle, he thought he could start by collecting art. A poor choice for him, wonderful for Leyla.

She fit this crowd like a glove. She was dressed in a sleek navy dress that was perhaps a tad too risque, what with the slit up to her thigh. Her hair was twisted up behind her head and she had taken the opportunity to wear dress gloves, covering up her missing digit.

Guiding her mark over to the next painting, she slid a hand down his arm, gracing him with a small bit of euphoria. "Yes, none of his painting here to sale, but this is most like to the ones I have for you," she explained, trying to lighten up the accent, but not succeeding very well. "You look the dark color, simple shape, and still themes are very complex, no?"

Leyla paid almost no attention to his response. He was eating out of her hand, and it was essentially a done deal. Pawn a few of the cheap replicas off on him, and he'd never see her again. She surveyed the crowd around them. A healthy mix of art enthusiasts and wealthy lookie-loos. Exhausting.

"You keep look," she told him. "I go for drink." Sauntering up to the bar, she flashed the bartender a half-friendly smile. "Vodka on rocks, lemon twist."

It did not take long to finish off his first whiskey sour. There was a time when these upper-class functions felt like a natural part of his life, but a normal life as an art teacher, boyfriend and law-abiding citizen had left him much more comfortable in his own social climate. Everything here felt so... phony. It was always phony surely, but the difference was Nate was no longer phony enough to fit right in. All he could hear around him was pretentious babble from people who knew nothing about art and people who knew just enough to be dangerous.

If Nate was going to get through tonight without feeling his soul wither away, one drink was not going to cut it. Before he could order his next drink, a young woman stood off to his side at the bar.

>> "Vodka on rocks, lemon twist."

This woman was the third reason Nate used to enjoy events like this: a rather attractive woman in hot little navy number with her hair up and elegant gloves. He could just barely notice some sort of tattoo on her forearm, but the glove concealed too much of it. If anything, that seemed slightly out of place, but in recent years, tattoos in the art world, even on the higher end of the scale, were much more common. Still, if he were still single, this, along with her accent and slightly broken English, would have been enough to make him curious.

At any rate, he had to try socializing with someone at some point. There was nothing weird about talking to the stranger next to you at an art show; if anything, looking around and saying nothing to anybody branded "outsider" across your forehead.

He held up a tip for the bartender and asked for another drink, this time a scotch highball. He turned his attention to the woman and asked her, "Have you seen anything to get excited about yet?" As long as she did not decide to jump into a rant about how useless anything that was not pop or post-modern was, he would do his best to strike up conversation. He was a taken man, but that did not mean there was any harm in simply speaking to another woman.

The bartender slid over her drink and she passed him his tip. Leyla sipped at her vodka like it was water, at first not seeming to notice the man speaking to her. After she had another sip, she turned to look him over.

Longish hair, a stubbly beard, and an uncomfortable stance. Either he'd been dragged here by someone else or he was an artist. She pressed her lips together, considering his question, and cast a look over the room. Low, rumbling speech, people pretending to understand things they had no clue about.

"Ah," she sighed, "For certain it is not the crowd. The art...there is some good, some garbage. Maybe this drink I can make excitement for." She gave a light laugh and took another sip, taking the opportunity to study his hands, spotting the tell-tale flecks of color under his fingernails. "So, you paint of garbage or the good?" she gestured toward some nearby paintings

She was more observant than Nate was expecting; it took her no time at all to peg him as one of the artists. Admittedly, he did not offer much of a challenge with his unclean face and general lack of a pretentious aura. His desire to be far away from the place had to offer a clue as well. The moment was a good reminder of how much he had changed; years prior, he would have been one of the "elite" and no one would have questioned it.

Thankfully, her sense of humor comforted him as she poked fun at the general masses there through her patchwork English. She had the elegance, but not the attitude of an elitist trust fund baby. His second drink was handed to him by the bartender and Nate raised the glass in agreement. "I'm hoping more or less the same. Cheers." He extended his drink slightly in faux-toast before taking a sip of the smooth liquor.

She asked him about his painting, and he grinned. Hopefully she continued to refrain from becoming a counter-culture snob. "I'd say good, as long as you're not expecting some abstract splotches of paint on a canvas." He gestured toward his painting with his glass. "I decided to go with a neoclassical piece, which apparently has some feathers ruffled." Hippie art students.

An artist...her wheels immediately started churning. Any person she met was immediately evaluated for how they could be played or how they could help her play someone else, and his good looks did not excuse him. Though, Leyla did appreciate a man that looked rough around the edges.

As soon as he mentioned the neoclassical piece (one of the few complex terms she actually understood), her eyebrows arched upward, and she set down her glass. So, he had some talent? The wheels churned faster. "Ah! You paint the temptation? One of few here to use of some effort. I like. I have not time for scribble on wall. I understand, yes, but where is skill and study?"

She shook her head. "And this people, do they buy for purpose? No. For trend. Annoying, I think." Scanning her brain to see what she had at her immediate disposal, Leyla remembered the business cards for her imaginary gallery, still in her purse. If she was going to use that, though, she might have to string the new money along for a bit longer. It might be worth it, though. She took a long drink, pressing her lips together to savor the fresh burn.

So she had noticed his art already, and she seemed to approve. He thought "seemed" because it was not easy to translate what she was saying initially. Once he was able to process and repiece her comments, he was flattered. "Exactly why I've never been big on modern art." The further society fell into the pit of modernity, the harder it became to even differentiate between art and nonsense. With enough pretentiousness, you could rationalize that a blank canvas was a brilliant masterpiece.

It was not just the art they agreed on, however. She had a similar opinion toward the "patrons of art" they were surrounded by. "When you're so rich and privileged, there's nothing left to give you purpose besides keeping with trends."

It was his turn to assess his new drinking partner. He was out of practice, but his skills of observation were not totally dulled. "Not everyone, though. You clearly have money, but you also have independent thought, which vaults you clear above most of this room. Plus, whatever those tattoos on your arms are, they aren't just something trendy." He took a long sip of the carbonated scotch drink in his hand. "I think it's safe to say you might be the most 'exciting' thing here." he added, calling back to her original comments.

A stray piece of hair had fallen out of place and she carelessly tucked it back into its clip.

>>"When you're so rich and privileged, there's nothing left to give you purpose besides keeping with trends."

She smirked, finding herself starting to slide him between mark and conspirator in her internal planning. "True. At least this keep the galleries opened, yes? I cannot make too much complaint."

Leyla swirled her drink idly, getting toward the bottom of it with impressive speed. She didn't intend to get drunk, but she could hold her liquor like a pro, and it took more than a glass to get her tipsy.

>>"I think it's safe to say you might be the most 'exciting' thing here."

Looking out at the crowd, she grinned in an almost predatory manner at the compliment. Maybe he would just be a fun plaything. She didn't thank him (didn't really thank anyone, ever), but her expression made her flattery almost as clear as the fact that she knew it to be true. She lounged with one elbow on the bar, glancing down at a bit of tattoo peeking above the hem of her right glove. "No, this are dear to me," she agreed, tracing her left ring finger down her arm, baring two of the Cyrillic letters. The last finger of the left glove had been removed and sewn over expertly. "And money I have, I work for. It make me sensible, the working."

>> "True. At least this keep the galleries opened, yes? I cannot make too much complaint."

She had a point, sadly. In the world they were in, were it not for the rich, the pretentious, and those with too much free time on their hands, art would be a dying business in this world of practicality, and where would that leave him? Certainly not teaching, nor with his lovely girlfriend (who he was making sure to keep in the forefront of his mind,) and not sitting in an art gallery talking to this interesting woman. "You have a point, I reckon."

>> "No, this are dear to me. And money I have, I work for. It make me sensible, the working."

She certainly was not your typical socialite, but not just because of her ability to work for a living and dismiss the lifestyles of the rich and famous. As she pointed to her tattoo, it was clear that her glove lacked a pinkie finger, which of course implied that her left hand lacked a pinkie. He would not just point that out, but a missing pinkie said something about a person: namely, that they had a past, and possibly a skeleton or two inhabiting their closets.

He was able to get a better look at the right tattoo; he could not read it, but he did recognize the letters. "Russian. I knew I caught a little bit of that lovely accent." It was not the only facet of her accent, but it was the one he found most recognizable, after conversations with Sveta.

Nate extended a hand, (specifically, his right hand,) in introduction. "I'm Nate."

He took another look around the room, trying to make sure he did something other than drain his second drink, which he had been quickly finishing. "So what interests you in the arts?"

>>"Russian. I knew I caught a little bit of that lovely accent."

"Half," she agreed, baring the top of her other tattoo in turn. "Turkish, also. A race of more pride than of the Russians."

She shook his hand, delicately with her wrist up, and yet with an unexpectedly firm grip at the fingers. Elegant, yet not to be messed with. A handshake said a lot about a person, and she put a great deal of thought into them. His grip was a solid one, but seemed intentionally softened, as if holding something back.

"Leyla Sevgici," she responded coolly.

>>"So what interests you in the arts?"

Ah, here was the moment to decide her game. She decided to hold back on him until she got a better read. He seemed a bit too straight and narrow to bet on just yet. Reaching into her bag, she retrieved a simple white business card on expensive paper. Sevgici Gallery of Modern Art, it read, along with contact information. "Business," she told him.

So he was dealing with half-Russian, half-Turkish, nine fingered, Leyla Sevgici. She was a curious case, but there were so many hints and pieces to this puzzle. The pieces just did not seem to fit together perfectly yet, which made her very intriguing to him. If she had been around naught a year ago, he could have had loads of fun figuring her out piece by piece. "Charmed."

Adding to the puzzle, Leyla handed him a business card advertising her own art gallery. A modern art gallery, sure, but he was being rather harsh earlier; not all modern art was trash. Besides, it never hurt to get to know someone who had the means to share art when you were in the business of creating art. He grinned, not wanting to seem too eager. "Interesting. So has anything here caught your eye yet?"

Oh, this was just too perfect. The hint of hope in his tone filled her with a swell of self-satisfaction. "Like I say," she told him, aloof. "Much is garbage. But here, in fact I think yours 'catch my eye' as you say."

She twisted herself casually to create a long, pronounced line from her jaw down to her low-cut neckline. She found it best to play all angles available. Leyla knew without hesitation that he found her attractive. Whether or not that aspect would be beneficial was still to be seen.

"Tell me. You make many painting? I may have interest." Don't seem too eager. She needed him to feel that he was working for it at least a little.

Nate was not sure if Leyla was truly interested in his artwork or if she was flattering him, but he had too much natural curiosity to pass this up. The idea of a pretty young woman heading her own art gallery, and the idea of learning more about the enigma woman called out to the detective that lived in the mind of every former conman. "You're too kind."

>> "Tell me. You make many painting? I may have interest."

The whole thing seemed too perfect, but Nate was not about to let suspicion win out over intrigue. What was life without risk? "I have plenty of other paintings actually. Although," a problem arose in his mind. He had not thought about bringing along any other paintings; why would he? "I don't have any more here. They're at my apartment sadly." Well, there went his fun for the night.

She shrugged, not looking particularly put off. In fact, it was probably better if they couldn't start the business right away. It gave more room for the game. At the same time, she couldn't give him room to check up on her. "Maybe you bring to gallery later," she suggested carelessly, then frowned and sighed. "Oh! I forget. I travel for Milan soon. Maybe won't be back for while."

Frowning thoughtfully, Leyla studied his painting from afar, a hand under her chin. "Is a shame, though. Your style, it is not common enough I see it. True beauty, dear." She caught sight of her other mark out of the corner of her eye. He was chatting with other patrons. She had better fish him out fairly soon before he got any half-intelligent ideas in his head.

She was clearly showering him with praise, knowing that if he wanted to show off his art and be included in her art gallery, he had virtually no choice but one. He knew virtually nothing about her or her gallery, and bringing a strange woman to his apartment surely was not going to excite his girlfriend.

But damned if it was not an exciting risk and a compelling game.

Calmly, Nate took the final sip of his drink before submitting. "Well, I suppose you are welcome to come by and take a look at what I have." He removed a pen and a strip of paper from his pocket; two things he always carried out of habit. He jotted down the address to his apartment. "If you decide you want to test my mettle, feel free to come around when you're done here."

He looked around at what now felt less like a classy event and more like a boring distraction from his night's real entertainment. "I think I'm going to head out, but if you decide I've piqued your curiosity, I'll see you soon."

He placed his glass on the bar, gave Leyla a parting handshake and a winning smile, and he left to hail a cab.

Once the door to the taxi closed, he had two important calls to make. The first was obviously to Quin. As he expected, he was taken straight to voicemail. "Hi darlin, hope work's going well. I'm just calling to let you know that a gallery owner is coming by my apartment tonight to take a look at my paintings." He took a brief pause before adding, "she'll just be deciding if there is anything she'll want to display in her gallery. I didn't mean to drag business back to the apartment, but I'll try to keep it quick so you can still come by after work. Stay safe. I love you." He hit the END button and quickly scrolled through his address book to find an old, unused contact labeled "Bob."

"Hey Dale. How about them Heat?" Jay's name was not Dale or Bob and neither of them cared about basketball, but it was the easiest code to make sure they knew the line was clear and the nature of the call was private. "Yes, I know... No, I'm not getting back into business, I just need a favor... Because you owe me one! ...Long Island. Yeah, I thought you'd remember that.

"Alright, now that we're on the same page, I need you to check out a name. Leyla Sevgici... yeah, if anything comes up on her, just text me. You know the code. Yeah, thanks. Yeah, I'm sorry I've left you to deal with amateurs... yes, you are a king among men." At least some shady dealers had a sense of humor. "Thanks. G'night."

For the remainder of the short drive, Nate checked for Leyla's name online through his mobile internet. Her gallery did come up, which was a good sign, but nothing concrete yet. It was better that way; he was having fun.

He made it back to his apartment and made sure his higher quality art was on display in the living room. If everything was on the up-and-up, it would pay to impress her after all.

As an extra precaution, Nate opened up Parker's room and the arachnid spilled out and affectionately nibbled on Nate's shoe. He could not help but grin. He knelt down so Parker's eight eyes could find his two. "Listen boy, you're gonna go play in the computer room, but if I call for you, it's your job to come out here, got it?"

Parker did what Nate always interpreted as a nod and skittered down the hall to his new room. Nate closed the door to the web-filled closet and sat in the living room with a book, waiting to see if Leyla would indeed come.