JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3) Page 15

  “You’re very talented.”

  “Okay?”

  I’m usually very intelligent, honestly I am, but as he continues to bore his green gaze into me I feel every thought and brain cell I possess melting away beneath the image of him, reclining naked against snowy sheets—

  “What did you mean when you said that’s why you couldn’t get it right?” he asks suddenly, wrenching me out of my very vivid daydream.

  “Uh…n-nothing.” I stammer, looking everywhere but at him when he smiles knowingly and pushes to his feet.

  The guy is easily over six feet, and he towers over me when he moves closer and stands, staring down at me.

  “I would very much like to see your work, Miss Bennet.”

  “I-You wouldn’t like what I do,” I say, spotting a magnificent, dark Degas print behind his desk. “I only do…color.”

  It’s my weakness. No matter how hard I try to do the dark, ‘thought provoking’ stuff, I always end up with a rainbow of color splashed on the canvas. There’s nothing thoughtful or mysterious about my work. I paint what Vernon Metz calls ‘simple photographs of the world’.

  That’s why I have yet to get my big break. What I offer is nothing more than ‘hotel landscapes’ and the occasional portrait. Or so Vernon says. Whatever the case, I can see from this man’s taste that my landscapes and portraits won’t be his cup of tea.

  “Color is not a bad thing,” he says, and I see that I’ve somehow managed to amuse him.

  I hate being an amusement. I’ve spent the last four years of my life working to be my own person and as far from a feminine amusement as I can get, and the fact that he finds me humorous pisses me off enough that I am no longer shyly in awe of him, but just plain annoyed.

  “It is when the galleries tell you your work is one-dimensional and looks like a unicorn exploded on the canvas,” I mutter. “Look, Mr—”

  “Vincent.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, and believe me, I really am flattered that you liked my plates, but I don’t have what you’re looking for, and I have to get back to work.”

  Any artist would be over the moon that a patron, and especially a loaded one, wants to see their work. I would be if not for the fact that Vincent, the man I have developed an obsession with, is obviously interested in more than my work.

  His eyes are telling me something totally different, something that calls to the untouched sensuality that I’ve fought to bury. He wants…more than what he’s asking for, and right now I can’t afford to give it to him.

  “Miss Bennet.”

  He says my name in a sensual growl that makes my knees quake, and I swallow a whimper when he strokes the tip of his index finger from my temple to the point of my chin.

  “I appreciate beauty, in all things. I would very much like to see what you have to offer.”

  “Uh…”

  My heart is racing, booming a wild thumpa thump when he leans down, his lips stopping a breath away from mine, and just breathes, letting me feel the heat swirling between us.

  “Show me what you have, Miss Bennet.”

  All I can do is nod, telling myself firmly that it’s the art, just the art he wants. I know it’s not true, but as he pulls away and smiles I need something to cling to, something to keep my knees from buckling as he lays a possessive hand at my hip and steers me to the door.

  “I’ll come round tomorrow night.”

  I don’t ask anything or point out that he doesn’t have my address. Somehow I don’t think a man this powerful will let that stand in his way.

  As I finish up and follow Jim to the van, I know something big is about to happen, something life changing, and I can’t say if I’m altogether pleased with that.

  Chapter Three

  “Wait. He asked to see your work and you said no? I thought all artists dream of that shit. Seriously, Sissy, you are your own worst enemy!” Bee yells at me from the kitchen, where she’s making omelets and cream cheese bagels.

  I’m perched in the eyrie, my little half loft overlooking the kitchen, looking critically at the ‘Vincent’ portrait I’ve been slaving over since I got home last night. As I’d noted, the problem I’m having is capturing those eyes—

  “Stop working and come eat. And then you can tell me why you’re shying away from the big break you’ve been waiting for and what sounds like some seriously hot sex. I saw Vincent Blake, and that man is F.I.N.E.”

  I sigh and drop my paintbrush, making my way downstairs and to the breakfast table.

  “He’s…”

  I don’t have the right words to explain why getting involved with Vincent would be a bad idea.

  “Hot?” she prompts, glaring until I start eating.

  “Very,” I answer around a mouthful of eggs.

  “Intelligent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he have all his own teeth?”

  I snort and choke on my eggs, shaking my head when she giggles and claps her teeth at me.

  “Of course.”

  “Then explain to me why you are refusing to go out with a guy who is hot, smart, has a boatload of money, and—”

  “I don’t want to be Sissy Bennet, pampered girlfriend and hobby artist. If I’d wanted that I might as well have stayed in Texas with my family and accepted Daddy’s trust fund money. I want…”

  Bee nods when I trail off, and I know she gets it. I come from a rich, prestigious branch of Texas’s elite. My father owns and runs the Bar Three, a huge cattle ranch that’s been in the family since his ancestors stepped off the Mayflower.

  Bee herself is the daughter of an oil baron. We live in an apartment owned by her brother Jeffrey, for Pete’s sake.

  She, more than anyone, understands the drive to escape the yoke of being the daughter of a rich man. That’s why we’re still best friends after meeting at our interviews for Angie’s Angels.

  We’re kindred spirits just trying to make it on our own. If it’s hard and we just manage to scrape rent together most months…well, at least we’ve managed not to dip into the free money our parents throw at us.

  It’s not easy though, not when I know one phone call from Daddy will have me featured in some of New York’s most prestigious galleries.

  “I get it. Daddy tried to give me the VP position in Jeff’s company last week. It took an hour to explain to him why I’m taking night school to get my degree and find my own way. I swear…”

  “Yup. So now you understand why I can’t do this whole Vincent thing. My dad will hear about it and come running to New York, and I kind of get the impression Vincent isn’t looking for a quick fling.”

  I’m not either. I mean, I’m not into casual sex or one night stands, I just don’t want a relationship right now. What I want is to make a success of myself without my father’s influence. Or the man I happen to be sleeping with.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “You working tonight?”

  “Yeah. And then I’m staying over at Eric’s through the weekend.”

  “Good, then you won’t have to ignore the buzzer when he shows up and I’m not here.”

  We finish breakfast and I go back to work, hating myself for the cowardice I’m displaying, but knowing that saying no to Vincent face to face is not possible.

  ***

  I trudge up the stairs at two in the morning after a truly grueling eight hour shift at The Thirsty Jackal. Having two jobs and painting all night does not give me much time for sleep, but short of living off my family I’m just glad I make enough money tending bar to keep a roof over my head and food on the table.

  I’m so tired I bypass the stairs and slump into the elevator, closing my eyes against the fatigue dogging me as I rise to the third floor and stumble my way to my door.

  I toss my bag and coat in the general vicinity of the entrance table and walk to the refrigerator in the dark, needing nothing more than a glass of milk and my bed.

  “You stood me up.”

  The scream
that leaves me as a lamp clicks on to reveal a very pissed off Vincent sounds almost bloodcurdling. Thank God the nearest neighbor is a floor down and deaf as a post, or I’d be dealing with cops.

  “Jesus Christ, what the fu—”

  My heart is pounding so hard my chest hurts, and yet I can’t stop the cheeky grin twisting at my mouth when he rises and stalks towards me, his expression revealing displeasure and the tiniest hint of humor.

  “This is a first for me. I’ve never been stood up by a woman before,” he admits, stopping close enough that our toes touch. “I’ve been here almost nine hours.”

  “I-I had to go to work.”

  It’s true, and yet I’d taken the shift with the very real intention of avoiding meeting him. Part of me is really glad he’s not taking the hint and moving on to his next conquest, even as I know teasing this very powerful man is not a good idea.

  “You were hoping I’d lose interest and leave you alone,” he growls, hooking an arm at my waist to pull me into him. “Guess what, Sissy Bennet? I don’t take no for an answer.”

  I don’t get a chance to reply because his mouth is on mine, his lips grinding, hand fisting my hair to get the right angle. When I whimper and try to pull away, needing air, he takes advantage and thrusts his tongue into my mouth.

  His taste is a mixture of coffee and spearmint, two of my favorite things, and I moan, melting into him instead of pushing away. This… I’ve never felt this before with a man.

  His kiss is a claim, an angry taking, a hard denial of my rebuff, and I glory in his aggression when he deepens it, his tongue diving deep, owning me.

  I kiss him back, throwing my arms over his shoulders, grinding my moistening sex into the hard bulge at his hips.

  “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll walk away,” he growls, slowing the kiss to run the tip of his tongue over my lips and teeth. “Tell me you’re not getting wet for me right now and I’ll let you go and leave.”

  My only response is to lick him back and moan low in my throat when he cups my ass and squeezes, grinding my clit into his erection.

  “Jesus, I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

  Me too. I’d heard his voice, that crisp English accent, and seen his mesmerizing green eyes, and I’d fallen into an obsession that even a week later isn’t easy to shake.

  I’ve painted him, dreamed of him, wanted him as I’ve never wanted another man. This is not a good idea; in fact, this is the worst idea I’ve ever entertained, but as he kneads my ass, stroking a glancing finger over the entrance of my sex through my jeans, I am helpless against the desire drenching my every nerve ending.

  “Me too. But we hardly know each other.”

  My answer is rewarded with another swift kiss before he releases me and takes a step back.

  “We will, Sissy Bennet,” he promises. “Now show me your work, distract me, or you’ll be full of my cock before you can take your next breath,” he growls, his own breath a stuttered snarl.

  I don’t want to. I want to keep kissing him till he loses control and takes me on the sofa a few feet away. I want to know all that power and intensity focused on me and the arousal whipping at my body.

  But he’s right. The time…I can’t just sleep with him, not if I want to keep the few shreds of self-respect I still have after years of failed relationships.

  I can’t take him to the eyrie. It’s too embarrassing to admit that all I’ve done this past week is paint the very face I’ve spent half the night trying to forget, so I lead him to the spare bedroom instead and watch nervously as he walks around, studying my mediocre landscapes and the few portraits I’ve done.

  My favorite is of a little girl in the park. She’s chasing a ball, her blonde curls fanning out behind her as she giggles in delight. I can’t tell you why it’s my favorite above the others, except to say that I’d felt every tinkle of her happiness and innocent glee that day, and painting it had been as much a joy as watching her chase her tiny yellow ball on the grass.

  Vincent takes his time and truly studies them all, his face giving nothing away. When he finally turns back to me I force myself not to blink away and raise my head defiantly.

  “They’re like—”

  “Photographs? Yeah. And that’s apparently why I’ll never be anything more than a struggling artist. They—”

  “Perfect,” he growls, interrupting me. “The detail, I— Have you shown these yet?”

  “No, they’re due at Vernon’s Gallery in two days. I just finished the last piece in the series,” I say, running a critical eye over a view of Central Park from a window at the Met. “Not that they’ll sell. Vern only displays my stuff as a favor. He doesn’t really do much to promote it.”

  “I could—”

  “No. I want my work to sell because people like it, not because someone I know is a rich art buff,” I warn, narrowing my eyes at the seascape I’d painted last month when Bee had dragged me to Long Beach with her and Eric.

  Vincent sighs and casts another look over at the canvasses before following me out and back to the living room.

  “What’s up there?”

  I follow his gaze and cringe inwardly at the four covered canvasses up in the eyrie. I really do not want him going up there and witnessing my monumental crush.

  “Just a few pieces I haven’t finished yet. No!”

  He’s taking the stairs and whipping the sheet from the easel before I can follow and stop him, and I freeze, blushing crimson. That specific piece depicts the man reclining back against a sea of white pillows, and a sheet barely covers his lower half.

  I’d painted him looking up from beneath lowered lashes, his vivid green eyes seductively inviting, just as I’d seen him in the erotically charged dream I’d had three nights ago.

  It had started with a stroke of his hands over his muscled chest as I watched, rapt and needy, my hand frozen over the canvas. In the dream he’d been luring me, tempting me to stop working and come play. When I’d refused, unable to do anything but work frantically to capture the heat I’d seen in his eyes, he’d stroked all the way down his flat stomach and beneath the sheet, the movement of his fist showing in stark detail what I wanted to do to him.

  I’d woken, aroused and unfulfilled, and painted till my hands had cramped, and still I can’t seem to capture him as perfectly as I’d seen him in that dream.

  “Um—”

  My words die when he turns to look at me, a dark, sensual smile curving his ruby red lips. Arousal, thick and hot, sets up a steady beat between my legs, reminding me of the dream and my as yet unfulfilled desire.

  “I’ve set up a studio at my home,” he murmurs, his eyes running the length of my body, heating me everywhere. “You’ll paint me there, in my sheets.”

  I nod, swallowing loudly when he prowls down the stairs and comes closer, not stopping till we’re melded together. He takes my hand and pulls it between us, cupping my fingers over his bulging girth, using me to stroke himself.

  “And then I’ll show you why your dimensions are off.”

  Chapter Four

  By four o’clock the next afternoon I’m standing on his doorstep, a mess of nervous anticipation as my hand hovers over the doorbell. If I push it I know it’s a step that I can never go back from.

  This is why he’d planted a kiss on my lips and left last night. He wants me to choose this. He’s used to getting his way; I know this just as I know that my father would always play to win while keeping his integrity and respecting others’ decisions.

  I’m used to powerful men. My father, brother, and cousins are in the same league, and I know how they think. They want what they want, but they won’t and never will force someone to take that step.

  Vincent is exactly the same. He’ll keep after me, but in the end it will always have to be me capitulating, not being forced into a decision.

  My finger stops hovering and presses down, and I hear the soft chime echo from somewhere inside the town house. When the door op
ens, I’m surprised to see him and not a butler or housekeeper, and I say so.

  “If I’m to lounge around in the nude I’d prefer we have privacy. Let me take your coat.”

  “Gosh, I love this place. Who did the mosaic?” I ask, following him down the hall and into the kitchen I’d admired a week ago.

  The center island is glass topped to protect the farm scene depicted in thousands of shards of colorful tile. Whoever had done this knows their craft, and I have to admit a certain jealousy. I can’t do anything this technical without making a mess, artist or not.

  “Wine?”

  I nod, noting his deflection, and shrug away my irritation. If he doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine by me. I’ve been on edge and needy all day, and part of me would prefer a quick roll between the sheets and an even quicker au revoir.

  “I notice a slight drawl in your accent.”

  “I’m from Texas originally,” I say, allowing the twang free rein as I follow him to the living room and snuggle into the corner of the sofa. “I try not to let the twang out if I can help it, or I’ll be faced with hillbilly jokes and insults a country girl like me doesn’t need.”

  He seats himself a few feet away and turns to me.

  “Understandable. Some people either talk to me as if I’m another species or they feel intimidated by my accent. Unfortunately, mine is not as easily disguisable.”

  “You’re a transplant then?” I ask.

  Of course he must be; his accent is all British upper class and definitely not American, but he seems so at ease and free of the lingo I know most Brits use.

  “Not quite. My father is Walter Blake of the Chicago Blakes. When he and Mother divorced I went to live with her and only came back for the holidays and the odd family event. I’m what you would call a mutt.”

  His derogatory tone and rueful smile make me laugh for the first time since I’d left my apartment this afternoon. For him to call himself a mutt is such a crock. I’ve never met a more well-heeled man in my life, and that’s saying a lot, with Mama’s country club rich boys I’d been forced to date in my teens.