Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(8)

It took me a moment to comprehend what he was saying, and when I did realize what he'd said it sure as fuck didn't make me feel any better. I'd once semi-jokingly told Felicia I'd thought Anton might be a wife serial-killer because of his distance and his locked basement. This guy, though, was seriously weirding me out. Carefully I hopped off my bar stool, making certain to place it between us when I found the ground with my feet. “I'm sorry,” I said, holding the stool in front of me like a shield, “but you sound like you're going to kill me and wear my skin when you talk like that.”

To my utter shock, he threw back his head and laughed so long and hard that tears came to his eyes. After almost a full minute I started to seriously think about stomping my foot, one of Felicia's favorite gestures. “I'm not sure what's so funny,” I told him. “You're creeping me out and that's not cool. Especially since you bought a 'date' with me.” To emphasize my point I crossed my arms, the thumb of my left hand finding the tattoo on my inner right bicep and rubbing it, something I often did when I was discomfited.

He visibly calmed himself and wiped his eyes. “Oh!” he said. “Oh, wow. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, er, give you that impression. What I meant was that I am an amateur artist, and I find you quite lovely as a potential subject for a piece.”

...Okay, that threw me off balance. There's probably something wrong with me in that I seem to jump to the serial killer explanation for people's weird behavior instead of considering other viable explanations, but really. An amateur artist? This guy? From what I'd heard of him, his greatest talent was getting the media spotlight on him.

My incredulity must have shown in my face, because his smile grew. “You don't believe me?” he said. “It's true. I dabble in the arts.”

“Oh,” I said finally. “That's... great.”

“In fact, it's the main reason I bought you.”#p#分页标题#e#

Does... does this guy want art lessons? I wonder. “It is?”

“Oh yes. I knew from the moment I saw you from across the ballroom that I wanted to paint you. Or take your picture. Or perhaps sculpt you...” He took a step closer, and my hands tightened on the bar stool. He was so tall, and I caught a whiff of a very masculine scent underneath his aftershave. The hard muscles of his body filled out his tux, and I found myself praying that he was telling the truth, because if he tried to kill me I'd be no match for a barrel chest and biceps like the ones he was sporting.

“Wow,” I said. “You, uh, work in a lot of mediums.”

“I'm quite versatile,” he assured me. “And that is what I have planned for our date. Or rather, for our several dates.”

I scowled. “Excuse me? I never said anything about several dates.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Well, I paid nine thousand dollars for you. I feel that I have procured your services as a model, or perhaps I should say as an inspiration, for as long as it takes to complete one masterpiece featuring you.”

For an artist, this guy sure talked oddly about it. “I... I suppose we should see how it goes,” I said cautiously. Nine thousand dollars weighed pretty heavily on my conscience, but I wasn't about to let him see that. “Let's stick with one and if I'm comfortable with you, then we can maybe negotiate more.”

“A woman who drives a bargain,” Ward said. “I like that. I knew you were different just looking at you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I bet you did.” He gave me a strange look and I shook my head. “Okay, fine. But here's the deal. No nudity unless we discuss things first. I won't have you doing that shitty creepy thing some male photographers do when they say, 'oh, just take a little more off, show me some nipple,' because that shit is gross and we are both professionals.” I caught myself. “Well, I am, at least.”

“I'm professional in many things,” Ward interjected, sounding almost hurt.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, since you yourself said you're an amateur, you'd better read up on the rules of engagement first.”

In the dim light, I saw his eyes gleam and harden. He seemed to think I was presenting a challenge to him rather than giving him the benefit of the doubt and kindly instructing him on how civilized people behaved toward each other in situations such as these. “Hey,” I snapped. “I'm not joking around here. This is how professionals behave.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “And I vow I shall behave quite professionally.” From the depths of his jacket he produced a white card and held it out to me, pinched between two elegant fingers. Gingerly I reached out and took it, trying to ignore the sudden dark hum of my blood in my veins when our fingertips brushed together. I ripped the card from his grip as I snatched my hand away. His eyes glittered down at me, but he said nothing about my reaction.