Darknight(14)

If only I could convince the hungry, lustful side of my brain that I really didn’t want those intimacies. At least not with a Wilcox.

“Thanks,” I replied, after a pause I was sure he noticed. “So what are we eating?”

Something in his posture relaxed, as if he’d been wondering if I was going to make a scene. If only he knew how close I’d come. “Those are bacon-wrapped dates,” he said, pointing with his free hand, “and this is the tortilla española, which is sort of layers of potato and egg, and those are mushrooms with red peppers — ”

“Okay, slow down,” I broke in. “Where do I start?”

“Try a date.”

I pulled the toothpick out of the morsel, decided it was a little too big to stuff in my mouth all at once, and instead cut it in half and lifted a bite to my mouth. “Holy crap,” I said after I was done chewing.

“You like it?”

“It’s amazing.”

And so was pretty much everything else he’d brought. It might not have been the birthday dinner I’d imagined, but it was certainly better than I had hoped. For a while we just talked about the food, which seemed like a nice, neutral subject. I was careful with the wine, too, making sure I took sips of water in between sips of wine so I wouldn’t lose my head and get tipsy. That, I thought, sneaking a peek at Connor’s black-lashed green eyes as he was focused on setting a slice of manchego cheese and ham on my plate, could get me in a lot of trouble.

Then I asked, “So how long have you had the gallery?”

“About two years.”

“And the paintings?”

“Mine,” he said shortly.

I supposed I should have guessed, but for some reason his reply took me by surprise. On the wall behind him was a study in reds and corals and dark olive, a bent tree surrounded by stark rock. Somewhere near the Grand Canyon, I thought. Like every other painting in the apartment, it was strong and sure, a study of color and light.

“You’re really good,” I said honestly. “I mean, really good. Do you sell your work in the gallery?”

His mouth tightened. “No.”

“Why not?” I asked. “People would eat this stuff up. Do you show in other galleries, then?”

“No. I paint and I hang them here. When I run out of room, I shuffle them around. A bunch are in storage.”

That didn’t make any sense to me at all. Why on earth would he be hiding his paintings away instead of showing them to the world? “But they’re so good — ”

“They’re just for me, okay?”

Somehow I got the feeling that wasn’t the truth, or at least not most of it. I didn’t know either of them very well, but I’d already gotten a sense of the dynamic between Connor and Damon Wilcox. “It’s your brother, isn’t it? For some reason he doesn’t want you to paint?”

Silence for a few seconds. Connor reached out and poured himself some wine, then refilled my glass. The bottle was already more than halfway gone. Finally he said, “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“I try not to.” Ignoring my previous caution, I allowed myself a large swallow of wine. “I guess I’m trying to understand why he’d have a problem with your painting. I mean, if you weren’t any good, okay, but — ”

“The primus’s brother is supposed to be as successful as he is,” he cut in. “Gallery owner is fine. Starving artist? Not so much.”

“As good as you are, I doubt you’d be starving.” I took a bite of ham and cheese, then pointed my fork at the spread in front of us. “Case in point.”

A reluctant grin touched his mouth…his lovely, lovely mouth.

Eyes back on your plate, Angela! I scolded myself. At least there was plenty on that plate to keep me distracted.

“It’s…complicated.”

“It always is, isn’t it?” I speared the last bacon-wrapped date with my fork — hey, it was my birthday — and dropped it on my plate. “I get that he’s the primus and everything, but I’m having a hard time figuring out this whole ‘when he says jump, you ask how high’ thing with you two.”

The grin disappeared. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Of course he didn’t. I hesitated, trying to decide if I should push it, but a second glance at the flat line of his mouth told me it was probably better if I left it alone…for now. But he’d have to open up eventually if he thought he was ever going to have a chance with me.

A chance? What the hell was my brain doing? I shouldn’t be thinking about whether I should be giving him any chances — I should be thinking about what steps my clan members were going to take next, and whether there was any way for me to circumvent the fiendishly strong wards that had been put in place on Connor’s apartment.