Judging from the shrewd gleam in Mr. Baine’s eyes, he knows better too.
I’m making a fool out of myself.
Again with this man.
I groan inwardly, cursing the champagne. The crystal flute clutched in my hand, I move aside, just far enough to break the contact. “No more charging forward without knowing what’s in front of me. Or rather, who.” I give him a little salute with the empty glass. “Sorry. I’ll be sure I’m more careful in the future. You have my word.”
I’ve given him the opportunity to move on, but he doesn’t. I decide it will probably be wise for me to go instead, and I start to take the first step away.
“No need to apologize,” he says. Without asking, he takes the champagne glass out of my grasp and hands it off to a passing caterer. It’s an inexplicably intimate gesture, presuming he can look after me as if we are familiar with each other. His expression is equally intimate as his gaze bores into mine. “A little recklessness isn’t a bad thing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a virtue.”
“I’m not reckless.” The denial blurts out of me on a frown.
Of all the foolish things I am or have ever been, reckless isn’t one of them. I never would have survived my childhood if I had been.
I pause, using the opportunity to take full measure of him in his crisp, long-sleeved black button-down shirt and dark, tailored pants. I already know he’s athletic, so I can only guess his body is as strictly disciplined as the rest of his flawless appearance. His chiseled face is clean-shaven, every inch of him impeccably groomed. Even those rebellious raven’s-wing waves seem tamed tonight.
And the way his piercing stare refuses to release me—just as his hand had lingered as if he had the right—I sense this man allows very little to escape his control.
Too late to keep the thought from turning carnal in my mind, I clear my throat and shrug as if he isn’t making me wonder what he’d be like in bed. I tilt my head to better assess him. “You don’t exactly strike me as the reckless type either, Mr. Baine.”
Now, at last, that sensual mouth curves into a slow smile. “We’ve only just met. Give me time.” He extends his right hand to me. “And call me Nick.”
As much as I want to refuse to the temptation of touching him, I can’t. “Avery.” I say, slipping my hand into his firm clasp.
His eyes locked on me, he grunts in acknowledgment as our palms connect and his fingers engulf mine. That low, undeniably erotic rumble of his voice sends unbidden heat sizzling through my veins.
“Powerful, isn’t it?”
For a second, I think he could be referring to the current of electricity that’s crackling between us. But then he tilts his head in the direction of the painting on display behind me. I pivot to face the shattered beauty on the canvas and mutely nod.
“Incredibly powerful,” I agree. “Is she yours?”
“Do you mean the painting, or the model?”
Both, I want to say. Fortunately, I’m able to keep my tongue in check as I glance back at him. “I mean, are you the artist?”
“No. I don’t paint. Just an admirer.” He regards the piece for barely a moment before the full weight of his intense blue eyes lands on me once more. “And you?”
I silently consider Beauty and the rest of the paintings on display at Dominion tonight. I can’t pretend I’m not painfully aware that my half dozen rejects are hidden in gallery storage somewhere, deemed unfit to share wall space with any of these better works of art.
I shake my head. “An admirer, same as you.”
His stare holds mine, then he inclines his dark head in a nod. “What do you do, Avery, when you’re not plowing into innocent bystanders in elevators and art galleries, that is?”
“Innocent?” I laugh, practically choking on the idea. “Has anyone actually ever applied that word to you?”
“Of course.” He’s smiling now too. “I believe I was around five or six at the time.”
God, I like his smile.
His mouth is broad and lush-lipped, his teeth white and impossibly straight. Twin dimples frame his grin, giving the brooding, dark stranger I first saw in the lobby last week a fleeting trace of boyish charm now. But I’d be a fool to mistake anything about this man for innocence. I know that instinctively. Why the hell that understanding doesn’t send me running for the nearest door, I have no idea.
“So, tell me,” he prompts again. “How come I’ve never seen you in the building before the other night?”
The truth stalls out in my throat for reasons I can’t explain. Maybe because I’m enjoying our conversation too much and I want it to continue. Against all better judgment, I’m enjoying him.