Miah-1(Lane Brothers, Book 2)(47)

That’s not his style, and I know it since his form of punishment seems to be forgetting I ever existed.

Jace Lane may not be vengeful, but I am. As the daughter of a United States senator, I have everything I need to ensure that Jason Lane feels the pain he inflicted on me.

I smile when I hear footfalls outside my window and make myself relax beneath the covers. The window slides up and I feel him more than I hear him when he enters my domain.

He’s over me and has a hand over my mouth in an instant before replacing it with his mouth—one I remember like yesterday.

The kiss is hot and wild and intense, and I revel in the pleasure he can still give me despite our past.

“We need to talk, Trace.”

“Not now,” I growl, pulling his mouth back to mine for a kiss that makes my toes curl.

He kisses me back and I feel his wicked smile curve the lips that are devouring mine.

Oh, Jace, baby, if only you knew.



~~~





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RED LOVE





Chapter One


The Metropolitan Museum of Art is my favorite place in the world, hands down. I love everything about it, from the steps at the entrance to the crowds of people vying to see the art.

I visit at least once a month without fail and never cease to be spellbound by everything all over again, nevermind how many times I’ve been. My favorite painting is Monet’s Sunflowers.

It’s the happiest painting I’ve ever seen, or at least, it makes me happy every time I see it.

My college professor despaired of my one-dimensional view of art the whole time he’d been cursed with me and my uninspired ass. He said my interpretation of art is skewed, flat, and altogether too happy when faced with a world of possibilities.

All I know is that I love creating something that is happy and colorful, something that brings joy to those who see it. And I love flowers.

Sue me.

It’s as I’m leaving that I make the quick decision to pop into the gift store, even though I know I won’t find the print I’ve been looking for. Every time I come here I’m disappointed. I never get my print of the Sunflowers.

Last year Mom had bought me a tote of the Water Lilies for Christmas. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I wanted, so I’d aaahhhed and held it aloft and then gone home and hung it from a hook to store extra brush rags.

“It’s a beauty, this one,” I hear from somewhere to my left.

I look back over my shoulder to see a man and what looks like Heidi Klum’s twin sister cooing about a dark blob that’s masquerading as art but is actually a one-way trip to depression. The guy is…hotter than hell, with black hair and a set of lips that make me wish I’d brought my sketchpad and pencils.

I no longer do that after the last time I’d lost track of time and been asked to leave at closing time. But, and I hate to say this, with the super love I have for landscapes, I want to do something with this man that will dominate the canvas.

Something about him is just so…

“Oh, Vincent, I just love all this angst. To see and feel what the artist must have been feeling is so inspiring.”

I hear the overwrought tittering and grind my teeth against the need to tell the airhead that no matter what people think, they can never know what the artist was thinking.

I ignore the gushing and go back to my monthly fix, going over every minute detail, every brushstroke, every shadow and shade until I can go home and try my hand at it again. Here’s the print I’ve been searching for, and yet, it’s so pale in comparison.

“This one is my favorite, but I like The Artist’s Garden at Giverny too,” says a crisply accented voice.

British. How delicious.

I know who is standing behind me, and I freeze, feeling my breath stall as shivers and goose bumps break out all over my skin. He’s standing so close I smell his citrusy cologne and feel the heat of his breath at my nape.

“I…I prefer these stronger colors, but that one’s excellent too. It’s beautiful.”

It comes out a choked whisper, and I feel myself blush and tense when he leans to my left and peers down at me.

“You’ve been staring at it for over an hour before coming into the gift store. See something the rest of us don’t?”

His breath whispers over my ear and cheek, and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him and experience the tightly muscled chest visible beneath his suit jacket and shirt.