Millionaires' Destinies(204)
He was still staring in the window, brooding, when the door opened and Kathleen stepped outside.
“You’re going to freeze if you don’t get in here,” she told him, amusement tugging at her lips. “Surely you can’t be scared of stepping into a tiny little art gallery. It’s not some house of horrors.”
He had been only moderately scared until he’d caught a glimpse of her. Then his mouth went dry and he knew the meaning of genuine terror. She was wearing a little black dress, the kind that was supposed to be suitable for any occasion. Somehow, though, on Kathleen that basic black dress took style into a whole other realm. It was barely more than a slip, actually, with tiny straps, a draped bodice that clung to her breasts, and hardly enough material to skim the tops of her knees. She had incredible knees and very long legs, slender and shapely.
Looking at her set his body on fire. He was definitely in no danger of freezing.
She, however, was shivering.
“You’re the one who needs to go inside,” he said, putting a firm hand in the middle of her back, then snatching it away when a current of electricity jolted through him. Touching her was not a good idea, he reminded himself. Not just yet. Not if he was expected to tour this gallery, make coherent comments, and register suitable approval.
In her strappy little black heels, Kathleen was almost as tall as he was, her gaze even with his. Her huge violet eyes were fringed with lashes that seemed darker and longer than he’d remembered. He lost himself for a minute or two in her eyes, then dragged his attention away again to firmly shut the door behind them.
Her gaze still locked with his, Kathleen stepped around him, threw the lock and drew the shade. Ben’s heart started to thunder in his chest.
“Um, Kathleen, what are you up to?”
“Just locking up,” she said, her expression innocent.
“So we won’t be interrupted.” She smiled brightly. “What would you like to see first?”
You, he thought a little wildly. All of you.
“In here,” she added, as if she’d read his mind. Her eyes were dancing with amusement. “What would you like to see in the gallery?”
He tried valiantly to unscramble his thoughts and focus. “You’re the tour guide,” he said.
“Then we’ll start with Boris’s work,” she said and slipped into a professional persona as she described the first painting they came to.
When Ben said nothing, she frowned at him. “You’re not looking at the painting,” she scolded.
He gave it a dutiful glance and concluded as he had the first time he’d seen it, that it was expert, compelling but not to his taste. “I’d rather look at you,” he told her honestly.
She swallowed hard. “We’re wasting our time here, aren’t we?”
Ben noted that her disappointment didn’t seem nearly as great as the thread of anticipation in her voice. “Sorry, but I’d have to say yes. I can’t concentrate with you looking the way you do.”
She regarded him curiously. “How do I look?”
“Incredible. Sexy. Alluring. Tempting.”
She laughed. “You don’t have to go on. I get the idea.”
He searched her face. “Do you?”
The laughter died. “Oh, yes,” she said huskily.
“Then we can postpone this tour?” he asked hopefully.
She nodded without the faintest flicker of regret in her eyes.
“I’ll get your coat.”
“I can get it,” she protested.
“No, I need a minute. Otherwise we might not even make it out of here.”
She sighed. “I knew there was a reason I should have put a sofa in my office.”
He grinned at her. “Maybe I’ll order one, something that opens up with a queen-size mattress.”
“Maybe you should wait until you see how tonight goes,” she said, a surprising hint of worry in her eyes.
“There’s no question in my mind about how tonight is going to go,” he told her. “None.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Ben heard the insecurity in her voice and knew yet another moment of impotent rage at the man who’d destroyed her self-confidence in yet another area. He had a pretty good picture of her ex-husband by now, a man who took his own weaknesses and lack of success out on the woman he’d married, cruelly filling her with self-doubt, because he couldn’t measure up. He’d cut her to ribbons as an artist, as a chef and, maybe worst of all, as a woman.
Ben crossed the gallery in a few strides and took her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly, determined to make up for the cruelty of another man. He could practically feel the heat shimmering through her. He pressed her hand to his chest, where he knew she’d feel his heart pounding.