Mistress By Blackmail(32)
“I don’t know.” His focus switched to the painting in front of her. “You have a tendency to touch before thinking.”
True. Especially true with him.
Trying to avoid the memories, she swished to the next painting. This one was stark—black slashes of paint sliding down into a blood red pool at the bottom. A shiver of remembered fear went through her. He’d threatened her, the last time he’d found her. He’d left a nasty note on the door of her flat telling her what he meant to do to her.
She’d left within the hour, leaving many of her belongings behind.
“What?” La Rocca stepped to her side, his gaze keen on her face. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” Flashing him a jaunty grin, she moved away. “I just don’t like that painting.”
The buzz of his phone echoed in the cool, silent gallery.
Turning around, she gave him a look. “I knew it wouldn’t last for long.”
“You presume to know me so well?” His hand twitched at his side as if he ached to reach into his pocket, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave her more trouble. Trouble like his dimples and his smile. Trouble like revealing a strong, olive-skinned neck when he tugged off his red power tie right then and stuffed it into his suit pocket. The same pocket that held the buzzing phone.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“Don’t tell me you’re not answering that.” Pushing away his trouble, she layered thick sarcasm onto her words. “Color me completely surprised.”
“I’m not answering. Maybe because I like to keep you surprised.” His smile flashed to a grin, going from merely distracting to downright devastating.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
She shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t fall into the interplay going on between them. This male-female, sexual-friendly, exciting-disturbing play. She had learned the tricks, but something about this exchange made her gut clench. His temptation was too great, however, and she loved having fun. She always had. “I’m thinking maybe I should make a painting of this event. You without a phone.”
“Ah.” His eyes went bright. “I think a painting of me is an excellent idea.”
A snort escaped her. “You are so arrogant.”
“But worth painting, don’t you think?” He took a step nearer. Just one simple step. Yet he filled the air around her with his vitality. “Don’t you, Darcy?”
Instead of doing what she should do—stop this, she pulled her courage around her, looked right into his eyes, and kept playing. “I don’t think you’d like the painting.”
“No?” he husked, his rich, male scent enveloping her.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“I’m afraid I’d have to paint what I usually see.” She gave him a pout. “The phone nailed to your head, a frown on your face.”
“Mmm.” Leaning in closer, his breath brushed on her cheek. “Nails and frowns. Is that what you see right now?”
His eyelashes were incredibly dark and now that she was so close to him, she noticed the silver turned to a misty grey on the edges of his irises. He was right. She would love to paint him. And there wouldn’t be any nails or frowns. There’d only be the beauty of this male, the beauty of his eyes and his skin and his mouth.
Not his heart, though.
His heart was not beautiful.
She took a step back. And then another.
One satanic brow rose and his dimples disappeared.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
They stared at each other as the phone clicked off, the message going to voicemail. Darcy was sure he was going to pull the plug on this adventure and dig that phone out of his pocket. But he surprised her again.
“Shall we continue?” he murmured before striding to the next painting.
He’d followed her for the rest of the day. Stopping when she tried on a silly feathered hat. Nodding when she waved them into another gallery. His smile had even come out a time or two again, though never the grin that made her heart tremble.
Yet, throughout the day, her heart trembled quite a lot.
Maybe she’d grown weak because he’d taken her to Sardi’s for dinner that night. Maybe her brain had skipped into la-la-land as she gazed across the white tablecloth at his masculine elegance. Or maybe her brain had taken a dip into pretend love later in the night, overcome by lust. As they’d entered the hotel room, the chemistry had zipped and zagged between them. She’d felt the heat, the burn and mixed with it, the fear.
He’d known, she was sure. He’d given her a gentle smile, touched her cheek, and told her to go to bed. She’d shivered under the covers. Waiting, wanting, worrying. Somehow, she’d fallen asleep, only to wake in the middle of the night with strong, warm arms around her.