Mistress By Blackmail(36)

Pacing to the chair opposite her, he sat. “Draw me.”

The wariness in the blue depths started to sparkle. A fake frown appeared on her delicate brow. “I don’t think you’ll like the results.”

“Try me.”

She waggled her pen at him and then whisked it across the broad paper before her. Silence descended between them, the only noise coming from the crowd of people surrounding them. Marcus watched her face as she drew. Watched her focus narrow. Watched her front teeth worry her lower lip as she concentrated.

His blood thickened.

He’d missed her these last few days. It wasn’t something he wanted to admit, but a man had to be honest with himself, if no one else. He’d missed her high spirits, her teasing. The dancing eyes when she glanced at him and threw him a joke. The way she scrunched her brow when she questioned his sanity. The pointed chin she’d give him as she lashed at his ego.

The soft smile when she’d dressed up for his pleasure.

The soft skin against his when he held her sleeping body.

The soft laugh when she’d won the business deal for him in New York.

He scowled.

Darcy arched her brows. “Is that the look you want me to draw?”

“What?”

“If so,” she responded. “I don’t need you to pose. I know that look by heart.”

“What are you talking about?” Exasperation crackled in his voice.

“The dark frown.” She mimicked her words, her brows lowering.

He glared at her, lust and frustration and confusion churning inside him.

“The forbidding look that’s supposed to freeze me in my tracks,” she continued.

“Clearly I have not yet been successful in the freezing process.” Irony wove through his tone as he forced himself to stay irritated in the face of her teasing. “If I had, you’d be safely frozen in the place you are supposed to be.”

“Safely?” Her eyes misted with…wistfulness?

“In the penthouse.”

She cocked her head, the mist clearing from her eyes. “Why do you never say it’s your home?”

The lust and frustration churning inside him froze. The sudden memory of warm Italian sun and flowing Italian wine and a strong Italian hug threatened to melt him deep inside. He shrugged aside her question and the memories. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m starting to figure that out all on my own.” Her stare felt like it was piercing his skin, his blood. Felt like a laser slicing straight to the center of him.

No one was ever allowed into the center of him. Never.

“Those are your paintings.” His wave towards the pictures was dismissive. His words an accusation. He knew it and couldn’t control it. Striking back was what he did when attacked. Her observation had been an attack he’d felt deep inside.

She mimicked his shrug with a nonchalant one of her own. “So?”

Yet he knew he’d penetrated her center. Knew his words and actions had sliced into her.

An ugly howl erupted in his gut. The fact that no sound came from his mouth didn’t lessen the strength of the cry. Confusion swelled in his non-existent heart. It choked his throat and tugged at the damn unnamable thing deep inside him only she seemed to be able to twist.

“I’m done.” Her smile was fake, but he gave her credit for attempting to shift the conversation away from this cesspool swirling between them.

He lifted a brow in response and felt his usual control over his memories and emotions returning. “I won’t pay if I don’t like it.”

Her pout was a classic. Plump and wet. Her lips set off the wild in him. “I warned you before I started. Therefore, you owe me the standard fee no matter what you think of it.”

“Show me.”

Totally unintimidated at his tone, she gave him a knowing smirk as she twirled the caricature around for his review.

Horns. Forked tongue. On what was a extremely good likeness of his face.

But no clichéd pitchfork in his hand.

Instead, there was an exaggerated drawing of his phone clutched in his hand.



* * *



Marcus La Rocca was completely and utterly gorgeous when he laughed. The sunlight lit his olive skin with a golden shine. His white teeth flashed bright. The sound he made was deep, masculine, joyful. The man should laugh constantly. He would end world strife, create peace and harmony between all.

And bring every woman to heel.

Including her.

Darcy sighed and leaned on the warm leather seat of his limo. Today had been as wonderful a day as the SoHo day. She’d tried to fight it, tried not to get sucked into the fantasy.

Yet he’d got to her. Precisely like before.

The laugh at her caricature of him had turned her insides to mush. The surprise she’d felt when he hadn’t demanded her immediate removal to his penthouse? It had been nothing compared to her sheer disbelief when he’d lounged around for hours with Al and several other of her artist buddies, talking football. Her disbelief had grown as he’d stayed the entire day, bringing her fish and chips for lunch, chatting with her potential customers. Good grief, even persuading several of them to buy her oils.