Mistress By Blackmail(46)
Not a putdown. But no compliments either.
Emotions tumbled inside her.
This intense desire she felt for him even through the old fears. The leftover anger she held because of his dismissive attitude towards her when they'd first met. The contrasting emotions mixed and tangled with the appreciation she felt for his patience during the last few days. Then there was the gratitude for what he was doing for her pop battling with the old resentment because he'd used her father as a weapon against her.
Yet none of those emotions could compete. Compete with the one, overwhelming emotion shining through the morass in her head and heart.
No. No.
The man who caused all these jarring emotions inside her swung his tuxedo jacket over his shoulder and leaned on the doorframe. A slight frown appeared, drawing his dark, satirical brows down. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing.” Jerking her attention away from the jumble of confusion roiling inside her, Darcy slid on a pair of matching high heels. It couldn’t possibly have happened, she told herself. She couldn’t possibly be such a stupid git.
She gritted her teeth in a smile and threw it his way.
His frown deepened. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking I’m ready to go.” She pushed her smile even wider.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Feeling great.” She gestured to her feet. His earlier teasing questions came back to her and she grasped onto them as a way to turn the conversation. “See? Got my dancing shoes on. I’m definitely not the kind of girl to play Cinderella, you'll be happy to know. I'm sure you're even more relieved to find there's no need for you to carry me. Anywhere.”
A clipped silence fell.
“Si,” he finally replied, his scrutiny no longer warm. “I’m delighted to be reminded of your independence.”
She forced herself to keep meeting his gaze, even knowing she'd thrown cold water on the evening. But she didn’t know how to put every one of her emotions in perfect order so she wouldn't blurt out stupid sentences designed to tick him off.
He slipped his jacket on, taking his time as he adjusted the sleeves, buttoned the coat. When he glanced over, his eyes were as opaque as glass. “Shall we?”
The silence in the limo was deafening. Darcy clutched her small tote with tight fingers and frantically tried to think of something to say. Something that would smooth over whatever this was that had come between them. This pulsing wall of distance, one she'd erected with her words. The realization clunked inside her. Suddenly, she wanted so much to return to the moments in the closet, when he’d been smiling, warm, wanting.
“We’re here.” His tone frosted her soul.
Rather than focusing on him, she focused on her feet as she climbed from the limo. Wherever here was, she didn't want to be. There would be no fun or frolic for her tonight. Not with the Great Man back in all his cold, arrogant glory.
She glanced up only when he began to open the door.
To an art gallery.
A gasp escaped her as her gaze fell on a very familiar painting highlighted in one of two front windows. “T-t-that's, that's…” her words stumbled to a stop.
“Yours.” He continued to hold the door open as several people swept into the noise and laughter of a gallery opening. He looked down his nose at her. “Are you going to come in?”
With a gulp, she stepped into her dream world. Given to her by this man. A flurry of feelings fluttered in her belly. Feelings entirely opposite of what she’d been experiencing only seconds before. “H-h-how…how—”
“Quite easily.” He slipped her coat off and gave it to an attendant. “I’m in the business of making things happen.”
His arrogance should have fired her temper. Instead, the fire lit something deep inside, melting her fears. “I had no idea.”
“That is the general description of a surprise.” He adjusted his necktie, not meeting her inquiring gaze.
Her heart drummed in her chest, hope and anguish and fear and dreams colliding inside her. “Why?”
He finally glanced her way, yet his eyes gave away nothing. They were like two pieces of impenetrable metal. “You have talent. It should be displayed and acknowledged.”
As if he would do this for any starving artist in London. But he wouldn't have, would he? He'd done it for her. However, it seemed whatever impulse prodded him to do this for her had been swept away by her odd attitude earlier this evening.
A lump of guilt stuck in her throat.
After all this man had done for her father, and now this. She'd been flippant, dismissive. She’d shut an emotional door in his face and he knew it and didn’t like it. Had she hurt him? Could it possibly be that Marc was feeling some of the same emotions she was?