Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(79)

“It’s just the buckle,” he murmured, his eyes meeting mine. With a gentle pressure, he pushed my ankle slightly higher and I could feel my thighs separate. If he just glanced, I was sure he could see all the way up my skirt if he wanted to. But he didn’t look. He just kept his eyes trained on mine as my heart raced and my mouth went suddenly dry.

“Th-- thanks…” I stammered as he set my foot down. Was that my imagination or did his fingers trace the back of my calf before he sat back on the sofa?

“Coffee?” Jackson asked.

“Wh-- what?”

Please get your head together! I begged myself.

“Coffee, miss?” a woman in a powder blue uniform asked as she set a silver tray service on the white-clothed table between us. I nodded gratefully at her and inhaled the thick, fragrant scent. My stomach burbled loudly, making me happy for the engine noise.

“Here, let me…” Jackson charitably, preparing a tall mug of coffee with cream and sugar, just how I like it. He pushed it toward me and I smiled sheepishly, silently scolding myself for letting his brother fondle my foot. I knew it was ridiculous, but I felt a little immoral about the way my body had responded to Declan’s delicate touch right there in front of his brother.

The first sip of coffee filled my sinuses with a deep warmth and perfume. I hadn’t even realized how desperately I craved it until that moment, and I drank deeply, as quickly as I could without scalding myself.

“Oh my god, this is so good,” I murmured, delighting in every sip, hoping there was a lot more on board.

“Thanks. We have a little rainforest in Panama that farms this for us,” Declan said as he accepted a cup from his brother.

A little rainforest, I repeated to myself. I’ll just bet that means like 40,000 acres or something.

“Oh is that what you do? Coffee?”

“Do?” Jackson repeated. “Coffee? No that’s more of a passing interest. It’s good though, right?”

“It’s awesome,” I agreed, finishing my mug and sheepishly replacing it on the table cloth. Jackson refilled it without hesitation.

“And what do you do?” Declan asked politely.

“Me? I’m an artist.”

“Yes, Bridget told us that, of course. I mean what do you do. What kind? What interests you?”

“Ah… I’m a painter,” I began, drawing myself up and trying to seem at least passably confident. I felt myself wither under their light, wanting desperately to change the subject but knowing Bridget would kick my ass all the way to Baja if I let the moment slip away.

Make it good, I could hear her voice say. It’s showtime.

“I’m a contemporary realist. I work in oils on linen, but with a more modern sensibility.”

That should do it.

Declan cut his eyes toward Jackson. Some silent communication passed between them and I wondered for a moment just how close they were. They looked a lot alike, and I assumed they could be no more than a year apart in age. Tall, fit and lithe, they probably played on the same sports teams growing up. Though Declan had slightly lighter hair than Jackson’s shiny, dark tousle, they both had the same sky-blue gaze that fluttered my heart each time they looked at me.

“OK, so what does that really mean,” Jackson persisted gently. “Without the artspeak. Just, you know… what are you trying to accomplish?”

I shook my head, feeling a little on the ropes. Most people would have taken the first answer and then gone off nodding as though I had said something profound.

“I’m trying to… uhm… Well I’m trying to fit into line.”

Declan squinted at me, intrigued. “What line?”

I struggled to find more words. Usually people were happy with a couple lines of artspeak that they could repeat to their friends. How I really felt about my work was something I didn’t have to cultivate into sentences, even to myself.

“The line that stretches back a couple thousand years, to the beginning. You know… um. I mean, I use the same materials and methods as every painter before me for hundreds of years, so I guess I feel like I’m trying to be worthy of that lineage.”

“All that history,” Jackson said, nodding.

“So, you don’t see the need to branch out? Find something new?” Declan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

I clenched my jaw. “New is overrated,” I said with an inadvertent snarl, then backed off slightly. “I mean, every kid wants to do something new before they even really understand what everyone who came before them was trying to say. They act like the last 600 years of art history was just a bunch of geezer idiots who should be discarded with prejudice. That strikes me as arrogant.”