He closes the door and marches to his desk—we’re in a huge, book-lined study that reminds me of those Victorian movies my sister likes to watch—and leans his hip onto the corner.
I feel gauche and ill at ease as he just sits there, staring, picking me apart with those penetrating eyes.
“That was your work tonight?”
Oh God, is it rational to be this turned on by the guy’s upper crust English accent? I wonder, swallowing nervously as I nod my head. A million thoughts flood my mind as I take in the hard tilt to his lips and the slight flaring of his nostrils. Maybe he didn’t like my interpretation or the colors I’d used? It’s wicked hard to get the exact shades I was looking for when working with simple coloring and syrup—
“You’re very talented.”
“Okay?”
I’m usually very intelligent, honestly I am, but as he continues to bore his green gaze into me I feel every thought and brain cell I possess melting away beneath the image of him, reclining naked against snowy sheets—
“What did you mean when you said that’s why you couldn’t get it right?” he asks suddenly, wrenching me out of my very vivid daydream.
“Uh…n-nothing.” I stammer, looking everywhere but at him when he smiles knowingly and pushes to his feet.
The guy is easily over six feet, and he towers over me when he moves closer and stands, staring down at me.
“I would very much like to see your work, Miss Bennet.”
“I-You wouldn’t like what I do,” I say, spotting a magnificent, dark Degas print behind his desk. “I only do…color.”
It’s my weakness. No matter how hard I try to do the dark, ‘thought provoking’ stuff, I always end up with a rainbow of color splashed on the canvas. There’s nothing thoughtful or mysterious about my work. I paint what Vernon Metz calls ‘simple photographs of the world’.
That’s why I have yet to get my big break. What I offer is nothing more than ‘hotel landscapes’ and the occasional portrait. Or so Vernon says. Whatever the case, I can see from this man’s taste that my landscapes and portraits won’t be his cup of tea.
“Color is not a bad thing,” he says, and I see that I’ve somehow managed to amuse him.
I hate being an amusement. I’ve spent the last four years of my life working to be my own person and as far from a feminine amusement as I can get, and the fact that he finds me humorous pisses me off enough that I am no longer shyly in awe of him, but just plain annoyed.
“It is when the galleries tell you your work is one-dimensional and looks like a unicorn exploded on the canvas,” I mutter. “Look, Mr—”
“Vincent.”
“I appreciate the compliment, and believe me, I really am flattered that you liked my plates, but I don’t have what you’re looking for, and I have to get back to work.”
Any artist would be over the moon that a patron, and especially a loaded one, wants to see their work. I would be if not for the fact that Vincent, the man I have developed an obsession with, is obviously interested in more than my work.
His eyes are telling me something totally different, something that calls to the untouched sensuality that I’ve fought to bury. He wants…more than what he’s asking for, and right now I can’t afford to give it to him.
“Miss Bennet.”
He says my name in a sensual growl that makes my knees quake, and I swallow a whimper when he strokes the tip of his index finger from my temple to the point of my chin.
“I appreciate beauty, in all things. I would very much like to see what you have to offer.”
“Uh…”
My heart is racing, booming a wild thumpa thump when he leans down, his lips stopping a breath away from mine, and just breathes, letting me feel the heat swirling between us.
“Show me what you have, Miss Bennet.”
All I can do is nod, telling myself firmly that it’s the art, just the art he wants. I know it’s not true, but as he pulls away and smiles I need something to cling to, something to keep my knees from buckling as he lays a possessive hand at my hip and steers me to the door.
“I’ll come round tomorrow night.”
I don’t ask anything or point out that he doesn’t have my address. Somehow I don’t think a man this powerful will let that stand in his way.
As I finish up and follow Jim to the van, I know something big is about to happen, something life changing, and I can’t say if I’m altogether pleased with that.
Chapter Three
“Wait. He asked to see your work and you said no? I thought all artists dream of that shit. Seriously, Sissy, you are your own worst enemy!” Bee yells at me from the kitchen, where she’s making omelets and cream cheese bagels.