From somewhere deeper inside the enormous room and out of my line of sight, I hear the quiet clink of silverware and china dishes, accompanied by the aromas of bread and bacon and freshly brewed coffee.
“Ms. Laurent,” Gibson says, whether to prompt me into motion or to announce my presence to his employer, I’m not certain.
I step inside the room. Behind me, Gibson discreetly closes the French doors and departs the hallway in silence.
“Come in,” Jared Rush tells me, his deep voice calm and relaxed as it rumbles from somewhere off to my right.
I follow the vibration and the heavenly smells of his breakfast. He is seated at a dining table in front of another set of French doors, this pair looking out onto a private terrace green space and patio off the back of the mansion.
Last time I saw him, he looked like a decadent lord of the manor, smoking his cigar and drinking whisky in his expensive, dark suit and partially unbuttoned, crisp white shirt. His thick tawny hair had been loose around his shoulders that night, the wild mane of a beast on a man surrounded by luxury and fine things.
This morning he is dressed casually in an ecru-colored linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up over his tanned forearms. Beneath the pressed white tablecloth, his long legs are encased in relaxed, faded denim. His large feet are bare inside soft leather loafers, and spread wide on the beautiful Persian rug that runs from one end of the expansive room to the other. It must have cost a fortune. Everything in this room, in this mansion, must have come with a staggering price tag.
Including me, I realize with no small amount of chagrin.
He’s taking a sip of coffee as I approach. Today, his long hair is swept back into a loosely fastened queue at his nape. The hint of brown whiskers shadowing his lean cheeks and squared jaw the other night have been scraped away, but even clean-shaven there is still an untamed quality to his handsomeness. A wild, savage edge that no woman with warm blood in her veins could possibly ignore.
I wish I could say I was the exception, but even as I take the last few steps toward him at the table, my senses prickle with uninvited awareness.
He watches me over the rim of the china cup that looks like a doll’s toy in his big, elegant hands. “Eight o’clock sharp. You’re prompt.”
“Isn’t that what you told me to be?”
Amusement plays at the edge of his sculpted lips as he sets the delicate cup back onto its saucer. “Prompt, and you follow instructions. We’re already off to a promising start, Ms. Laurent.”
That brief smirk and the refined hint of the South in his rumbling voice almost disguises the danger in him.
Almost, but not quite.
He may be trying to project an air of casual disregard, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I arrived.
“Join me.”
Another command, this time disguised with a smile and a dip of his beard-shadowed chin to indicate the breakfast feast of eggs, meats, breads, and fruit laid out before him on the elegant round table that’s been set for two. My mouth waters at the mingled aromas, but even if I were starving, I’ll be damned if I’ll accept so much as a crumb from Jared Rush’s table.
“I’ve already eaten,” I murmur, trying to ignore the way the stale plain bagel and bitter cup of coffee from the shop down the street is currently rolling in my stomach.
He shrugs. “I hope you don’t mind if I finish my breakfast in front of you, then.”
“Feel free.” Anything to delay the purpose of my being here today.
I can’t help but notice there is no easel or art apparatus of any kind in this room. He doesn’t paint in here. A degree of relief washes over me at that realization.
When my gaze comes back to Rush, I find him studying me. “If you’re wondering where my studio is, it’s not in the city. It’s in Sagaponack. I have a house on the beach there where I work.”
“The Hamptons,” I acknowledge. Sagaponack being one of the most expensive enclaves in that playground for the rich, which is roughly two hours away from Manhattan. Thank God.
“I thought it would be best if we start here today,” he says. “Take some time to get comfortable with each other first.”
“Nothing about this—or you—makes me comfortable.” I practically wince as the words leap off my tongue. Why would I admit that to him? Why give a man like him any inkling he’s got the upper hand over me?
But it’s too late to take it back.
I’ve allowed the slightest crack in my armor and I can’t expect this man to let it go unchallenged.
He leans forward, placing his elbows on the edge of the table. “I’d be disappointed if you were comfortable with our arrangement, Ms. Laurent. Or with me.”
Is he saying that because he understands how out of my depth I am in his world, or because he wants me to be on edge? Maybe this is how he begins deconstructing everyone he exposes on his canvases. Or is he taking some kind of personal, extra enjoyment out of seeing me squirm?
I don’t have the nerve to ask, especially not when his dark stare makes me feel as though he can already see through my cool replies and through the breezy cotton of my dress. All the way down to everything I’m desperate to keep hidden from him for as long as our arrangement lasts.
He indicates the lone chair across the table from him. “Please, have a seat.”
“No, thank you. I prefer to stand.”
“The whole time?” He leans back in his chair, one of his tawny brown brows arching. “I should warn you, I haven’t even gotten started.”
I want to assume he’s talking
