“All right, Ms. Laurent. Then I’ll ask the question plainly.” His stare penetrates deeper as he leans forward on his elbows—as if he’s two seconds away from leaping at me from across the table. Maybe he is. “If you and Mr. Hathaway have such a strong, loving bond, why didn’t you know he has a gambling problem?”
“Just because he made a couple of mistakes doesn’t mean he’s got a problem—”
“One hundred and sixty-five thousand mistakes,” Rush interjects grimly. “And you had no idea. In fact, you were blindsided by it.”
I can’t deny anything he’s saying. If I try to, Rush will only see through me, anyway.
He slowly shakes his head, studying me. “He’s keeping secrets from you. Think about that next time you hear him say he loves you. Think about that the next time you let him fuck you.”
I draw in a sharp breath, not that I’m actually shocked by his crudeness. He’s needling me now, trying to find my soft underbelly.
Right now, what I want to show him are my claws.
“I didn’t come here to discuss Daniel or my relationship with him. I didn’t come here to discuss anything with you at all.” My voice climbs along with the rapid beating of my heart. “My private life is just that—private. Now, we have an agreement, Mr. Rush, and I intend to honor it. I’ll sit for you in your studio and let you paint me, but I will not let you dissect me. Not on your canvas, and for damn sure not here, over your French-pressed coffee and croissants, you arrogant asshole.”
His gaze stays rooted on mine through the entirety of my angry outburst. His face is unreadable, schooled into a mask of indifference. Maddeningly, he reaches for his coffee and takes a slow drink before replacing the cup on its saucer without making the slightest sound.
Those artist’s hands of his move deliberately, in measured, total control.
“You’re right,” he says after a long moment. “I’ve overstepped the bounds of our agreement. I apologize.”
His contrition takes me aback. I was expecting fury. Hell, I was half-expecting him to void our contract and have me thrown out of his mansion.
Hoping, maybe.
As uncertain as I was about being alone with Jared Rush before, this encounter has only fortified my apprehension. Because that spark that ignited between us in his study two nights ago is still alive now. Stronger, as if that were possible.
It’s explosive, dangerous.
He’s dangerous.
All the more so when he’s showing me a glimmer of humanity beneath the exterior of the untamed beast seated across the table from me.
“I’m glad you understand,” I murmur, dropping my gaze momentarily if only to avoid his searching, penetrating stare that refuses to let me go.
Abruptly, he pushes back from the table and stands. My eyes flick up, following him as he stalks over to a sturdy mahogany sideboard on the other side of the room.
I don’t know where to look first, at the glorious way his broad shoulders and muscled back move beneath the creamy linen of his loose shirt, or at the way the loose denim of his jeans call attention to his long stride and tight, round ass as he walks.
He opens the cupboard door at the front of the sideboard and reaches inside, withdrawing a bottle of Macallan and a short, cut-crystal glass. He pours more than two fingers’ worth into it, then pivots around to face me, leaning casually against the bar.
“Take off your clothes, Ms. Laurent.”
“Excuse me?”
He lifts the whisky to his mouth and tosses all of it back in one swallow. When his molasses-brown eyes meet my gaze again, his stare carves right into the center of my being.
“Remove it all,” he says. “I want to see what I have to work with.”
9
MELANIE
He can’t be serious.
Yet, of course, he is. His hard expression leaves no room for doubt. His dark gaze is demanding in the heavy silence that stretches between us. With his broad mouth held in an unsmiling line against the edge of his emptied glass, he continues to stare at me. Waiting for me to obey.
Even though I know what I’ve agreed to with this man, I bristle at the way he seems to think he can command me as if he’s got any right. As if he owns me the way he does any other object in his orbit.
I stand up, refusing to sit in subservience while he attempts to lord over me from across the room. My spine feels rigid and unnaturally straight as I face off against him with my hands fisted at my sides. “I came here this morning to begin my obligation in your studio, as your model. Since you have no intention of painting me today, I don’t see why you should expect me to take off my clothes for you.”
His eyes narrow on me. “Did I say I wasn’t going to begin painting you today?”
I blink. “You said your studio is in the Hamptons.”
“That’s irrelevant to this conversation, Ms. Laurent.” He sets his glass down on the edge of the sideboard. “And whether we’re in my studio or somewhere else, when we’re together, you’re mine to observe and to instruct.”
You’re mine.
That’s not exactly what he said, but that’s what I hear. That’s what his possessive stare is telling me as he casually folds his muscled arms over his chest.
All my life—since I first learned enough to mistrust men—I’ve recoiled from arrogant, domineering cavemen who think women were put on Earth for their personal use and entertainment. In fact, I’ve run long and far from that type. That’s how I ended up with Daniel, my safe, steady
