Daniel’s not perfect, but God knows neither am I.
And he needs me. He needs me to be here for him now, no matter how difficult Jared Rush might intend to make that for me.
I shake my head. “That’s not fair. You led me to believe our agreement extended only as far as your canvas and your studio. Making me undress in front of you here, now, doesn’t have anything to do with the terms of our contract and you know it.”
“I disagree,” he replies evenly. “Do you think I only create when I’m holding a paintbrush? I’ve been visualizing how your body will look on my canvas from the moment I decided I wanted to paint you. I’ve already imagined every supple curve and tender hollow. In my mind, I’ve already stroked my brush over every naked inch of your form. Having you remove your clothing so I can confirm what I already know is just a formality—one our contract grants me permission to demand.”
As he speaks, it’s as if his words are painting a picture in my mind, too. I can see myself alone in a barren, cold studio in front of him, my skin bared for him. I can feel the power of his gaze as he commits all of my features to memory, along with my flaws.
I can hear the wet lick of his brush bringing all the hidden, most vulnerable, parts of me to life on his canvas through his skill and mastery. I can hear his low voice commanding me, coaxing me, seducing me into surrendering everything I’ve promised him and more.
My throat goes suddenly dry, in direct opposition to the liquid, molten ache that’s unfurling within me. Beneath the meager covering of my dress and bra, my nipples have gone tight and hard. I don’t want to acknowledge the traitorous response of my body.
I can’t acknowledge it. What would it say about my loyalty to Daniel? What would it say about me?
Instead, I cling to my righteous outrage. “Obviously, you have about as much shame as you have morals, Mr. Rush.”
His answering chuckle only demonstrates he’s also impervious to insult. I can hardly pretend to be surprised.
“You’re stalling, Ms. Laurent.”
“And you’re trying to bend the rules of our agreement.”
“Would you like to be released from it?”
It’s not a question I expect from him, especially not in the solemn tone in which he asks it.
He means it.
He studies me in prolonged silence, his head cocked slightly toward the bulk of his shoulder. As triumphant as he seemed the other night after Daniel and I had signed his contract, I can tell he’s seriously willing to let me go now.
Is it because I’ve pissed him off? Because I’m not falling at his feet the way he seems accustomed to with other women?
Somehow, I don’t think it’s either of those things motivating him to let me break our contract. No, this is something else. I can see the truth of it in his consuming, dark eyes.
It’s a small act of mercy—a shocking one, coming from a man like him.
Or maybe he’s just having second thoughts now that he’s seeing me in the sober light of day.
I shouldn’t care why he’s offering this. There is a cowardly part of me that wants to scramble out of this room and never look back. But if I break the contract, where will that leave Daniel?
His debt to Rush will be due immediately. I’m sure it will also mean the swift cancellation of his big project with him, which will probably cost Daniel not only the partnership he’s hoping for at the firm, but his entire career.
I don’t even want to consider what his problems in Las Vegas could mean.
And then, there are my own personal reasons for seeing this through.
Without the money Jared Rush has guaranteed me at the end of our arrangement, where will that leave me? How long will it take before I can even dream of paying off all my college loans? At the rate I’m going, Katie will be in high school by then, and my mom . . . ?
“You’re taking an awfully long time to answer, Ms. Laurent. It’s a simple question. But I’m only going to ask it this one time. Do you want me to let you go?”
There is so much meaning in that question, despite his claim of its simplicity. Do I want him to let me go? I don’t belong to him, no matter what our agreement states. Yet it’s impossible to deny that what’s taking hold between us reaches far beyond the written terms of any contract.
And no matter how afraid I am of what that means, I can’t seem to convince myself to break away from it. I can’t seem to break away from him.
I swallow, and my answer falls off my tongue. “No.”
His chin lifts fractionally, a look of mild surprise flickering in his eyes. I hear the quiet release of his breath, followed by his toneless, deep-voiced reply. “All right, then. Your clothing, please.”
My movements feel slow, as if my limbs belong to someone else. I toe off my ballet flats, barely resisting the urge to sigh as the luxuriously thick Persian rug crushes beneath my bare soles. My fists unclench slowly, then rise to where the fabric belt of the wrap dress is tied at my waist. As much as I want to look away from Rush as I work the knot loose, I refuse to release him from my stare.
I know my eyes are defiant, filled with challenge, as the belt goes slack in my fingers and the front of the dress slips open to reveal my simple white cotton bra and a good deal of my bare abdomen.
He doesn’t blink or react in any way. I’m not even sure he’s breathing as
