A tendon jerks in his jaw when I reach around for the clasp of my bra. The hook-and-eye closure pops apart in my fingers, but I hold the two ends together, not yet prepared to give in to this new reality. I’m not someone who jumps from one man’s bed to another. It took nearly two months of dating before I felt comfortable enough with Daniel to take my clothes off in front of him the first time we slept together.
I’ve spent barely two hours total in Jared Rush’s company and yet here I am, about to drop my bra and panties merely because he’s ordered me to.
No, not because he’s demanded it. Because he’s paying me to do it.
I’m not sure why that makes me feel better, but somehow it does. Because this is a job. That’s all it is; all I can permit it to be.
Judging from the bland, indifferent way he’s waiting for me to finish, his muscled arms still folded against his chest, I have to believe that Jared Rush considers this nothing more than a job as well. That doesn’t mean he won’t continue attempting to rattle me. I can’t let myself forget for a second that he is at his coldest, most brilliant best as an artist when his subjects are uncomfortable.
So, he’s not going to get that from me. I won’t give him that satisfaction, no matter how much he’s paying for it.
I release the ends of the bra and shrug out of it. Cool air hits my bare breasts, making my already tight nipples contract into firmer peaks. The modest undergarment drops to the floor without hesitation or fanfare. I’m not performing a striptease, after all. I’m unwrapping purchased goods for inspection.
At least, that’s the mantra I repeat over and over again in my head as I reach for the waistband of my panties, then strip out of them as casually as I would on my way into the shower.
Fully naked, I hold my arms out slightly, hiding nothing from Rush’s inscrutable gaze. “Satisfied?”
He doesn’t say anything. His eyes slowly travel the length and breadth of my body before returning to mine. “Walk over to the light.”
His voice is as rough as gravel, hardly more than a growl. I feel as awkward as a bug under a magnifying glass, but I’ll be damned if I let him know that. With my head held high and my hands moving casually at my sides, I pad toward the nimbus of sunlight streaming into the room from the terrace’s French doors.
The new location puts me on the other side of the small dining table with him now, only a few feet of angled distance between the place where I stand in the heat of the morning light and his unchanged position in front of the sideboard. Those handful of feet feel as insignificant as a couple of inches as I wait for him to speak again.
“Gather your hair away from your face and neck.”
No “please” or semblance of a request, just a tightly spoken command as if I’m standing on a stage or the auction block. Teeth gritted behind my closed lips, I reach up and lift my tangle of auburn waves into a loose ponytail in my grasp.
I can do this. I can weather his assessing gaze and maddening arrogance the same way I handle any other obstacle thrown in my path. God knows, I’ve had enough training in twenty-five years of living that I can get through these next weeks, too.
“You have a scar under your left arm.”
“Yes.” His abrupt remark jars me, not that I expected the significant flaw to pass without his notice. As bad as it was, I don’t try to think about that old wound. It’s easier not to think about it in the daylight. In the dark, it’s harder to keep the memories away.
Now that he’s pointed it out, my thoughts flash back to that spring night when I was thirteen, when the trauma of my home life came to an explosive, final end. I can still hear my father shouting and swearing, railing at the world from behind the wheel of our speeding Buick. I can hear Mom screaming for him to slow down, that he was going to get us all killed.
Most of all, it’s Jen’s wooden silence, her resignation in those horrific moments, that haunts me to this day. Her terror never ended, not even after he was gone.
“How’d it happen?”
I shrug. “Just an accident that happened when I was a kid. No big deal.”
He doesn’t believe me. His gaze locks on mine as if he can sense I’m holding something back. I wait for him to dig deeper. If he is anything like his ruthless art, he won’t be content with my vague answer.
I hurry to formulate viable explanations in my head, mundane scenarios to bore him and deflect his curiosity. But he doesn’t seem interested in talking.
Unfolding his arms, he pivots around to the sideboard to serve himself another generous serving of the Macallan.
“I’ve seen enough,” he utters tersely, his back to me. “Get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.”
He sounds so disinterested, I have to wonder if I’m not at all what he was expecting. Is it my scar that he finds so offensive, or the fact that I haven’t told him where it came from? His sudden lack of interest is curious, coming from a man who’s made a fortune from exposing human frailty and pain.
I let my hair go, watching the rigid lines of his shoulders and spine as he pours his drink.
“That’s got to be at least four shots of whisky since I arrived. Isn’t that a lot for eight o’clock in the morning?”
He grunts, eyeing me over his shoulder. “I wasn’t aware you were keeping track.”
“Maybe someone should.”
My reply brings him around
