“It’s not a big deal.” I lift my shoulder, trying to ignore the way his penetrating gaze moves over me. “Everyone’s got their quirks.”
He acknowledges with a slight nod. “True enough.”
“Even you?” I ask.
As eager as I am to deflect his unnerving focus away from me, I can’t deny I am curious about the man. I know he’s arrogant and infuriating. I know he’s dangerous in more ways than I want to admit, even to myself. Yet no matter how much I’d like to pretend differently, I want to know more about Jared Rush.
“Do I have quirks?” He grunts. “More than a few.”
“Such as?”
He stares at me. “Ms. Laurent, are you asking me to share something personal with you?” A cool, sardonic humor glints in his dark eyes. “I thought we’d established fairly firm rules of engagement yesterday. As I recall, personal questions are off-limits.”
The reminder of what happened at our breakfast meeting sends heat into my face, along with other places I’d prefer to ignore. He knows it, too. I can see the glimmer of awareness in his schooled expression.
He’s used to being in control. Used to being the one who sets—or breaks—the rules. He demonstrated that clearly enough yesterday. I had marched into his house determined to let him know he wasn’t going to rattle me. It took him only minutes to show me that he could not only rattle me, but leave me burning with a mixture of outrage and uninvited desire.
Jared Rush is not only used to calling the shots. He’s used to winning as well, and I can’t dismiss the way he’s just referred to our conversation in combat terms. Rules of engagement. The kind of rules made for entering into battle.
Is that what this is to him—some kind of war? If so, what does that make me?
Am I his enemy simply by association with Daniel? Or am I something even less? Something expendable, a pawn?
I suppose I’ll have that answer soon enough. In approximately two weeks, Jared Rush will have his painting. Daniel’s debts will be forgiven, my own financial concerns will be lessened, and this will all be over.
At least that’s what I tell myself as the pilot radios our approach to the small tower up ahead. Over the vibration in the cockpit, he informs us we’ll be on the ground in ten minutes.
With a nod, Rush leans back in his seat next to me and taps out a quick text to someone. No matter how hard I try to ignore him, my gaze follows the long, muscular lines of his body, the elegant strength of his hands and fingers.
The calm confidence that surrounds him, whether in motion or at rest, is starting to feel familiar to me now. His air of total control in any situation had felt abrasive when we met, but it also soothes me somehow, even though he’s the last person I should look to for reassurance.
We land as softly as we took off, the helicopter parking on a small target not far from the gray cedar shakes-sided terminal building at East Hampton’s airport. Rush guides me off the aircraft, the heat of his palm hovering at the small of my back until we clear the slowing rotors.
The salty summer breeze riffles my long ponytail and sends the hem of my loose dress dancing around my bare calves as we walk toward the terminal. He opens the door for me as we step inside, smoothly navigating us past the handful of attendants and locals who greet him like an old friend, not the rich and famous artist he is.
We head straight through to the entrance on the other side, where taxis and ride-shares jockey for positions at the curb. Rush leads me to one of the half-dozen idling vehicles.
“This one’s us,” he says, gesturing to a beige Toyota sedan with a decal in the window.
“You called an Uber?”
He glances back me, grinning. “Were you expecting a limo?”
It’s the first time I’ve seen such a relaxed and purely natural expression on his face. With his thick, tawny-brown hair brushing his broad shoulders and his handsome face lit up with a boyish smirk, it’s hard to reconcile this side of him with the ruthless, intimidating man who has bought and demanded my presence here today. The sight of him like this all but stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says when I slow behind him. “My place is only ten minutes away. Let’s get out of here.”
His place, as it turns out, is a large cedar-shakes beach house and three-car attached garage situated on what appears to be a two-acre lot. The weathered gray shingles and creamy white trim are set off by pops of colorful hydrangea bushes, wild roses, and thick, green hedges.
Gravel and sand crunch under the vehicle’s tires as we turn off the road onto the short driveway out front. The whole property is classic and laid-back, a far cry from the staid, Old-Money glamour of Rush’s mansion in the city.
I slide out of the parked car’s backseat while Rush speaks briefly with the driver. Fresh, salty air engulfs me, bringing with it the scent of blooming flowers and the low, rhythmic roar of the waves rolling against the beach on the other side of the property.
No wonder Rush’s demeanor seemed to change the moment we landed at their airport. Even my own nerves smooth out as I drift toward the house and its inviting front porch and huge veranda.
Eyes closed, I pause and inhale deeply, allowing myself a
