“Is it all right if I look around, then?”
I grunt a nonverbal reply, too absorbed to bother with words. I tear off the top sheet and let it fall to the floor as I begin a second sketch, my eyes flicking in rapid fire from the canvas to her and back again as she begins a casual tour of my studio.
I’m riveted to her movements, to the measured grace she exudes in spite of the fact that I haven’t exactly made this whole thing easy for her. If she is self-conscious about being nude in front of me, she seems determined not to show it. With her hands loosely clasped at the small of her back, she slowly investigates the art supplies and half-finished canvases that have collected in nearly every corner of the room.
She pauses in front of a crate of my paintings that I brought back last year from various gallery loans and exhibits in the city. Her hands are careful, respectful, as she combs through the half-dozen or so works. I hear her breath catch when she spots one of my more personal pieces, an unsigned portrait called Beauty.
It depicts a regal, yet weathered, brunette whose aging face and deflated nude body hints at the illness that almost destroyed her. But instead of sorrow or defeat in her intense stare, her expression while she brings herself to climax with one thin hand between her parted legs is one of pleasure. It is carnal. Uninhibited. Defiant.
Just like the woman who posed for me.
“I know this painting,” Melanie says. “I saw it hanging in Dominion up in Midtown.” With the faintest blush riding her cheeks, she casts a questioning look at me over her shoulder. “It’s one of yours?”
I nod gruffly, my hands sketching feverishly as I try to capture the symmetry of her body and the way her hair seems to float like fiery, silken waves over her shoulder. From this angle, the way she’s rotated slightly toward me, I can just see the hint of the brutal scar that runs along her side. I sketch that, too, because I’ve never allowed any lies on my canvas.
Except for the ones I tell myself.
“I’ve spent a fair amount of time in and out of that gallery,” I murmur, glancing up from my sketch if only to look at her for a longer moment. “I’m surprised we didn’t run into each other there.”
If we had, she would already be mine and everything about this conversation, this moment, would be different. Everything except my unfinished business with the man who’s had the undeserved privilege of her trust and affection these past several months.
She shrugs, folding her arms in front of her and obscuring the pretty side view of her breast I’d been enjoying. “I’ve only been to Dominion once, about a year ago now. My best friend Evelyn’s brother gave her tickets to a private reception. Some kind of fundraiser Baine International was hosting at the gallery.”
I’m aware of her friendship with the African-American former runway model, having seen the women together that first night at my club. “Evelyn’s brother is Andrew Beckham,” I clarify. “He’s Dominic Baine’s personal attorney.”
“That’s right,” she says, tilting her head. “Do you know Andrew?”
“I know both men. Beck’s a decent guy and a damn fine lawyer. As for Nick Baine, he and I go way back. He’s a good friend, one of the best anyone could ever want.”
It hadn’t always been a smooth road for the two of us, but what I didn’t understand then was that the tormented artist-turned-billionaire-corporate-titan had been fighting demons that rivaled—possibly even surpassed—my own. Nick’s amazing fiancée, Avery Ross, helped slay those demons with him. If anyone deserves a happy future, it’s the both of them.
As for our fucked-up pasts, it’s not an understatement to say that Nick and I both owe our lives to the woman in the painting that’s caught Melanie’s attention.
She turns back to look at the portrait, studying it in silence while I start on a third sketch of her. She’s just as gorgeous from behind, so fucking sexy it’s all I can do not to snap my pencil in two as I follow the lean muscles of her legs and spine and the luscious curves of her ass. She leans forward for a closer look at the painting and my brain nearly explodes with the sudden urge to get up from my stool and bend her farther over so I can feast on her until she comes on my tongue.
“This one’s so different compared to your other work,” she says.
As if sensing the dark weight of my thoughts, she abruptly glances back at me. My animalistic-sounding grunt is pure caveman, but it must seem like disgruntled insult to her. I’m sure my scowl doesn’t help.
She hurries to explain. “I mean, it’s impossible to mistake your style for anyone else’s. Dark, edgy, erotic. A little unsettling. Unflinchingly raw. But there’s something about this portrait that seems . . . I don’t know. It’s tender,” she says, her gaze soft and curious, piercing me like an arrow from across the room. “That’s what I thought when I saw this painting in Dominion. I thought whoever painted this woman, this resilient ‘Beauty,’ must have cared for her very much. He must have loved her.”
It’s a question as much as a keen observation, one I’m under no inclination to answer. I’ve already warned Melanie that she can forget any ideas about peering under the hood of my personal life. That goes double for my past.
So, I’m not sure why the words gather in my throat as she levels that inquisitive look on me. My hand moves over the sketch paper, recreating the doe-eyed softness of her stare and the tempting
