The fabric of her shirt was damp with sweat from the heat of Ryan’s hand and her own arousal. Simone had no idea how long she’d been sitting in silence after the end of his rather compelling story, but she knew when Ryan lifted his palm, as he inevitably would, she would feel the loss of his touch anchoring her to the stoop. There was something primitively sexy about his hand at her throat, the span of his fingers allowing him to hold her shoulder and stroke his thumb over her throat again and again and again.
Without warning, his hand shifted from its position on her shoulder to slide inside her shirt collar and cup her neck. Her eyes flew open to find him staring at her, desire unabashedly visible in his eyes. It was too intimate, too much, taking them from the realm of fantasy into . . . how did he describe her work? The truth of skin. Skin didn’t lie, but Ryan showed her so many different facets of himself, she knew she couldn’t afford to give him the truth of hers. “No,” she said.
He lifted his hand and let his fingertips trail through the notch between her collarbone and down her breastbone to the placket of her shirt before finally falling to his lap. Even in the humid air of a summer night in the city her skin felt chilled by the loss of his touch.
“You wanted to give her something?” She’d meant the words to sound amused, but even to her own ringing ears they sounded jealous. Her emotions were all over the map. She wanted him, didn’t want to want him, didn’t believe she should have him, much less could have him, and none of those mental gyrations factored in what he wanted. Also, they were driving her absolutely insane.
He shrugged. “You don’t believe that?”
Did she? He’d read Daria impeccably, or at least the same way Simone read her. He’d given Jade the fantasy she so clearly wanted, to be seen, and admired, and envied by the whole of the city. But for Daria the encounter had been intimate, almost custom-tailored for her state of mind. A bespoke lover. The thought amused her; the idea that Ryan Hamilton used her designs to give each woman exactly what she wanted.
There was a better question to be asked, one she had to look at sideways, sidle around, because coming at it too directly might tell her something she didn’t want to know about herself.
Why was she listening to these stories? She’d done her best to put Ryan out of her mind by calling Stéphane back immediately and setting a date for dinner. Shortly afterward another pretty present arrived, a beautiful blown-glass globe made by an artist in London, in fiery shades of orange and red. The same bike messenger delivered it, and again, there was no note. How very like Stéphane to assume none was necessary. But beauty was beauty. She’d hung the glorious, vibrant object from the window by the four-poster bed, where it threw sunset colors over her showroom. The presents meant they were beginning the relationship dance again, as comfortable as a worn pair of jeans, and about as exciting.
His visits to Irresistible, and the stories he told her, weren’t just exciting. They were thrilling, illicit, secretive, all emotions that set off a cascade of improper arousal and delight and made her feel alive. If they’d been about his conquests she would have turned him away. Instead she listened because they weren’t about him. They were about the woman with him, and they revealed a depth of attention uncharacteristic of the average man who walked into Simone’s showroom. On the surface Ryan looked like any other Manhattan playboy, but the dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look in their hazel depths, the grooves on either side of his mouth, the stories he told, wove a spell of seductive darkness and complexity that kept her listening.
She couldn’t let it go any further than that, but this in-between state was unsustainable. Something would have to happen, but neither option—ending things or sleeping together—was acceptable to her. The tension set her temper simmering. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man say he thought sex with an Oscar-winning actress was about her.”
Ryan shrugged. “I think when you get to that level of fame or wealth, there aren’t many people who don’t want anything from you. Is it so strange I’d give her something?”
“Is that why you focused on secrecy this time?”
“She liked it. Responded to it.”
That was the difference, Simone realized. With Jade he could be describing a standard hot fantasy, but the encounter with Daria could be reality. It was a reality Simone found intensely arousing, the impulsive response to chemistry between two people, clothes half-fastened, the tantalizing nearness of skin, the thrill of possibly getting caught, needing to be quiet. Ryan’s gaze never left hers, and suspicion bloomed in her mind. Ryan paid attention when he told her about Jade. Had he given Daria what she wanted, or had he given Daria what he knew Simone wanted?