“Nothing that looking at you won’t make better.”
I laugh, hoping he doesn’t notice that the sound is hollow. Once again, he is wearing the face he shows the public. But I am not the public, and I know better. I look hard at him, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. When they do, it is like a switch has been thrown. The hard lines of his mouth curve into a genuine smile, and once again I am alight with the glow of Damien.
He walks toward me, and my pulse increases with the tempo of his steps. He stops only inches from me, and I am suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe. After everything we’ve done together—after every hurt he’s soothed and every secret he’s seen—how is it that every moment with Damien can feel like the first one?
“Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?”
“I—” I draw in a breath and try again. “Yes,” I say. “As much as you mean to me.”
I am trapped in the heat of his gaze and his proximity. He’s not touching me, but he might as well be. There is nothing about me at that moment that isn’t a reflection of Damien, of how I feel about him and what he’s doing to me. I want to soothe him, want to stroke his cheek and run my fingers through his hair. I want to pull his head to my breast and whisper soft words, and I want to make love to him slowly and sweetly until the shadows of the night are gone and the morning light bathes us in color.
From his post at the canvas, Blaine coughs politely. Damien’s lips curve up in a grin that matches my own. We’ve done nothing more than look into each other’s eyes, and yet it feels as though Blaine has witnessed something deeply intimate.
“Yeah, right. So, I’m going to head on out. The cocktail party’s not until seven on Saturday, right? So I’ll come by that afternoon and see if she needs any last minute touch-ups. And I’ll take care of hanging her when I set up the rest of the canvases on easels.”
“Perfect,” Damien says, not looking at him.
“I gotta say,” Blaine adds, as he gathers his things, “I’m going to miss this.”
For just an instant, I think I see something melancholy in Damien’s eyes, but it passes almost immediately. “Yes,” he says. “So am I.”
I’m not sure when Blaine leaves, I only know that he’s gone, and Damien is still there, and he’s still not touching me, and that I’m going to go a little crazy if I don’t feel his hands upon me soon.
“Is it really done?” I ask. “I still haven’t seen it.”
“Come here.”
He reaches out, and I shift to give him my back, expecting him to untie me. He doesn’t, though. Instead he puts his hand on my shoulder and eases me toward the canvas. I have to move carefully because of the red silk cord wrapped around my left leg, but he doesn’t make any effort to untangle me. And he certainly doesn’t bother to pass me the robe that’s laid out on the foot of the bed.
I grimace, lifting my brows in question. Damien doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Why, Ms. Fairchild, surely you don’t expect me to sabotage such an amazing opportunity.”
“Mmm.” I try to sound harsh, but I’m pretty certain he can hear the laughter in my voice.
He doesn’t respond, though, because we’ve reached the painting. I gasp—it’s me, yes. The curve of my ass, the swell of my breast. But it’s more than me. The image is alluring and submissive, strong and yet vulnerable. It’s also anonymous, as Damien had promised. In the portrait, my face is turned away, and my golden curls are piled atop my head, a few tendrils spilling down to caress my neck and shoulders. In the real world, those curls no longer exist, my long tresses having recently been traded for a shoulder-length cut.
I frown, remembering the weight of the scissors in my hands, remembering the way I’d hacked at my hair when what I’d really wanted was to take that sharp edge to my flesh. I’d been lost then, certain that the only way back was to hold fast to the pain like a lifeline.
I shiver. It’s not a memory I like.
Automatically, my gaze dips to the legs of the girl in the portrait. But her—my—thighs are close together and angled such that the worst of the scars aren’t visible. The scar on my left hip is, though. But Blaine has managed to make that raised welt part of the beauty of the painting. The edges are blurred, almost as if it’s in soft focus, and the red cord skims over the marred flesh, as if being bound too tight caused the wounds.
When you get right down to it, I suppose that’s true.
I look away, unnerved by the inescapable reality that the girl on the canvas is beautiful, even despite the scars.
“Nikki?”
I glance out of the corner of my eye and see that Damien is looking at me, not the painting, and there is concern on his face.
“He’s talented,” I say, my lips flickering into a conjured smile. “It’s a wonderful portrait.”