“Because I need an honest opinion. Most women on my arm say what they think will make me happy, not what they actually mean.”
“But I’m not on your arm, Mr. Stark.” I let the words hang for a moment. Then I deliberately turn my back and walk away. I can feel him watching me, but I neither stop nor turn around. Slowly, I smile. I even add a little swing to my step. This is my moment of triumph and I intend to savor it.
Except victory isn’t as delicious as I expected. In fact, it’s a little bitter. Because secretly—oh, so secretly—I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be the girl on Damien Stark’s arm.
4
I cross the entire room before I pause, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. Fifty-five steps. I counted every one of them, and now that there’s no place left to go I am simply standing still, staring at one of Blaine’s paintings. Another nude, this one lying on her side across a stark white bed, only the foreground in focus. The rest of the room—walls, furniture—are nothing more than the blurred gray suggestions of shapes.
The woman’s skin is pale, as if she’s never seen the sun. But her face suggests otherwise. It reflects so much ecstasy that it seems to glow.
There is only one splash of color on the entire canvas—a long red ribbon. It is tied loosely around the woman’s neck, then extends between her heavy breasts to trail down even farther. It slides between her legs, then continues, the image fading into the background before meeting the edge of the canvas. There’s a tautness to the ribbon, though, and it’s clear what story the artist is telling; her lover is there, just off the canvas, and he’s holding the ribbon, making it slide over her, making her writhe against it in a desperate need to find the pleasure that he’s teasing her with.
I swallow, imagining the sensation of that cool, smooth satin stroking me between my legs. Making me hot, making me come …
And in my fantasy, it’s Damien Stark who is holding that ribbon.
This is not good.
I ease away from the painting toward the bar, which is the only place in the entire room where I’m not bombarded by erotic imagery. Honestly, I need the break. Erotic art doesn’t usually make me melt. Except, of course, it’s not the art that’s making me hot.
I do, however, want you.
What had he meant by that?
More to the point, what do I want him to mean by that? Which, of course, is a bullshit question. I know what I want. The same thing I wanted six years ago. I also know it will never happen. And even the fantasy is a very bad idea.
I scan the room, telling myself I’m only looking over the art. Apparently this is my night for self-deception. I’m looking for Stark, but when I find him, I wish that I hadn’t bothered. He’s standing next to a tall, lithe woman with short dark hair. She looks like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, vibrant and beautiful. Her small features are alight with pleasure, and as she laughs she reaches out and touches him in a casual, intimate gesture. My stomach hurts just watching them. Good God, I don’t even know this man. Can I really be jealous?
I consider the possibility, and in the spirit of tonight’s theme, I deceive myself once more. Not jealousy—anger. I’m pissed that Stark could so cavalierly flirt with me even though he’s obviously enthralled by another woman—a beautiful, charming, radiant woman.
“More champagne?” The bartender holds out a flute. Tempting. Very tempting, but I shake my head. I don’t need to get drunk. I need to get out of here.
More guests arrive, and the room overflows with people. I look for Stark again, but he has disappeared into the crowd. Audrey Hepburn is nowhere in sight, either. I’m sure wherever they are, they’re having a dandy time.
I sandwich myself between a wall and a hallway cordoned off with a velvet rope. Presumably it leads to the rest of Evelyn’s house. Right now, it’s the closest thing to privacy I have.