But I’m not on his staff. “I’m fine,” I say. “I have a plan.” I don’t mention that the plan involves sitting down and never getting up again.
“If it involves getting so rip-roaring drunk that you have no choice but to get off your feet by laying down, then I’d say your plan is coming along quite nicely.”
“Don’t be patronizing.” I stop in the center of the room and glance around, taking in the collection of canvases that fill the space. I pause, then deliberately turn and look him straight in the eye. “I assume you want a nude?”
I see the heat rising, struggling to burn through his mask. I force myself not to smile with victory.
He lifts a single brow. “I thought you were disinclined to help me.”
“I’m in a charitable mood,” I say. “So? Nude? Landscape? Still life with fruit? I’m assuming that since we’re here at Evelyn’s show, you’re thinking nude.”
“It’s certainly at the forefront of my mind, yes.”
“Do you see anything here that appeals to you?”
“I do, actually.”
He’s looking right at me, and I think that maybe I’ve played this game a little too cavalierly. I know I should back off, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the tiny bubbles talking, but I like seeing the desire in him. No, that’s not true. I like seeing him desire me.
It’s a simple yet startling realization.
I clear my throat. “Show me.”
“Pardon me?”
I have to force myself to sound nonchalant. “Show me what you like.”
“Believe me, Ms. Fairchild, I’d be very happy to do that.”
The hidden message in his words isn’t very hidden, and I swallow. I opened this door. Kicked it open, really. But now I have to actually walk through it. I shift my weight, uneasy—and stumble on the damn shoe.
He catches my arm, and I gasp as the shock of his touch against my bare skin rumbles through me.
“You need to take them off before you hurt yourself.”
“Not happening. I don’t do bare feet at parties.”
“Fine.” He takes my hand and leads me toward the hall with the velvet rope. He moves slowly, allowing for my sore feet, but then looks at me with a wicked grin. “Or perhaps I should simply use the caveman carry?”
My glare changes to a gape when he unfastens the velvet rope and steps into the darkened, private hall behind it. I hesitate, then follow. He rehooks the rope, then sits on the velvet-covered bench. He looks up at me without even a hint of apology, as if he owns the world and everything in it. Then he pats the seat next to him, and because my feet hurt and my head is spinning, I sit without argument.
“Now,” he says. “Take your shoes off. No,” he adds, before I can protest, “we’re behind the rope, so we’re not officially at the party now. You’re not breaking any rules.”
He says the last with a grin, and I match it without thinking.
“Move sideways,” he instructs. “Put your feet in my lap.”
Social Nikki would protest; I slide my feet up onto his trousered legs.
“Close your eyes. Relax.”
I do, and for a moment there is nothing, and I fear that he’s punking me, after all. Then his fingertip traces along the bottom of my foot. I arch back, surprised and delighted. The touch is featherlight and almost tickles, and when he does it again, I release a shuddering breath. My whole body stiffens as I concentrate only on that one spot. I feel the sparks shoot through me, and realize that I’m aroused.
I clutch the edge of the bench and let my head tilt back farther. A few tendrils of hair brush the nape of my neck. The combination of sensations—his touch on my feet, the soft caress of hair—is overwhelming. My head truly is spinning now, and not from the champagne.