Damien is watching my face with the same intensity I saw in his boardroom. “Good,” he says. “You’re not discounting the idea outright. I want this, Nikki. I can already picture how it will look on my wall.”
I don’t look at him, but trail my fingertip over the countertop. “You think you know what you’d be getting, but you don’t.”
There’s silence, and I peek up at him. He’s taking me in, his eyes moving slowly over me. “Don’t I?”
My breath hitches as he moves close, then reaches out to slowly stroke my cheek, his movements suggesting that I already am a work of art, fragile and beautiful and perfect.
The thought makes me flinch and I jerk away. “No,” I say. “Not happening.” I summon a teasing grin. “Maybe we should just find you a nice poster. Like the Hang in there, Baby kitten. That would be charming.”
My weak attempt at humor doesn’t even faze him. “Name your price, Ms. Fairchild. Tell me what you want.”
“What I want?” What I want is to be like him. Strong and confident and capable.
But I’m not ready to reveal that much of myself. So I give him the standard line. “I want a family,” I say. “I want a satisfying career.” And with a tossback to my years of pageant training, I add the pièce de résistance. “I want world peace.”
His eyes seem to burn into me, cutting through all my bullshit.
And then he’s right there, his hands on my waist. He pulls me roughly toward him, and I tilt my head back to look into his eyes. What I see makes me shiver. Makes me want. I feel the flesh between my thighs throbbing. I remember the feel of his hand there, of his fingers inside me, and my muscles clench in need.
It’s burning hotter and hotter, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to turn back. More, I’m afraid I won’t want to.
I keep my face motionless, thinking that I’m revealing nothing.
“I can give you what you want, Nikki,” he says, and his voice is so gentle that I begin to think I’ve won. Maybe Damien does see what no one else does. Maybe he sees through my mask.
The thought both terrifies and excites me. Slowly, I shake my head, then manage an insolent smile. “Will you be orchestrating world peace today or later this month?”
“I’ll pay you for the portrait,” he says, his words seemingly a non sequitur. “I’ll pay you. I’ll pay the artist. I’ll arrange a studio space. You’re a businesswoman, Nikki. Isn’t that what you ultimately want? Your own business?”
I gape at him, too surprised that he knows this to respond. Who the hell has he been talking to about me?
“This is a chance to kick-start your career.”
I shake my head, ignoring the small knot inside me that is excited by his proposition. “I’m a businesswoman, not a model.”
“You’re my model. And everyone has a price.”
“I don’t.”
“No?” He steps closer, his body full of challenge and confidence. “One million dollars, Ms. Fairchild. You get the cash, and I get you.”
14
One million dollars. The words surround me, tempt me, and it’s that temptation that pushes me to react.
I lurch back out of his grasp, then lash out and slap him hard across the face.
He looks at me, his eyes burning with something I don’t recognize. Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him. His arm is around my waist, my wrist still clutched tight in his hand so that my arm is twisted painfully behind me. His body is hard against mine, and all I’m aware of is Damien. In that moment, I’m totally his, and we both know it. He can hurt me. He can have me.
My body quivers with desire. My lips part. I’m breathing fast. I don’t understand my reaction to him. It’s primal. Fierce. I am overwhelmed by the urge to simply surrender.
No.
I focus on his face. “I think you should leave.” I’m not sure how I manage to keep my voice steady.