As he took his hand away from my arm, his fingers trailed across my skin. I blinked and looked up at him from under my lashes. He needed to reel it in. Stop his flirting, hold back his kisses.
My heart was bruised, shut down, and if it wasn’t it would never be open to a man like Sam Shaw. Too rich, too spoiled, too willing to do whatever it took to get his own way—including show up at my gallery and drag me to his apartment.
At least he’d given me whiskey.
If he’d just stop looking at me like that. I felt the pressure of his gaze all over me.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He eyed me over the edge of his own glass before taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed and I imagined tracing my tongue down his throat.
“One of those days?” he asked.
“Hmmm.” I turned and moved out of the kitchen, back into the living space and toward the La Touche.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked from behind me.
That was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to forget about my day. Forget what a horrible judge of character I’d been about Steve. He’d always been so humble about his art whenever I’d told him how talented he was. He’d seemed so grateful when I’d agreed to hold an exhibit for his work—concerned he wouldn’t do anything for the reputation of the gallery. Most of all, he’d acted like he loved me.
And yet at the first sighting of success he’d morphed into someone so alien it must have been there all along. I’d tricked myself into thinking he was one kind of man when he was entirely another. He’d used me to get what he needed and then when he thought I might hold him back he was gone.
I took another sip, wanting to dilute my realization.
“This looks just as we discussed.” The frame was exactly where I’d placed the pencil marks on the wall.
“Do you like it there?” Sam asked, his voice soft from just a few feet behind me.
The whiskey loosened my muscles, and blurred the stress of the day into something more manageable.
“It would look good anywhere.” I didn’t turn around, just tipped back my glass, wanting more of the day to slip away from me. If I let myself be seduced, just for the evening, just for now, the worries about how I’d pay the rent, how I’d buy more inventory, would all seem less important. Even if just for an hour or two. “The whiskey’s good, too.”
Sam chuckled and I kept my gaze on the painting as I listened to him retrieve the bottle from the kitchen.
My heart gathered pace as he came closer, his hand going to my back as he topped up my glass.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked.
“I think you’re wanting to get a little buzzed,” he said. “And I get the impression that’s not a regular occurrence for you.”
“You can tell if I’m a regular drunk just by looking at me?” I asked, glancing up at him.
“Not just by looking at you.”
What did that mean? What else was he basing that information on?
“But you are looking at me.” I turned back to the picture, not making an effort to move away from his hand on my lower back. I liked that we were connected.
“Of course I am. I told you, you’re beautiful.”
“And like all rich men, you collect beautiful things. Paintings, real estate, women.”
Sam removed his hand and chuckled. “Come and see where I think your man got it wrong,” he said, heading to his office.
I followed him.
As I turned into the doorway, he nodded toward the wall. “Here,” he said. “I’m not sure if you didn’t want it there or if it’s just off.” He folded his arms and stared at three nudes lined up next to each other.
He was right. They looked off. The one on the left was slightly bigger and the background paper a little darker than the other two. It would look better in the middle. I checked the wall for the pencil marks, but they had been put exactly where I’d instructed. “I agree. This one”—I circled my hand at the picture in the middle—“needs to be swapped out with the one on the left.” I took two off their brackets and placed them on the floor, leaning them against the wall. “Let’s see if we need to change the fixture or if we can just swap them.”
“I think this works,” I said, moving them around. I stood back, mirroring Sam by folding my arms. “What do you think?” I glanced across at him, his eyelashes curling toward the ceiling, his five o’clock shadow giving his smooth suit a rugged look. Maybe the whiskey was underlining this buzz between us.
“I’m not trying to collect you,” he said.
I’d thought we left this conversation in the living room.
“You might be able to tell from my lack of . . . I’m not a big collector of things.”
So his furniture wasn’t on order or about to be delivered. This was it?
“But you bought this art,” I said. “And you asked me to be your consultant, which suggests you want to collect more.”
“But buying art makes financial sense. Hopefully.”
I sighed. Typical. “I thought you liked these,” I said, sweeping my arm in the direction of my secret collection.
“You’re right. I do, but I presumed that they’d make money. I mean, I’ve heard of Degas. I’m guessing that’s a good sign. And you told me I wouldn’t lose money. I trust you.”
He trusted me? Why? “It was a lot of money to drop on a gamble.”
He didn’t reply, but I could tell he was thinking about what I’d said as if he were only just considering his purchase.
“No need to be concerned. You made a good investment.” I didn’t want him to regret what he’d done, no matter the motivation. I wanted anyone who bought anything from my gallery to love and appreciate it. “And bonus,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster, “they’re actually beautiful pieces as well.”
A veil lifted and thoughts of his investment passed. “Not as beautiful as you.”
I rolled my eyes despite the fact that I wanted to believe he meant it. “But you don’t want to collect me.”
“No,” he replied. “I want to fuck you, make you wild, make you scream down these walls that have you so tightly wound.”
It was a more honest response than I’d expected. I had assumed we would continue our dance for a few more songs yet. He’d step forward, I’d step back. But he’d just upped the stakes—stopped the music. And I wasn’t quite ready.
“What walls?” I said, glancing around the almost-bare apartment, not understanding his last comment.
“You know Gordon, you know the west elevator opens on the twentieth floor.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Maybe you lived here. Maybe your relatives have a place in the building. You’re a Park Avenue princess.”
It was Harper’s nickname for me, but coming from her it felt affectionate and silly. From him, the name was like a hair shirt that didn’t fit—a punishment made worse, uncomfortable and unnecessary. “I grew up in this building. My parents still live here.” I tipped back my whiskey and took the bottle from where he’d placed it on the windowsill and poured without offering him any.
“Not too much, Princess, I need you lucid.”