“And the La Touche, I think that should be in the dining room.” I’d saved the best until last.
He nodded. He’d offered no opinion or information as I’d moved pieces from one resting spot to another. He’d just watched me. We hadn’t shared pleasantries, or talked about the weather. I’d worked in silence. But somehow it became more comfortable the more time I was there, as if we were getting to know each other even though we weren’t speaking.
I held the frame against the wall. “What do you think?” I asked.
“I like it,” he replied with a nod. We’d had a breakthrough—I’d managed to coax an opinion from him.
I grinned, pleased that he seemed to like my favorite piece. “You have a beautiful smile,” he said and I looked away. Our interaction had felt oddly personal since I’d met him but this was the first time it felt as if a line had been crossed.
“Thank you.” I put the painting on the floor, resting it carefully against the wall.
“You ever wonder who she’s writing to?” he asked as he stepped closer to my side.
I couldn’t dampen my smile. “I think she’s writing to a lover, or someone she wants to be her lover.”
“What would she be saying to someone who she wanted to be her lover? Is she trying to seduce him?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the painting.
The air between us thickened and the heat of his body warmed me. This was more intense that just flirting. I could feel the weight of him almost touching me. Was that why he’d insisted I bring the paintings and advise on where to hang them? Did he want me?
“Whoever the painter is, he’s trying to figure it out as much as we are,” I whispered.
“I think you like trying to figure people out,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face and tucking it behind my ear. He’d done the same thing at the gallery. This time it wasn’t enough. I wanted more than his fingertips scattering across my skin.
But he was right. I’d been trying to figure him out from the moment I’d seen his empty apartment. He was rich, handsome and confident, but there was an undercurrent of sadness about him, reflected in this echoey place, that I couldn’t explain but I was drawn to.
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
To someone watching a video of us, not having experienced what had been passing between us since I arrived, his declaration would be out of place and inappropriate but being here with him, when he said it, I realized he was always going to kiss me.
I liked that he’d given me warning but not asked my permission. Perhaps in his lips I’d understand him more.
Towering over me, he took my face in his hands and pressed his mouth against mine once, then pulled back and kissed me again, harder this time. His touch created a hum across the surface of my skin and my body sagged despite the voice inside my head saying, Who is this man? I don’t find men like him attractive.
But I wanted him to kiss me.
My arms circled his waist, stroking up his broad back, over the muscles tight under his shirt, so different from the slight men I was used to dating. Instead of finding it strange or uncomfortable, it felt right, like every other man’s touch had been erased by his.
He stroked his thumbs over my cheekbones, then reached around to the small of my back and pulled my body against his. I gasped and he smiled against my mouth. In that moment he had all the power, not because he took it, but because I gave it to him, willingly.
His tongue pushed between my lips and I tilted my head back, wanting more of him. My knees weakened and my mind and body became unsteady as if he were taking all my energy—all my self-control.
He gripped my waist and pulled me up. “You okay?” he asked, his stare boring into me.
I nodded, fixing my gaze on his chest, his broad, hard chest. What was I doing? How had I ended up in this man’s arms, and why did it feel so good?
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.
He chuckled and released my waist. Cool air hit my shirt-covered back and I was pissed that I’d caused him to pull away. “You’ve been dying to since you walked in.”
“How do you know?”
Scraping his fingers through his hair, he took half a step back. “I’m good at reading people.”
“Oh yeah? So what questions have I been desperate to ask you then?” He clearly thought he knew everything.
“You’re trying to work out who I am, and why this apartment is empty. Why there’s a beat-up old couch and a mattress on the floor, yet the closet is full of custom suits.”
I concentrated on the curve of his mouth as he spoke. Each word seemed so deliberate, pushing out of those perfectly full lips.
“Oh yes, and you’re attracted to me, but for some reason you’re fighting it.” He smoothed his hand around his neck. “I’ve yet to put all the pieces together on that one.”
I shivered. Who was he to think he could dip into my brain and tell me what I was thinking, even if everything he’d said was completely accurate? Arrogant but accurate.
“I have to leave,” I said, making my way toward the hallway. “I’ll send the handyman around tomorrow to put the pictures up. I’ve marked exactly where they should go.”
I glanced back to see him shove his hands into his pockets, his smile dimmed. “I meant what I said about wanting you to help me add to my collection.”
“I can’t do that,” I called over my shoulder.
“Don’t let a kiss, even if it was the best kiss you’ve ever had, get in the way of business.”
What a piece of work. Did he just go around flirting with strange women, telling them what a great kisser he was? I stopped at the hallway entrance and turned to look at him. “You think it was the best kiss I ever had?” He might have been right. I couldn’t remember a kiss that reverberated through my whole body the way his had. It’d literally weakened me and made me want more.
“I know it was the kiss of my life. So I’m thinking it can’t have been so bad for you, either.” His tone was teasing and confessional at the same time—it almost sounded like he meant it.
I rolled my eyes in the most obvious and exaggerated way I could. “Do women really buy that?” I turned back to the door, desperate to get out of there. What was I doing, kissing my clients? Wanting to kiss them a little longer?
“I’ll call you tomorrow about the consultant thing. Sleep on it.” That didn’t justify a response. I’d told him no. I was grateful for his business, it meant I could make rent this quarter, but it didn’t mean I should spend any more time with him. I’d kissed him and that was bad enough. Who knew what would happen if I had to work with him more closely?
He could find another art consultant.
Chapter Five
Sam