by Kendra Leigh
“But he’s not a friend, Angel. He’s your employee.”
My employee? The comment astounded me, and I suddenly wondered if that was what Jackson had meant earlier, when he’d said that sometimes he forgot that I wasn’t just his buddy. “He works for you, E, not me.”
“No, he works for us. Our driver, our Chief of Security, our home.”
Oh! This was something I’d never considered. That moving into Ethan’s home would suddenly alter my status. “Are you saying Jackson can’t be my friend?”
The regret in my voice was almost palpable, more so than I’d intended, and I saw a flash of guilt flicker behind his eyes. He paused, seeming to consider his answer. “No.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I’m not saying you can’t be friends. But there has to be a line—and you have to be careful not to cross it. I think ‘brotherly’ crosses it.”
I gasped. “But why?”
Suddenly, his gaze seemed to climb inside me, as if imploring me to understand his perspective. “Because it’s a bond you crave. The kind of connection you’ve always longed for. Only Jackson isn’t your brother. And he can never be your brother. So what if the thing that unites you turns into attraction? Into more than friendship?”
Suddenly I realized why he was so suddenly insecure. It was because I’d given up on any kind of kinship with my family, and he was afraid that I would search for it elsewhere. And that maybe it would cause a gap in our relationship.
“That’s not going to happen!” I yelled. “E, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. There is only you. There will only ever be you. People will come and go in my life, some will have an impact and some won’t. Some I’ll be close to, but I’ll guarantee there will never be anybody who comes close to touching my soul the way you do. Christ, I can barely remember to breathe when I’m not with you.”
“Really?” His voice cracked, his hands curling around my hips as if he were grasping for this information.
“Really, Ethan. I can’t believe you don’t know this.”
Suddenly he looked contrite, letting go of my hips and gripping his head at either side, his eyes wide as if he couldn’t believe how dumb he’d been. “I’m sorry, baby. You’re right. I’m being completely unreasonable. I just couldn’t bear it if I ever lost you.”
“You will never lose me. And it’s my fault you feel insecure. I’ve dragged my heels for so long in dealing with my issues, it must have seemed as if I didn’t trust you. But I do.” I grabbed his hands, placing them back on my hips. “You’re the only person in the world I would trust with my life. If it makes you feel better, I’ll change the way I act toward Jackson—”
“No! I don’t want to deprive you of a friendship because I struggle to control my jealousy. God knows you deserve to have people who care about you. All I ask is that you try to stay within the boundaries—and for fuck’s sake, try to avoid him getting naked in front of you in the future.”
“I’ll do my best.” Relieved, I kissed him lightly on the mouth and his arms folded around me, tugging me close.
“What were you going to say before? When I asked you about Jackson’s tattoo? You said it was incredible, and then you said that you don’t usually—don’t usually what?”
I thought for a second, trying to recall what it was and then said, “Appreciate tattoos. I don’t usually appreciate tattoos.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “So what exactly did you appreciate about this one?”
Oh fuck! I sighed heavily. After the conversation we’d just had, I didn’t have a clue how to get myself out of the corner I now found myself in. The sensual intimation of the tattooed image on Jackson’s sculptured torso was abundantly obvious to anyone who laid eyes on it. Certainly any female. It was the way in which the serpent slithered suggestively from a place left only to the observer’s imagination, to coil provocatively through toned abs and chest muscles, its tongue hissing and licking as it tasted its way through its seductive journey. Christ, any fool would appreciate it.
I licked my lips.
“Never mind.” Ethan held up his hand. “Probably best that we don’t go there.”
“Probably,” I agreed readily, eager to move on from this topic of conversation. Picking up a slice of pizza, I guided it toward his mouth. “Eat.”
Complying, he took a large bite. “So did you accomplish much? In between your counseling and your ogling.” He smiled widely to ensure I knew he was teasing.
Mustering a straight face, I nudged his arm in a feeble attempt at rebuke. “Yes, all packed, believe it or not. Jackson was a huge help. I wouldn’t have known where to start without him.” I got up and went in search of the bottle of wine, refilling our glasses and settling back on the sofa.
“That was the idea. His organizational skills are exemplary. I knew I’d never get you moved in if I left it to you.”
“Well, you didn’t give me much chance. You only asked me to move in yesterday.”
“I didn’t want to give you time to change your mind. I want you here permanently, where I can see you. Besides, it makes it harder for you to leave me if you’ve no place to run to.”
“Ethan, I’ve no intentions of running anywhere, or leaving you, or changing my mind. What’s got into you?”
“Nothing,” he laughed. “I’m teasing.”
Was he?
“You should get a good price for it. The apartment, when you sell it,” he added in answer to my questioning frown.
“Oh. Well, actually, I thought I might lease it.”
“Why?” he snapped.
“Well… for one, it would bring in a steady additional income.”
“Why the fuck do you need additional income? Sell it and bank it—or invest it. I’ll help you.”
“I need the money to contribute; I can’t just live here for free.”
“What?” He spat the word with excessive exasperation. “Are we on completely different fucking pages here? I didn’t ask you to be my roomie. I want you to share my home, share my life, share everything I have. From now on, there’s no distinction. Everything is yours as much as it is mine—it’s ours.”
I stared at him in defiance, knowing deep down it was futile to argue, but I’d never relied on anyone in order to survive. My solitary life had instilled an independence that would be hard to rebalance.
“But I have nothing to share with you,” I whispered.
Incredulity creased his brow as he shook his head. “Did you give me your heart?”
The question shocked me. “Yes, every last inch.”
“Then what else do I need?”
“And what if you leave me?” The question was out there before I’d had the chance to compute their impact.
As expected, he flinched as if the words had burnt him. “I’d die before I ever left you.”
The deep blue pools of his gaze bore into mine with a tumultuous blend of annoyance and love, and I knew my own mirrored them completely. Suddenly, my cell was ringing and seeing it as a good opportunity to end the conversation—at least for now—I scrambled up to retrieve it from the breakfast island.
Without glancing at the display, I snatched it up, my attention still on Ethan’s expression as he scowled at his wristwatch, visibly unhappy with the interruption.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” It was Jia. But there was something odd about her tone, something… flat.
“What’s up?” I asked immediately.
She cleared her throat. “Nothing, I’m fine. Could you step in for me at the gallery tomorrow?”
Something must be up. Jia had never missed a day at the gallery.
“Sure, are you—?”
“Thanks,” she cut me off. “Oh, there’s a private viewing booked in at four-thirty.”
“Four-thirty?” We usually reserved slots in the mornings for private appointments, before the gallery opened to the public at midday.
“Yes, sorry, it was the only time the client could make it. Alice has the details. I’ve got t
o go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hung up.
Strange. She hadn’t even given me the chance to ask about Charley, if she was feeling better. I’d sent a text earlier in the day, but Jia hadn’t replied. Because I was busy packing, I didn’t question it at the time, but come to think of it, that was odd as well. Placing the phone down on the island, I turned back to Ethan. He was still scowling.
“Who the fuck is calling you at stupid o’clock?”
“E, it’s not even ten, and it was Jia—she sounded funny.”
“What do you mean, funny?”
“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. She can’t come into work tomorrow; she wants me to man the gallery.”
Tsk. “I wanted you to move your stuff in.”
“There’s no rush.” I watched his face fall at my words and hurried to remedy by blunder. “I mean there isn’t much to bring anyway. Nothing I have an immediate need for. Everything I need is already here.”
It did the trick and a warm smile spread over his handsome face. He opened his arms in an invitation for me to crawl into them, and I did immediately, tucking my face into his neck and reaching up to scratch at the day’s stubble on his chin.
“You’re very grumpy this evening,” I muttered tiredly against his gloriously-smelling skin.
“Am I?” He pulled me close, kissing my forehead. “I’m sorry. Just tired.”
Guiltily, I thought about the worry I’d caused him last night and his late night journey to the airport. The trouble he’d gone to in order to recover my mom’s pendant, only to have me turn my back on him when he’d dared to tell me some hard truths. It was my fault he was grumpy and tired, my fault he felt insecure.
“It’s me who’s sorry, E. I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes you do. Don’t ever say that. Come on.” He pushed to his feet taking me with him, still cradled protectively in his arms.
“Where are we going?” I grumbled in objection and turned comfortingly into his neck. “I was comfortable in your lap.”
“You’ll be more comfortable in bed.”
Angling my face, I looked up at him as he carried me with ease down the hall to our bedroom. “No more, surely. Haven’t you had enough for one day, Mr. Wilde?”
Hitching a brow, he set me on my feet, his fingers moving to the buttons on my—his—shirt. “I could never have enough of you, Miss Lawson, but actually on this occasion, I meant to sleep.” I couldn’t help the disappointment from reaching my face as he slipped the shirt over my shoulders, and the way his eyes grew knowingly dark told me it hadn’t escaped his notice. He shook his head. “Christ, you’re such a dirty, dirty girl, Angelica.”
And then he closed his mouth over mine.
Chapter Four
The gallery seemed odd without Jia, like a soda without its effervescence. The artists were the ones who filled the place with its aesthetic appeal, made you want to examine the contents further, but if it didn’t fizz when the lid popped, it just wasn’t any fun.
Jia hadn’t been herself when she’d called last night, although she’d claimed to be fine, and I was worried about her. Silently, I vowed to give her until close of business to call and reassure me that she was alright, and if I hadn’t heard from her by then, I would get in contact.
For the most part of the day, I kept busy in the office, leaving Alice to her thing on reception and venturing into the showroom whenever a customer showed more than a browsing interest. I sold two pieces by an emerging artist who had an exquisite eye for the use of light and whose work we’d only recently begun to display. Yet another gem discovered by Jia.
Throughout the day, I kept in contact with Ethan by text. It was quite normal for us to exchange messages when we were apart, but I felt particularly eager to keep reminding him that he was in my thoughts today more than ever. I guess I was still trying to ease my conscience about how I’d let him down over the weekend.
At four-thirty, Alice buzzed through to the office, announcing the arrival of Dominic Sloan. It was only then I remembered the mention of a private viewing, and wondered why Alice, who was sweet but not the brightest button in the box, hadn’t reminded me. Realizing I didn’t even have the time to check through our records to see whether or not he was a current client, I made my way through to the foyer, cursing myself for my unprofessional sloppiness.
Glowering fleetingly in Alice’s direction, I turned toward the man who was patiently perusing the fine selection of work displayed in the foyer.
“Mr. Sloan, so sorry to have kept you waiting.” I reached out to shake his hand as he turned, but when he didn’t reciprocate, I looked up at his face in question.
Dominic Sloane was mid-thirties, tall and extremely handsome with flawless olive skin and dark, almost black hair as slick and debonair as the suit he was wearing. His brown eyes were framed by long sweeping lashes and an abundance of… what? Alarm? Confusion? My cheeks heated furiously as I stood with my outstretched, unshaken hand, wondering nervously if I’d got his name wrong.
Suddenly, he seemed to wake from his trance, taking my hand and holding it firmly for what felt like a fraction too long. “Miss Huang, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Realizing what his obvious confusion was, I corrected him quickly. “Oh, please accept my apologies. Miss Huang was unable to make your meeting today. I’m afraid she’s unwell. But if you’d like to come this way, the showroom is prepared for your viewing.” I glanced awkwardly at Alice, praying I wasn’t making another professional blunder and breathing a heavy sigh of relief when, mercifully, she responded with a nod. For private viewings, we usually erected a selection of work by artists, either specifically requested by the client, or work which we believe they might appreciate based on their criteria.
When Dominic Sloan still didn’t move, I added, “Or if you would rather reschedule, I can ask Miss Huang to call—”
“No,” he interrupted suddenly. “That won’t be necessary.”
I nodded. “Can we get you something to drink, Mr. Sloan?”
“Iced water. Thank you. And please call me Dominic.”
Alice tottered off to get drinks and I smiled, silently grateful that the frosty atmosphere appeared to have been broken. I gestured for him to join me as I bypassed the main showroom and wandered through the exhibit area to the smaller room at the back, which we used for private viewings. He followed silently, his pace slightly slower than mine, which meant he trailed behind me rather than walked beside me. I could feel the weight of his gaze assessing me, gliding steadily over my body from head to toe.
“I’m afraid it’s rather embarrassing, Mr. Sloan, but Miss Huang’s indisposition was somewhat thrust upon us, and I’m afraid I’m not entirely aware of your brief.” I had no clue of his damned brief and just hoped the showroom, which, thankfully, Jia had prepared in advance, would give me at least a vague hint as to which artists he was interested in. “Is it just the one piece you’re—” I halted midsentence as I entered the showroom and gazed around at the prints flanking the entire perimeter of the room.
Usually, if a client wished to see work in print, we would select a small sample of an artist’s photographs to display, typically a dozen in total. If more than one artist was of interest, the number would reduce. More of each artist could, of course, be viewed on our website, with work from a variety of collections, plus detailed biographies.
There was no mistaking which artist this client was interested in. Today, I was faced with between twenty and thirty pieces, each one erected on an easel, and all from the same artist: me. Most of the images, I’d never seen in print myself, and some I had only a vague recollection of taking.
Mr. Sloan moved into the middle of the room, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his pants. He began a deliberately measured three-sixty degree turn as he leisurely eyed each one. Though not quite as unhurried, I found my gaze following his, as I reacquainted myself with images I’d long since forgotten.
There were a couple from
a collection I’d entitled “kissing.” Men and women from all different cultures; some caught in a passionate embrace, others turning a reluctant cheek to the person demanding their affection.
Then my gaze set upon one image in particular. It was black and white, like all the photographs in the room, except for one single, striking element slap-bang in the center of the image. It was the brightness, the vibrancy of the color which drew you to it, capturing your unwavering attention and leaving you in no doubt as to the subject of the picture. The image was of a regular yard sale. A child selling unwanted toys and household items, each one laid out on a weary looking, lopsided table, out front of a ramshackle house in one of New York’s poorer neighborhoods. Settled in among the family’s redundant possessions was a pair of red patent shoes.
I remembered capturing the image; it was as clear in my mind as if it was yesterday. It was early on in my career, at a time when—if I think about it now—I used to seek out pairs of red shoes to photograph so I could study them, purely to try and understand how they made me feel. Any red shoes would do—on the toeless feet of a shop front mannequin or at the end of a pair of shapely legs as they waited on a busy sidewalk to cross the street. I never did figure out why my throat would burn with mounting bile at the sight of each and every one, but I never forgot the tight, heavy weight that lodged itself in my gut at the sight of this particular pair. For days, even the usual purging act of vomiting refused to shift the discomfort.
The reason? The red patent shoes in this image belonged to a child, and worse—they were scuffed beyond salvation.
Suddenly, I remembered Mr. Sloan and tore my gaze from the picture to find him staring at me with an intense fascination. “You’re her.” It wasn’t a question, but more of an accusation. “You’re the artist. Angelica Lawson.”
“Yes,” I muttered, my cheeks beginning to burn under his scrutiny. Why the hell hadn’t Jia warned me about the display? Right now, I’d feel less exposed if I was stood in the middle of the room in my bra and panties. I moved swiftly across the room to stand in front of the yard sale picture, as if trying to conceal my nudity. “I’m sorry, did you say it was a single piece you hoped to acquire or—?”