White-Hot and Hard

by Catherine Chernow

  “I remember how gorgeous you looked when we attended that fancy art school.”

  “I used to model. That’s how I paid a lot of my bills in college.”

  ”Yes, that’s right, you were a nude artist’s model.” His voice dipped an octave, while his eyes roamed over her body. “And you were beautiful.”

  The tips of her breasts peaked against the thin silk of her robe.

  “During our art school days you were every artist’s dream of what the female human form should be. You still are, Sloan, but now, as an art promoter, you revel in your power.”

  She swallowed. Hard.

  “You ripped my work apart that night. You told me to consider some other line of work. I had no talent, you said. My work was shit.” He shook his head. “You got perverse pleasure from it all.” He grinned, but it had a sardonic edge. “And you loved wine. It loosened your tongue, made you talk about the one thing that seemed important—you. I was positive you didn’t remember me from our art school days, and sure enough, you told me about your days as a nude artist’s model, how it helped pay your bills while you were in college.”

  “That’s how you knew I was an artist’s model,” she replied. “When you sketched me earlier, in the bedroom, I couldn’t remember telling you that I had once been an artist’s model, yet you seemed to remember it.”

  “Of course I did.” His grin was smug. “You didn’t recognize me when you showed up at my studio this afternoon and do you want to know why? It’s because you’re always looking down your nose at me. You never see me, Dallen O’Neal, the artist, or the man.”

  “Look, I was younger then, full of myself. M-maybe I was hard on you, but…”

  He took a step toward her. He leaned down until they were nose to nose. “My dream. Revenge.” He brushed some hair from her face, his touch gentle, yet his voice held no tenderness. “You crushed me and my creative drive all those years ago. Now it’s my turn.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “You were a great fuck. I enjoyed it.”

  He ran a finger across her breast, then dropped his hand.

  She shuddered, a tiny, traitorous zing of pleasure racing through her.

  Oh, how her body betrayed her.

  A small muscle in his chin jumped, his blue eyes resembled cold, hard ice. “I loathe you.”

  She sucked in a breath, tears ready to spill from her eyes. She didn’t think a human being could hate another that much.

  “I made you want me, Sloan. Now you know how it feels to want something so badly but it always remains just out of your reach. I enjoyed screwing you.” His voice dipped again, his eyes darkened. “You’re a kinky little bitch, I’ll say that for you.”

  “So you waited. All this time. Just to get back at me?”

  He nodded.

  She lashed out at him, anger making her brave. “Did you ever consider that I told you the truth back then?” She poked him in the chest, the force of her hand causing him to lean back. “Maybe telling you the truth spurred you on to greatness.”

  He growled low in his throat, capturing her offending hand. “I don’t need your or anyone else’s opinion. It’s what I think that matters.” He aimed his thumb at his chest.

  “Fuck you.” Her voice vibrated with fury. She slashed her hand through the air. “You artists are all the same. You have fragile egos. Big fragile egos. Nothing satisfies them. You’re just like my fa—”

  Her body trembled.

  “Like who?” He raised a brow.

  She shook her head. “Let’s put it this way, Dallen. Without my contacts, you’ll have a little success. Graham will mention you in his column, and after that?” Her voice dripped acid. “It’s over. Success is very short-lived if you don’t have the right promotion.”

  He snorted. “I don’t need you or anyone else to promote me.”

  “Was seducing me part of your plan?”

  He let go of another bitter laugh. “It didn’t take much. A little slap and tickle and you were hot for me.”

  She reached out as though her hand had a mind of its own and delivered a blow across his chiseled, beard-shadowed jaw.

  “Bastard,” she hissed.

  “Maybe I am.” He fingered his cheek. “But you’re the bitch of all bitches.”

  Her chest heaved. She reached out to strike him again. He grabbed her hand. “Don’t. I’ll retaliate. You won’t like it.” His grin turned wicked. “Or maybe you will.”

  He released her.

  “You think you’re going to play me for a fool? Well, you won’t get the chance. We’re finished.”

  “You signed the contract, Sloan. You’re stuck with me. I’ll be a thorn in your side for a long time.”

  She froze. “You heard my conversation with Miles.”

  “The walls in this loft are thin. Remember?”

  She was trapped in a mess of her own making. Her throat clogged with tears, but she’d be damned if she would cry in front of him again. “You wanted revenge. Well, you got it. I hope you enjoy the taste of it.”

  She flung open the door and ran down the hall. Yanking open the bedroom closet, she found her clothes and dressed quickly.

  Then she grabbed her handbag and flew out the door.

  She left Dallen without a backward glance, while a part of her hoped he would come after her and tell her this was all a bad dream.

  She ran down the steps, two at a time. When she got outside, she hailed a cab and gave her address.

  “Two Twenty-Eight Central Park West,” she told the driver.

  Anger, hurt and betrayal tore at her heart.

  It felt as if she was bleeding inside, from somewhere deep in her soul. She couldn’t make it stop…

  And feared she never would.

  Chapter Six

  After Sloan left, Dallen prowled his loft.

  He couldn’t sleep so he went out and walked…and walked.

  At five that morning he went downstairs to work in his studio. He couldn’t seem to do anything. Each time he lifted the chisel or hammer, he’d chip away at a piece of smooth, white marble, aimlessly hacking off pieces of it.

  The urge to create was replaced by the urge to destroy.

  Finally he stopped, disgusted with his work…and himself.

  He went back upstairs to his loft, intent on eating breakfast.

  In the distance the sun rose, a great big orange ball. Usually, it made him feel good, motivated him to work. He sat down at the center island, the one Sloan had sat in. He took a bite from some toast, then spat it out.

  It tasted awful.

  You wanted revenge… I hope you enjoy the taste of it.

  He drank coffee, hoping to quell the rotten taste in his mouth.

  It only made it worse. He dumped everything in the sink, turning to face the huge expanse of space.

  The loft seemed larger than usual.

  Emptier.

  Without Sloan, it felt cold and barren.

  He took a shower, hoping the hot water would revive him, but fantasizing about Sloan naked in the shower with him made his dick stand at attention. He had to get dressed and get the hell out of the loft. He exited the shower and dried off, then put on his clothes. He caught her scent. Looking down at her side of the bed, he realized her perfume still filled his nose.

  He ripped the sheets from the bed, intent on washing them. Stopping at the entrance to the laundry room, he lifted the sheets, inhaling deeply. Dallen swore he grew dizzy just from her smell. His dick swelled in response, remembering her fiery response to him.

  She had loved all that kinky shit they’d done together.

  Problem was, so did he.

  He dumped the bedding near the washing machine and went out.

  He walked the city streets, hoping to clear his mind of Sloan. Being alone with his thoughts only made it worse.

  Maybe he needed a drink…

  Shit. None of the neighborhood bars were open yet.

  He could drink himself into a stupor a
t home.

  It was probably safer.

  As he walked back toward home, all he could see in his mind’s eye was Sloan’s pinched, hurt face.

  She had cried when he spanked her, yet he knew in the very depths of his soul that spanking her released tension and gave her pleasure. Those tears he could stand.

  The tears of joy she shed when she viewed the sketches of her nude form made his chest swell with pride.

  The tears she cried when he delivered his vengeance made his heart heavy with grief.

  Revenge was supposed to make him feel better.

  It just made him feel shitty.

  He walked into his studio then went upstairs to his loft where he proceeded to down a glass of vodka.

  Then another.

  And another.

  His thoughts became scattered. What if she was with someone else? What if some nut job tapped into her kinky needs? Would that person abuse her?

  Oh shit, why should he care anyway? He ran a hand through his hair.

  She was a bitch. He saw her in his mind’s eye—her rounded curves, her beautiful breasts…

  Her gorgeous ass.

  She was a gorgeous, sensual woman, with beauty and more brains than he would ever have when it came to choosing great art.

  She had chosen him. Chosen to be with him. Wanted to be his lover.

  Maybe she had the right idea—keep your choices simple and keep your life simple.

  He slept for a while, dozing in a fitful rest.

  He woke several hours later feeling worse than before.

  Reaching for his cell phone, he decided to call Sloan, ending the call midway through dialing.

  Fuck. What was he supposed to say to her? That he was the biggest asshole going? That he missed her so much it made his chest hurt? Yeah, that would be a good place to start.

  He dialed her number and got her voice mail.

  “I’m s-sorry.” It was all he could manage without his voice cracking.

  He got up and paced.

  He didn’t love her, not at all. He hated her.

  Missed her desperately.

  He reached for his glass and downed the last bit of vodka.

  Before he realized what he was doing, he hurled it against the wall, and the glass shattered into hundreds of broken shards.

  He didn’t care.

  He had said he loathed her, but realized now what he hated more than her was himself.

  * * * * *

  That same day, Sloan went to her office, intent on throwing herself into her work.

  She couldn’t muster up even one iota of enthusiasm. She dropped her head into her hands. “You’re a fucking bastard, Dallen,” she whispered.

  A few minutes later, she lifted her head and sat back in her chair, the view of the Manhattan skyline in her direct line of vision. It brought back memories of making love with Dallen in front of the great wall of windows in his loft.

  She got up and drew the blinds, shutting out the view.

  She stared morosely at nothing, hearing Dallen’s voicemail message in her head.

  I’m sorry.

  Sorry? Was that all he had to say? She remembered how his voice broke.

  She thought he wasn’t capable of feeling anything except hate.

  Maybe it was the first time in her life someone’s feelings about her truly mattered.

  Maybe it was the first time in her life she realized that having power sucked. She’d always wanted it, particularly after her father abandoned her and her mother. Having power meant you had the ability to destroy someone or something.

  She had strived to be successful in the world of art and had achieved that dream, using it to wreck a man’s creative spirit.

  It had made her feel good at the time. Back then, she’d had the upper hand with someone who held the power to make beautiful art.

  She had no control over her father, but she did with Dallen.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened?”

  Miles stood directly in front of her. She hadn’t heard him come in. Maybe because she was so damn busy feeling as if her heart had been ripped open and bleeding.

  Men were all shits! She should have remembered that. Should have kept the memory of her father’s desertion alive in her mind. Then she wouldn’t be in this predicament, having an aching, broken heart.

  And a client she didn’t want. An artist with an overblown ego who thought far too much of himself and his work.

  She shook her head, dropping it into her hands again.

  A fucking talented artist is what he was, and she was damned in love with him.

  It was just too bad he absolutely despised her.

  “Sloan, please tell me what’s wrong.”

  She waved Miles away, embarrassment and anger roiling inside her. The last thing she needed was for Miles to see her this way. She wanted to lick her wounds by herself. She didn’t need an audience.

  She didn’t need anyone.

  Weariness took hold of her body. She hadn’t slept a wink when she got home.

  “Here.” Miles placed a tall cup in front of her.

  The odor of coffee drifted by her nose.

  “Drink it. You’ll feel better. It’s your favorite mochaccino.”

  “I don’t want coffee,” she lashed out at him. “And I don’t want you here. Get out. Now. Before I fire your sorry ass.”

  Miles folded his arms across his chest. “So, we’re back to that. Funny how you always seem to fire me when I get too close to you.”

  She raised her eyes to his. Hers burned and felt gritty.

  “You look terrible.” He took a seat in a chair near her desk. “Why are you here? Did something happen between you and Dallen?”

  Something happened, all right. I fell in love with a hot, sexy guy who pushed my sexual buttons—he knew all the right ones.

  “Sloan, tell me. Please. Otherwise, you won’t be able to work and that means I won’t be able to work.”

  “You’re fired,” she growled.

  He nodded then lifted a corner of his mouth. “Good. Because if I no longer work for you, I can just be your friend.” He reached out, covering her hand with his. “What’s wrong? Did you and Dallen have a fight or…”

  She pulled her hand away then rose from her chair and paced in front of the desk. “Miles, did you ever regret any part of your life?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose we all do.”

  “No, I’m talking about big-time regrets.”

  “Sloan, where are you going with this?” He furrowed a brow.

  She took a deep breath then let it out. “Dallen and I had the best sex you can ever imagine.”

  “That’s great.” Miles grinned. “Want to share the details?”

  Her lips trembled. She flopped back down in her chair. “Dallen told me the real reason he invited me to his studio.” Heat crept into her face. “And the real reason we shared that glorious, mind-blowing sex.” She picked at a loose thread on her skirt.

  “And what was that reason?” Miles angled his head. “Or must I pry it out of you?”

  “Revenge.”

  He screwed up his face. “Huh?”

  “Revenge. For what I did to him a while back.”

  “How far back?”

  “When everyone began soliciting me as a promoter. I met with Dallen O’Neal years ago, when his talent was just beginning to bloom. He showed me some sketches and I trashed his work.”

  Miles raised a brow. “You probably had good reason to. Didn’t you tell me that everyone who thought they could draw a line on a page felt they were the next Leonardo da Vinci? And they felt that you should promote them.”

  “Miles.” She placed her hands on the desk and leaned toward him. “Back then I was full of myself. I crushed Dallen’s spirit so bad that he didn’t work for years.”

  “I see,” he murmured.

  “No. You don’t. You didn’t know me back then. I had an ego to rival any artist’s, and I thought my word was law.”r />
  “Well it was, and it still is, Sloan. The gallery owners trust that you’re going to bring them the best of the best. Which means money in their pockets and yours. Quite frankly, I don’t see—”

  “What you’re not getting is that I crushed an artist’s spirit so badly that he couldn’t work for years.” She slashed a hand through the air. “That’s not what art promotion is about, Miles. That’s not what art is about. It’s supposed to bring joy to people.”

  “Well, you always say there’s a big difference between creating art and selling it.” He rose to his feet. “You told him the truth, and ultimately it made him the fine sculptor he is now.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he discovered he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought and went with what was in his gut, mind and heart. And maybe that’s what finally came through in his work.”

  Miles didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Then he spoke.

  “Do you love him?”

  She shot him a look but didn’t answer. Her eyes filled.

  Miles nodded. “Never thought I’d see the day. That and…” He reached out and touched her cheek. “The great Sloan Benton crying.”

  She jerked her head away. “I hate him.”

  “Right. Sure you do.”

  “And why is everyone so concerned about me crying?” She swiped at the tears on her face then walked over to the window and peered through the blinds.

  “It’s so out of character for you.”

  “Crushing someone’s creative drive isn’t.”

  She heard his footsteps as he walked toward the door.

  “Miles, I really didn’t fire you.”

  He placed his hand on the doorknob. “I know.”

  “Then where are you going?”

  “Out. Just for a little while.”

  She sighed. “Come back soon. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.” She turned to face him. “We’ve got a lot to do before Dallen’s opening.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re still going to promote him? Why?”

  Her heart raced. Fool that she was, she still loved Dallen. Giving voice to those words would only make her feel wretched.

  “I don’t renege on my contractual obligations.”

  “Don’t worry. I will. Be back soon, that is.”

  She watched him walk out, then eased her body into her chair.