Leaning over, I pick her up and set her on her feet, then point her towards the bathroom. ‘You need to hurry and get ready for the wedding, because we’re going to head over to Harrison’s place to view his private collection this morning and we might not make it back in time to change before the ceremony starts.’ The wedding is scheduled for eleven thirty, with an afternoon reception to follow.
She looks at me over her shoulder, and I laugh at the huge smile my words have put on her face. I’m betting she thought I’d eke my part of our deal out to the very end, worried that she’d bail once I gave her what she came for. But the truth is that after spending these last couple of days together, I trust her to see this through.
We take turns showering, and while I’m forcing myself to look at some emails, desperate for a distraction from the lust that’s crackling in the air like static, she carries her things into the bathroom to get dressed. She comes out twenty minutes later with her hair falling in shimmering waves over her shoulders, a silk black rose pinning up one side behind her ear, and whoever picked out the dress she’s wearing deserves one hell of a bonus. They’ve all been great, but this one . . . This one is breathtaking. It’s made of a pale creamy lace, with a short, flared skirt and a band of thick black satin wrapped around her waist, with an under-layer of black lace around the hem. And the way the tight, sleeveless bodice fits over her breasts is probably going to have every guy here tripping over his feet, it’s that incredible.
Yeah, Emmy’s body in this little dress is something that I know, with every fiber of my being, I will never forget. On my deathbed, when I think back on the beautiful things that I’ve seen in this world – Paris, Venice, Cairo – the sight of Emmy Reed wrapped up in cream lace and black satin is going to be at the top of the list.
‘What?’ she asks, when I just keep staring. ‘Is it too short?’
‘No. God, no. Sorry,’ I mutter as I move to my feet. ‘You just . . . You’re stunning.’
She blushes at the compliment. ‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it, Em. You damn near knocked the breath out of me.’
She laughs, the feminine sound soft and husky, and her eyes are shining with pleasure. She’s honestly the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen – and so much more. I have a feeling I’ve only scratched the surface of Emmy Reed, and I know that when this weekend is over and we head our separate ways, I won’t be ready to see her go. Not by a long shot, and that’s going to suck.
But I still think that following her on to the Tube was the smartest fucking thing I’ve ever done. So I’m not going to regret this weekend with her. Instead, I’m determined to enjoy the hell out of the time we have left together.
We make our way downstairs, have a quick breakfast of coffee and pastries, then head down the terrace steps, since it’s easier to reach Elm Manor by walking along the garden pathways that connect the two estates.
I’m relieved we make it out of the house without running into either my father or Caroline. He’s drinking so heavily, I’m surprised he hasn’t pickled himself, and Caro . . . Yeah, she’s acting even more bat-shit crazy than usual, having a meltdown every two seconds and giving me the third degree yesterday about where Emmy lives in California. She must have overheard Em talking to one of the other guests, but God knows why the crazy bitch would care about where Em’s from. As far as she and Alistair are concerned, Emmy and I are a couple and she’s currently staying with me in London.
The walk over to Elm Manor takes only about ten minutes. Anna, my grandfather’s housekeeper, lets us in with a friendly smile and tells us that he’s already at work in his studio.
‘I’m going to give Emmy a tour of his private collection, but please let him know that I’m here,’ I say, after kissing her on the cheek, ‘and that there’s someone I’d like him to meet.’
She gives me a startled look, knowing the odds are low that Harrison would acknowledge my presence even if I were alone, and practically nonexistent when I’ve brought a stranger to meet him, no matter how beautiful that stranger is. My grandfather avoids people the way the rest of us avoid nettles, and a meeting with him usually leaves a person with the same kind of wounds. But I’ve given my word to Emmy that I’d at least try to get her that interview, and I’m not about to back down now. If he doesn’t come out of his studio after Anna delivers my message, I’ll go and try to badger him into it. It won’t be pleasant, but it’s the least I can do after the way she’s faced down Caroline for me.
It doesn’t take long to reach the gallery, which is located on the first floor of the house. Before I open the door, I look at Emmy and give her a playful wink. ‘You’re about to get up close and personal with a shitload of disturbing, but erotic art. So if you feel the need to ravage me or anything, I just want you to know that I’m okay with that.’
She shakes her head as she snuffles a soft burst of laughter under her breath. ‘There you go again, being all funny.’
‘What can I say? I like cracking you up.’ I open the door to the gallery for her, and she’s smiling as she walks past me, until I lean down and whisper in her ear, ‘Almost as much as I like making you come.’
She flushes and hurries away from me, and my quiet rumble of laughter follows her into the long, high-ceilinged room.
I stay over to one side, content to ignore the paintings in favor of watching the woman. I hear her gasp as she turns in a circle, taking it all in. This is where Harrison keeps his most famous paintings, only allowing them to be shown in museums when the mood strikes him, and I can tell how much it means to Emmy to be here. Hell, some of these paintings have never even been shown to the public, so she should have some great material for her article.
She takes her phone out of the small bag that’s attached to her wrist, using the voice recording function as she begins to dictate her notes, and I love to watch her at work. Love the way her head tilts to one side as she studies each painting, and how she’ll sometimes catch her lower lip in her teeth when she’s deep in thought. She’s fucking perfection, and I’m so addicted it’s not even funny.
I notice that there are security cameras mounted in each corner of the room, and I wonder if the old man is watching us. Watching her. It makes me want to walk to her and pull her into my arms, laying my claim on her in the most primitive, animalistic way I can, so that the old bastard knows she’s mine.
Mine.
Huh, that’s a word that’s sure as hell never been in my vocabulary before. At least not when talking about a woman. But there’s no denying that, when it comes to Emmy, I like the way it feels in my mouth. Like it’s right where it belongs.
I don’t know what’s going on between us. Don’t understand half of the crap I’m thinking and feeling. But I do know one thing with absolute, undying certainty, and it’s this: I haven’t had my fill of her yet. Not even close.
And I’m scared shitless that I never will.
EMMY
I feel . . . different, as I look at these raw depictions of sex and violence, of love and hate, that adorn the walls. I’m not studying them with the same eyes as I did before. The same judgments. The same emotions. And I know why.
The reason is wearing a sexy-as-hell suit as he props his broad shoulders against the wall over by the door, arms crossed over his hard chest, watching me in that tender, intense, impossibly hungry way of his that makes me so wet it’s crazy. So needy I just want to tackle him to the polished floor, rip his clothes off, and lick every inch of his gorgeous, muscular, mouthwatering body.
Every. Single. Inch.
And, God, does he have a lot of them.
But I know, now, that there’s a hell of a lot more to Jase Beckett than just his huge cock and his fat bank account. He’s teaching me, with every moment I spend with him, that there’s another kind of powerful alpha male in the world. Teaching me that the term is so much bigger and wider than I’d let myself see.
And, yeah, there’s definitely so much more that I want before this weekend is over, a
nd it has nothing to do with artwork. But I’m still terrified of making a mistake. Of walking away with so much regret that it drowns me. Ruins me.
‘Some of these used to hang in Beckett House,’ he tells me, as I finish my first circuit of the gallery. ‘But after my mum died, he took them all back, except for the one that hangs in my room.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ He smirks as he laughs. ‘The old man can’t stand Alistair and Caroline any more than I can.’
‘I can’t say that I blame him,’ I murmur, thinking that’s at least one thing that Harrison and I agree on.
‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ Jase suddenly mutters under his breath, jerking away from the wall, and I look over my shoulder to see J.J. Harrison, in the flesh, walking into the gallery from a doorway at the far end of the room. He’s shorter than Jase, but carries himself like a giant, his dark jeans and black T-shirt spattered with brilliant streaks of paint, as if he’s been working for hours in the midst of a color storm.
‘What a surprise,’ Harrison says in a deep, scratchy voice, sounding like he’s smoked three packs of cigarettes a day for the past fifty years.
‘Bullshit,’ Jase says with a snort. ‘Anna told you we were here. And I know you’ve been watching us.’
Harrison’s lips twist in a semblance of a smile, though there’s no warmth in it. ‘My house, my right. What I do here, it isn’t any business of yours, Jasper.’
I’m clueless as to what they’re talking about, until I notice the cameras in each corner of the room. I wonder what’s prompted the artist to grant us with his presence, because it sure as hell isn’t out of any familial desire to visit with his grandson. The dislike between the two men is impossible to miss, and it’s heartbreaking that I’ve yet to meet a relative of Jase’s who holds any actual affection for him. Feeling the need to show him my support, I cross the short distance between us and stand by his side.
‘Is that why you haven’t fucked her against the wall yet?’ Harrison asks, stopping with his hands in his pockets just a few yards from where we stand. ‘Because you didn’t want an audience?’
‘Careful,’ Jase cautions in a low voice, and I wait with bated breath to see how this cantankerous artist who’s lived his life by no one’s rules but his own will react. He takes a moment to study his grandson’s expression, searching for something known only to him, then lifts his shoulders in a careless shrug.
‘I see you’ve brought a friend,’ is all he ends up saying, as he takes a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, pulls one out, and lights up. So that explains the voice, I think, taking him in. His body is strong and robust, his hair still salt-and-pepper rather than completely gray. But while his physique could belong to a much younger man, Harrison wears his age on his face. And in his dark eyes. They look ancient, as if he’s lived a thousand lives, each one more painful than the last.
Before Jase can introduce us, I lift my chin and say, ‘My name is Emmy Reed, Mr Harrison. I’m writing an article about your work, and Jase was kind enough to offer me a private viewing.’
‘You’re an American?’ he asks as he blows out a heavy stream of smoke, the lift of his brows the first sign of actual emotion that he’s shown us.
‘Yes.’
‘And a writer?’ His gaze begins to narrow as he takes another long drag on the cigarette. ‘About art?’
‘Yes.’
The corner of his mouth twitches so slightly that I almost miss it. ‘Are you any good?’
My own lips part as I’m about to respond, when he waves my answer off with a whatever gesture of his hand and looks at his grandson. ‘I’ve decided that I’ll talk with Miss Reed. You can wait for her back at Beckett House. I’ll have Anna drive her over when we’re done.’
‘Like hell,’ Jase clips, glaring at his grandfather.
‘I might feel like talking to a pretty girl,’ Harrison drawls, blowing out another cloud of smoke. ‘Doesn’t mean I want to talk to you.’
‘Christ,’ Jase mutters, before turning his head and locking his shadowed gaze with mine. I know he’s reading the look in my eyes, trying to determine if I’ll be okay without him. I try to convey that I’ll be fine, but that I’m sorry his grandfather is such an ass-hat. I have no idea if I pull the message off, and maybe I just look a bit crazy, because I can see a flash of humor spark in Jase’s dark eyes. He leans down and presses a soft kiss against the center of my forehead that makes me go all swoony inside, then puts his lips right at my ear and whispers, ‘Give him hell.’
Without even throwing another glance at Harrison, Jase exits the room, and I turn to face the rude old bastard with my game face on, thinking he’s the biggest bully that I’ve ever met. And considering I know my father, that’s really saying something.
Noticing the phone in my hand, he takes another long drag and says, ‘You can record this if you want.’
‘Thanks,’ I murmur, wishing my freaking hands weren’t shaking as I deal with the phone.
‘If I were to guess, I’d say your first question is going to be why. Why this? Why that?’ He turns and begins walking around the perimeter of the room, gesturing to the array of his paintings that cover the walls, and I follow after him. ‘So let me just start by saying that the reason is actually quite simple.’ He pauses, but it’s not for dramatic effect. He’s simply taking another drag, and I’m shocked when he tosses the partially smoked cigarette on the lovely wooden floor and grinds it out with his shoe. But then, he’s been dropping his ashes on the floor this entire time, so the man clearly has no regard for material objects. Or for his housekeeper, for the matter.
‘And your reason?’ I prompt him, when he starts to light another cigarette.
He turns his head, slanting me a sharp smile. ‘I just like to fuck with people’s minds.’
‘Is that why you depict women in such a derogatory manner?’
His brows lift, disappearing under the shaggy fall of his hair. ‘Is that what I do?’
‘What would you call it?’
‘I paint the world the way I see it,’ he answers, gesturing with the hand holding his cigarette toward one of his more controversial works in which a faceless, hulking beast of a man is leading a beautiful, crying blonde, who’s on her hands and knees, around like a dog, his hand fisted in her long hair, using it like a leash. He’s pulling so hard that blood drips down the sides of her face, and they’re both sinking into what looks like rotting food and excrement.
As I stare up at the painting, I say, ‘Then I believe you see the world through a cloud of pain.’
His laugh is low and gritty. ‘You’re not the first to think that.’
‘And I won’t be the last, I’m sure,’ I murmur, bringing my gaze back to his. ‘I just want to know why.’
‘Why? What business is it of the world’s?’
‘Because they write about you like you’re a monster. And to be honest, that’s what I thought I would find. But you’re not.’
Even though I get the sense that my words have surprised him as much as they’ve surprised me, he only says, ‘Looks can be deceiving.’
‘I’m not basing my opinion on your looks, Mr Harrison. I’m basing it on the way I feel.’
‘The way you feel,’ he husks, rolling the phrase over his tongue.
‘I’ve been around my share of men who hate women. The air in this room doesn’t feel the same. I think you hate one woman.’
His head tilts the barest fraction to the side. ‘Do you now?’
I do, I think, and she wasn’t his wife, Janine. From the photos I’ve seen, Janine was a striking brunette. But J.J. Harrison paints the story of a petite, sensual blonde. Her features might always be blurred, but I’d bet every penny I own that it’s the same woman.
But to Harrison, I simply say, ‘Or maybe you hate yourself.’
‘Women are vindictive, money-hungry creatures. Just look at Jase’s stepmother.’
‘There are rich bitches and there are rich bastards,
’ I point out. ‘But that coin can be flipped just as easily.’
‘So you don’t judge? You didn’t take one look at Jase in his expensive suit with his pretty face and decide you knew exactly what kind of man he was?’
I stifle my wince, but the old man can read me like a book, and his chest shakes with another gritty slice of laughter.
‘We all see through a lens of pain, Miss Reed. It’s what makes us human.’
Understanding that the only way I might get something more out of him is if I offer up my own pound of flesh, I say, ‘But who forged that lens for you? My father made mine. I gave him that power, and it’s not something I’m proud of. It’s something I wish I could change.’
‘Your father hurt you?’ he asks through another cloud of smoke.
‘I’m past letting him hurt me now.’ Tension gathers across my shoulders, and in the pit of my stomach, as I add, ‘But he hurts my mother.’
For the first time since he entered the room, there’s a hint of softness in his ancient gaze. ‘And you love your mother.’
‘More than anything.’
‘But you resent her too,’ he says with a mocking smile, all hints of tenderness gone. ‘Because she’s still living in the shit, letting your father treat her like an extension of his ego.’
I frown, hating how much this man sees. God, no wonder he’s so good at twisting humanity’s emotions.
‘You despise that weakness in her,’ he goes on, turning to face me fully, ‘because of what it does to her. But also because if it lives in her, then it lives in you.’ He smiles again, knowing he’s right, and my throat works as I take a hard swallow.
Screw this. I want to tell him to go to hell and storm out, and I’m two seconds away from doing it, when I realize that it’s exactly what he expects. So I suck in a deep breath and force myself to get back on track. ‘I think a woman made yours – your lens of pain.’
Studying the cigarette in his hand, as if he’s mesmerized by the swirling column of its smoke, he says, ‘I was married to Jasper’s grandmother for thirty years without a single argument, except for when she forced our daughter, Sarah, to marry that peacock next door.’
The Weekend Page 10