“That’s a coy response,” I accuse, daring to settle my hand on her slender waist, pleased when her hand settles on my arm, rather than pushing me away. “It’s beneath you,” I accuse.
“You’re right,” she surprises me by saying. “It was coy and I don’t do coy. Your touching me because I let you.”
“That’s true,” I say. “You are letting me. Why?”
“Because you touching me is better than you not touching me.”
Heat courses through my veins, perhaps because I’m playing a dangerous game with a beautiful woman who might just kill me, too. Or perhaps simply because I want Faith Winter in a way I don’t remember wanting anyone in a very long time.
“How are you even here?” she asks. “The tickets were sold out.”
“I know Chris Merit.”
“Of course you do.”
I arch a brow. “What does that mean?”
“You seem to know everyone or they know you.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“It’s not.”
And yet, I can almost hear that wall of hers slam down between us. I step closer to her, my free hand settling on her waist as well. “What just happened?”
“Nothing that matters.”
“And if I think it does?”
“Then I’ll rephrase. Nothing that I plan on explaining.”
“I don’t like secrets.”
“It’s not a secret just because someone doesn’t choose to share it with you,” she says. “It’s simply that person’s right to privacy. Besides. You want me naked. That doesn’t require deep conversation.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you naked,” I counter. “I said I want you stripped bare and not just exposed. Willingly exposed. The two are vastly different.”
“And what exactly do you expect to expose?” she replies.
I lower my head, my cheek near hers but not touching, “All of you,” I say, lingering there, letting my breath trickle warmly on her cheek and ear.
“We’ll see,” she says, her hands settling on my chest as if she means to push me away, or pull me close, but before she can do either, we hear a male voice say, “Faith.”
At the sound of her name from behind and to the right, my jaw clenches and Faith jolts, her hands falling away from me. In unison Faith and I rotate to face our intruder, my hand settling possessively at her lower back, reminding her, and anyone else that might hope otherwise, that I’m here to stay tonight.
“Josh,” Faith says, greeting the tall, dark haired man I recognized from my research as her agent, Josh Miller. Age thirty-eight, bank account status – not as rich as me, but rich enough to declare his success.
“You did wonderfully during your introduction,” he says, glancing at me and back at her, before he adds, “but you need to mingle with the masses.”
“This is Nick Rogers,” she says, as if he’s nudged for an introduction I suspect he’d rather not have at all. “He owns a law firm in San Francisco.”
“I know that name well,” he says, looking at me. “You represented our top football player when he sued us to get out of his contract with our sports division.”
“Who was that?” Faith asks.
“Connor Givens,” I say. “Damn good quarterback.”
“And what happened?” Faith asks.
“He left the agency,” I say. “We won.”
“And we lost,” Josh says, flicking a look between Faith and myself. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“It’s business,” I say. “Like Faith is to you.” There’s a message in those words. I know he wants to fuck her or he wouldn’t have had his hands all over her when they entered the gallery tonight.
Josh narrows his eyes on me. “Business I take seriously,” he says, an obvious warning in those words that he’d have been better off not delivering. He’ll discover that soon, but now, now he dares to give me a two-second stare, before cutting his gaze to Faith. “Let’s mingle.”
“Yes, of course,” she says, looking at me, her body angled in my direction, a silent question in that action. I take her hand and draw it to my mouth. “I’ll be close,” I promise, kissing her knuckles, and I don’t miss the tiny tremble of her hand in mine.
She nods, and I release her, and the way she hesitates in her departure tells me that I’ve taken her “no” to a “yes,” and done so faster and easier than expected. But then, there is a reality here neither of us can deny: We really are red hot together. She departs, and Josh latches onto her arm, touching her yet again, but she never touches him. She doesn’t seem to know that he not only wants to fuck her, and perhaps is even in love with her, which considering how intelligent she is, amazes me. But then, women who don’t return a man’s feelings often don’t see what is there to be seen. I, however, have made my intentions clear. Her naked. Me naked. Lots of sweaty, hot, dirty fucking.
I watch her chatting with one guest, and then another, remembering my conversation with the star artist of the night, who I’d met while representing a mutual friend.
“Chris Merit, artist and superstar,” I’d said. “I need tickets to the event at Le Sun Gallery tonight.”
“I didn’t know you were into art.”
“I have a Chris Merit on my wall.”
“Really? You never said a word. But, hey man. I’m always honored to hear someone chose my work over someone else’s.”
“You’re humble as fuck man.”
“You sure as fuck are not.”
I laugh and so does he, but he’s not laughing when I add, “How about a ticket in exchange for a fifty-thousand-dollar donation to your charity?”
He whistles. “I’ll give you the tickets, man.”
“Happy to donate. It’s not a problem or I wouldn’t have offered.”
“All right then. That’s generous as hell. I’ll call my godmother and arrange a ticket. Or do you need two?”
“Just one.”
“Got it. It’s business then.”
“I wouldn’t call her business. What do you know about Faith Winter?”
“Not much personally, but my wife and I are the reason she’s in that display. I saw her work in L.A. and had a flashback to her visiting me at Le Sun a good several times a decade ago and with big dreams in her eyes. She’s talented and it’s clear from looking at her work, that she took some inspiration from mine, which I find flattering. She executed her work, not only well, but with her own style.”
“Most people wouldn’t like that inspiration.”
“Most people are insecure.” He’d laughed then. “Funny side note about Faith. She’d felt like she was betraying her family by visiting me at Katie and Mike’s vineyard. I told her that Katie and Mike not only knew her father well, they knew that I don’t give a damn about wine. She told me she didn’t either.”
“She didn’t what?” I’d asked.
“She didn’t give a damn about wine and yet I hear she’s now running her family vineyard, and that, my friend, could be where her dream dies, if she lets it. My wife reminded me how easily that could have happened to me when I inherited my mother’s cosmetic business.”
“Thus why you made sure Faith was on the ticket tonight.”
“Exactly.”
“Does she know that?”
“No and keep it that way. I offered her an opportunity. It’s up to her to decide what to do with it.”
I return to the present, watching Josh’s damn hand settle on Faith’s back as they stand talking with two older, distinguished men. Possessiveness rises in me and I clamp down on the urge to go break his damn arm, reminding myself that I want to fuck Faith, and then fuck her over, not marry her. Irritated at myself, I turn away from her, walking to the Chris Merit displays, admiring his skill, these particular pieces all San Francisco skylines in black and white, that of course even a damn near blind eye to art would call brilliant. Interested in Chris’s reference to Faith’s inspiration, I cross the white tiled floor of the gallery to a corrid
or that has Faith’s name on it, two high, glass-blocked walls, creating her walkway.
Entering her display, I find ten or so guests viewing random paintings, and decide to continue on past them to the farthest corner, to view from the end of the display forward. At the far corner, I find myself standing alone and studying a painting of the Reid Winter Mansion, rolling hills behind it that most would craft with the brilliant colors of Sonoma’s many grapes, flowers, and trees, while Faith does not. Instead, this work is black and white, a technique Chris also favors, but there are differences between the two. Chris sticks to various shades of gray and whites, but as with this painting, Faith always adds a splash of red. In this case, a blood red moon.
“I’m afraid to ask what you think.”
At the sound of Faith’s voice, I turn to find her a few feet away, her blonde hair brushed behind her shoulders, her neck as creamy white and delicate as the rest of her. “You know you’re talented,” I say.
“No actually,” she says, a flicker of something in her eyes. “I don’t. I never…” She lifts a hand and gives a wave. “I just don’t.”
I close the space between us, stopping toe-to-toe without touching her. “Well, you are.”
Her face flushes a pretty pink like her lips. “Thank you.”
There are footsteps to our left before we hear, “Ms. Winter.”
At the sound of her name, Faith turns to the several guests now beside us, who in turn rave about her work. She signs autographs for them and they declare their intent to buy one of her paintings. They depart on that note, but another couple steps forward. This continues in a rotation of guests for a good half hour or more.
“You don’t take compliments well,” I say, when an announcement about the Chris Merit auction approaching clears the hallway, leaving Faith and I alone again.
“Everyone can’t be as arrogant as you,” she says, an obvious teasing note to her voice.
“Confidence isn’t arrogance,” I say.
“Is that what you are?”
“No. You’re right. I’m arrogant, but it works for me and against my opposition.”
“You’d make a bad enemy,” she says. “My attorney says so.”
I close the space that distractions have placed between us, my hand settling at her hip, and I do not miss the slight tremble of her body in response. “And what do you think, Faith?” I ask.
“That there are a million reasons in my head right now that say you’re a bad idea.”
“Then why am I touching you right now?”
“Because you touching me still feels better than you not touching me,” she says, surprising me with her quick, direct answer. “And because tonight, I’m allowing myself the freedom to be someone and something I cannot be tomorrow. That’s my hard limit. No tomorrow.”
“Hard limit,” I say, the term inferring knowledge of a world I know well, but did not expect her to know at all.
“I know that this is mine,” she says, neither denying nor confirming her understanding a broader, kinkier meaning.
“Negative,” I say. “I do not accept that limit.”
“It’s my hard limit.”
“I don’t accept that limit,” I repeat.
“Then we end before we begin,” she says, backing away and leaving me two choices: Let my hand fall away from her hip or pull her close.
“It began the minute we met,” I say, letting my hand fall away from her, rather than pulling her close. Seeking that free will I’ve told her I both want and will have. “And if we’re really done,” I say, “why are you still standing a step from my reach, instead of walking away? And why are we both thinking about how fucking good fucking each other will be?”
“One night,” she breathes out.
I close the step she’s put between us, but I don’t touch her, my voice low, for her ears only. “I could spend one night with just my tongue on your body and never get inside you. In fact, if I had my way, your dress would be up, and I’d be finding out how sweet you are right now.”
“That was—” she begins.
“Dirty?” I supply. “Yes. It was. And I am. And so are you, or you wouldn’t know what a hard limit is.” I lower my head, my lips near her ear, breath intentionally warm on her neck. “You have no idea how dirty I can be,” I says, “but you will. And soon.”
“You think—” she begins, only to be cut off as we both hear, “Faith,” spoken from behind us.
My jaw clenches at the sound of Josh’s voice, which denies me the end of that sentence, my head lifting, as Faith faces Josh and I step to her side. “They’re unveiling the Merit piece in less than twenty minutes,” he says, focused on Faith. “It would look good for you to be there.” He glances over at me. “Are you going to bid?”
“Depends on what it looks like,” I say.
His expression sours. “It’s a Chris Merit one of a kind.”
“And if it fits well with the one already on my wall,” I say. “I’ll buy it.”
“You already own one?”
“He knows Chris,” Faith supplies. “I’m pretty sure he can get a painting when he wants one.”
Josh arches a brow. “Is that right?” he asks, looking at her, but I watch his eyes narrow, the sly intent they register before he looks at me and adds, “You know. Since you’re obviously trying to win over Faith, supporting her work would go a long way. If you can afford that Chris Merit painting, why not buy her entire collection?”
Faith gasps. “No,” she says firmly. “No, he will not.” She looks at me. “I don’t want you to do this. Please don’t.”
Her reaction, far from that of a blatant, money-grubbing killer in a financial bind, pleases me, but I need to know it’s not a coy show. “I think me buying your work is an excellent idea.”
“No,” she snaps, looking between myself and Josh. “No. This is not an excellent idea.” She rotates to face me, giving Josh her back. “I do not want you to do this.”
“A portion of the sale does go to charity,” I point out.
“You donated to the charity to get your ticket,” she argues. “And I’m going to tell the gallery not to sell to you.”
“That’s like telling them to deny a donation.”
“No,” she repeats. “You will not do this.” Her jaw sets and her eyes narrow on me. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this, but I am not for sale.” She turns and starts marching away. And since that conclusion really is shoving a square peg in a round hole, considering she’s already agreed to fuck me, I’ve obviously hit a nerve.
And judging from the smirk Josh casts my way, he knows it, and planned it. “I guess you had better bid on the Merit auction,” he suggests, before pursuing Faith, and no doubt doing so with the certainty that he’s now gotten rid of me, but I am not dissuaded from what I want, ever. And I want Faith Winter. And in truth, Josh has given me a gift, a couple actually. He’s allowed me a glimpse into what makes Faith tick, and at her core, there seems to be pride, not greed. That doesn’t make her innocent of the crimes I suspect her of, and in fact, it might simply make her a perfect criminal, able to hide behind a perfect façade of innocence. But that second gift Josh gave me was the realization that at some point, maybe even from that very first provocative moment when I first made eye contact with Faith, my original agenda has changed. I stopped looking for ways to prove her guilt, and started looking for ways to prove her innocence. That might seem as if it works for her, but the truth is, it doesn’t. Because when I want to believe in someone and they let me down, they betray me, my wrath is vicious.
I start walking, pursuing Faith myself, not about to let her get away. When I reach the end of the hallway, I find the immediate area a ghost town, the main gallery area cleared. An announcement sounds over an intercom: The Chris Merit auction begins in twenty minutes in Room 4C. The painting is available for viewing in ten minutes. In other words, the guests are now piling into room 4C, and so likely, is Faith. I’m about to hunt it, and her down,
when I spy Faith crossing the corridor toward the “staff only” door, clearly trying to use the twenty-minute gap before the auction to escape and compose herself. I decide to lend her a hand.
With long strides, I pursue her and manage to arrive at the door she’s exited, only sixty seconds after she disappears on the other side. Following her, I open it and enter the next room, shutting it behind me to find myself at a crossroads. Forward is the exit, and I’m about to step in that direction, when a sound catches my attention, and I look right to find Faith hurrying down a narrow hallway. Again, I follow, and as I pick up my pace, she gives a quick glance over her shoulder at me, but doesn’t stop walking. Just before I catch up with her, she turns and enters a doorway.
I give the “Women” sign an inconsequential look, and as I know she knows I will, I push open the door and enter.
I STEP INSIDE THE TWO-STALL bathroom only to have Faith whirl on me and attack, obviously waiting for this moment. “I meant it,” she declares, her eyes flashing with anger. “I can’t be bought. And why would you even try? I can’t figure it out. I said I’d fuck you and yet you still do that? Is it a power play? A way to stroke your ego?”
I lock the door, and step toward her, expecting her to back away, but she fearlessly stands her ground, and I swear this woman gets more interesting by the moment. She’s also made it easier for me to shackle her wrist and pull her flush against me, her hands settling on my chest. “How people handle other people’s money tells a story of who they are.”
Her fingers close around my lapels. “I gave you no reason to believe I was that kind of person.”
“I don’t know you, sweetheart,” I say, “And you don’t know me. But I do know that I’ve seen many a thief in virgin clothing.”
“You mean you got burned. Well, I’m not her, whoever she was, and why does this even matter? You just want to fuck me out of your system.”
“Because I do the fucking. I don’t get fucked,” I say. “A motto I live by, and I don’t intend to change that for you or anyone else.”
“Sounds to me like you have trust issues, that aren’t my problem,” she accuses.
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