The Gilded Chain

by Lauren Smith

  The Illusionist flashed a cocky little smile up at the security camera that had been wirelessly hacked. It was playing a looped feed of an empty hall while he took a look around. For all intents and purposes, he was a ghost, flitting unseen through Thorne’s estate.

  Uncatchable.

  Unstoppable.

  An illusion.

  * * *

  The sketchpad and its thick paper were crisp and white. A blank slate for Callie to create her dreams. Tucked up in a large armchair by Wes’s bed, she sifted through the set of newly sharpened graphite pencils and picked a medium HB. Then she concentrated on her subject, a sexy, deliciously naked man in the king bed. Wes was asleep, sprawled out on his stomach, his face turned in her direction, one arm dangling off the bed. The blankets pooled at his lower back and exposed one muscled leg. He had the most amusing tendency to kick free of the sheets during the night so it was a good thing his large body was warm and it kept her from freezing.

  She used the HB pencil to lightly sketch the bed frame, then the contours of his body. Tracing the way his arms bulged in places and the slopes of his shoulders down to his trim waist, she used shadows and patches of white to give his body definition and life. Using one of her lighter H pencils, she sketched the relaxed line of his brows, straight nose, strong chin, and the fall of his thick lashes against his cheeks. She sketched the slight upward curve of his lips and the sleepy look of satisfaction on his face.

  What did a man like Wes Thorne dream about? Art? Women? Treasures from the basement of the Louvre?

  The morning sun was that singular shade of buttery warm yellow as it slowly progressed across the room and climbed the bed frame to illuminate Wes. The sun, like a lover, caressed his lightly tanned skin, touching upon the tousled crown of red hair, revealing honey and bronze streaks amid the dark ruby strands. She’d had her hands buried in that hair, tugging on it as he’d tortured her with ecstasy last night. Nibbling her bottom lip, she sighed, a dreamy sense of contentment filling her to overflowing. Why couldn’t every day be like this? Days full of art, adventure, and lovemaking.

  Callie continued to sketch the rumpled bed scene, smiling more than once. She’d have to hide this one from him. He could never see it. He’d make fun of her. A few feet away, the lovebirds sat in their cage, puffing up their feathers and blinking sleepily. The female tucked her head close to her body, settling onto the bar closest to Callie. Her green-and-peach feathers were warm and seemed to glow with a faint glint on their tips as though they’d been dipped in liquid sunlight. The male lovebird jumped from the nest down to his mate and chirped excitedly. Callie shot a glance at Wes, but he didn’t stir.

  After finishing her sketch of Wes, she signed her initials and dated it before turning to a fresh page. The birds were difficult to capture. They weren’t perfectly still but hopped and chattered. The Parisian birds outside landed on the balcony and spoke in their own avian tongue, conversing with the lovebirds. Callie captured rough sketches of the birds, hasty sketches of their wings, their faces, their bright eyes and affectionate poses.

  She would never be able to live somewhere without a lot of birds, whether in the wild or as pets. The sounds and the need to hear them were deep in her blood, just like her love of the mountains and the feel of herself on horseback. After only a handful of days in Paris, she knew she would have to come back here again someday. The city seemed to pulse with a quiet sort of creative energy, like the beating of an invisible heart made by the collective passions of a thousand artists, living and dead. She was connected to those other souls, joining them in a pursuit of the creation of true art.

  As she worked on additional sketches, she contemplated her argument with Wes from the night before. He wanted to pay for her to go to art school. He’d already filled out the application. Callie knew she could get over the way he’d acted on her behalf, at least in this instance, but if he did that too often in other areas of her life, she was going to have problems with it.

  Her real concern was the money. It was against everything in her to take a hefty financial handout like payment for art school. She would apply for scholarships of course, but if she couldn’t qualify for any and Wes paid her tuition, it would be too much. She’d never be able to repay him. Never. So would he expect her to repay him in other ways? She was already sleeping with him. What else could he want? What else could she give?

  Wes’s cell phone buzzed on the table beside him. The rattling sound of the electronic device against the wood was loud and jarring. It set her lovebirds into a twittering rage. Wes groaned and fumbled for his phone.

  “Not a morning person?” she asked sweetly when he studied the phone screen through one squinting eye and then hit the ignore button.

  “And you are?” he asked with a sleepy chuckle as he rolled over onto his back.

  “Yep. Farm work makes you a morning person whether you want to be one or not.” She set down her light 2H pencil and picked up a dark 2B and shaded a portion of one of her lovebirds on the paper, fluffing the texture to show that the bird was preening its feathers. Pleased with the effect, she had the sudden urge to show it to Wes. She’d always kept her art fairly private. Her father and Fenn never really had time to look at it.

  She flipped the pad in her arms and showed him the sketch. “What do you think?”

  He sat up and immediately waved a hand, indicating she should come closer.

  “Come over here.” He scooted over so she could perch on the bed beside him as she handed him the pad. He took it with such obvious reverence, she started to blush. His keen gaze swept over the birds, not missing any detail. A wild flutter of nerves exploded in her stomach and her breath came a little shorter.

  “You managed to capture them in motion. I always admire artists who can sketch a pose from memory when the subject is in constant motion.” His gaze drifted to the birds in the cage. The two lovebirds were nestled together, watching him and Callie.

  “You little rascals,” he called out, then stroked Callie’s back. “They stop moving the instant you’re done. I bet they believe they’re training you in the difficult act of capturing their likenesses.”

  Callie giggled, delighted that Wes was teasing her.

  “I doubt that’s their secret goal.” She reached for her pad, but Wes moved it out of her reach.

  “I’m not done looking.” He flipped back a page before she could stop him, staring at the image she’d drawn of him in bed. Callie held her breath for so long her lungs burned. Would he be angry? Would he not like it? She didn’t think she could bear either reaction.

  “Callie.” His voice was soft and low, his hand on her back stilled.

  She shifted restlessly, worry and tension knotted painfully in her stomach.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No,” he said and set the pad down before he leaned in and kissed her soundly.

  Dazed by the quick, passionate, and all too thorough kiss, she blinked up at him.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Mad? Of course not. I’m honored you drew me. You’re incredibly talented.” He traced her lips with his thumbs.

  “No. I’m not. You don’t have to flatter me, Wes. I’m already in your bed.”

  Dark clouds obscured the pure blue cobalt of his eyes.

  “What we do in bed has nothing to do with this.” He lifted the pad up. “If you were an old man with a bald head and completely unattractive, I would still tell you the truth about your art. You are talented. Luckily for me, you’re a beautiful young woman who I happily seduced into my bed.” He captured her chin. “Never for a moment think that I want to encourage your art simply to bed you. I wouldn’t have cared about that if sex was the only thing I wanted. Do you understand?” His question seemed so earnest, as though he really did wish for her to understand.

  “I think so,” she replied. He liked her, and her art. He wasn’t using her art as a way to sleep with her. He genuinely thought she had talent, and he genuinely desi
red her. That was a good thing.

  When she smiled at him, the tension coiling in his body seemed to release.

  “Good. Now why don’t you join me in bed. I’m still a little tired.” He set her pad safely out of the way and tugged her down beside him. She expected him to initiate sex and was surprised when he seemed content merely to hold her.

  “This is nice,” she whispered, nuzzling his throat and closing her eyes. She’d always wanted to have this sort of intimacy with a man, but hadn’t, not until now. And the feel of her body with his nestled together like lovebirds made her chest nearly burst with a soft, sleepy warmth, like a glass of bourbon by a warm winter’s fire.

  Wes rubbed her back with one hand and rested his cheek on the crown of her hair.

  “At the risk of ruining this pleasant moment,” he said, laughing softly, “I want to talk to you about art school.”

  She stiffened but his arms tightened around her, keeping her from retreating.

  “Historically,” he continued, “artists with talent were financially supported by patrons. All I am proposing is that you allow me to be your patron.”

  Callie breathed in his warm masculine scent and relaxed. When he phrased his argument like that, it made it impossible to argue without sounding silly.

  When she raised her head and faced him, she gazed at his mouth firmed into a solid line. She brushed a finger over his pursed lips, smiling a little.

  “Patron, huh? I could agree to that.”

  His lips curved into a grin beneath her finger.

  “Good. Then you don’t have any objections to spending the next week receiving some private lessons at the Louvre?”

  “Private lessons at the Louvre?” Callie blinked, staring at him. “Is that even possible? Who would give me these lessons?”

  “Quite a few talented artists I know would happily volunteer.” He seemed entirely serious.

  “Okay…assuming you can get people to teach me, then I suppose I can’t refuse.”

  “No.” Wes touched the tip of his nose to hers. “You can’t refuse, not any longer.” The blue of his eyes was scorching and she knew he was right. Whatever he gave her, out of bed, in bed, she couldn’t say no…and she didn’t want to.

  “Darling, when your eyes burn me like that it makes me hard.” He lifted her onto his lap so she could straddle him. Then he fisted his hands in her hair and devoured her mouth. “Fuck, I want you wet for me.”

  “I am.” She rubbed herself against the press of his erection through the thin layer of sheets that separated them, delighting at how comfortable she was becoming with her own sensuality.

  “Not wet enough.” He suddenly flipped her flat on her back and she squealed, laughing as he wrestled her out of her shirt and panties, despite her halfhearted attempts to escape him. When she was naked and flush beneath his lean muscled body, she finally stilled in her struggles and surrendered to him.

  She gasped when he thrust into her without warning, but she was more than ready. He pumped his hips, wild and hard, gazing down at her as he claimed her. He kept her wrists pinned on either side of her head. No matter how she fought him, it was no use and that excited her all the more. The idea that he’d keep her beneath him, helpless, only to bring them both pleasure was what made the difference in her arousal. Being restrained by him only ever ended in pleasure, so much pleasure she would scream again and again if he didn’t muffle her mouth with his. Wes groaned and sank deeper into her, the pressure of him filling her too much to bear for her to keep silent, either.

  “Wes,” she moaned, arching her back, her breasts aching for his attention.

  With a little knowing smile, he swiveled his hips, striking a spot deep inside her. “Unable to get free, baby,” he said and laughed darkly. “Makes you that much wetter for me, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, God, yes.” He’d reduced her to one-word expressions. The connection between them only deepened as he filled every part of her.

  “Can you take more? Harder?” Wes growled out the questions, his focus on her face as if memorizing her reactions to his every move.

  She nodded, out of breath. She could. She wanted more, harder. He slowed his pace but deepened his penetrations and at the same time making them harder. Throwing her head back, she arched with each jerk of his hips. Wes dropped his head toward her, nipping her chin, her throat, teasing her lips in ghostly kisses, making her desperate. Her fingers curled into fists as she panted and whimpered. Without mercy, he claimed her so completely, their union consuming her, burning her up until she had nothing left to give and all she could do was embrace the fine line of pain and pleasure.

  “Let me see your eyes,” he demanded, his voice rough.

  She met his eyes and what she saw unmade her, like a star in the distant reaches of the galaxy, bursting in a brilliant flash of light. She saw desire and need beyond the physical in his face and that exploded her from the inside out. He needed her in a way no one ever had and it filled her with excitement and hope. She exploded with pleasure and his body shook above her as he shouted and then settled heavily upon her. Struggling to breathe, she sucked in breath after breath, hoping to ease the wild beating of her heart and the thundering blood in her ears.

  Wes, panting and grinning, rolled their still-fused bodies so she lay on top. He pulled the blankets up around them and then lifted one of her hands to his lips. He kissed the tips of her fingers, then her knuckles, and then the inside of her palm. Wes’s eyes were soft, and the tiny lines around his eyes showed as he smiled at her. Her heart squeezed and she took one of his hands and kissed the inside of his palm. His hands were an object of fascination to her. The fingers were strong, yet long and elegant. Hands that held her, hands that stroked and teased her until she forgot her name.

  “Are you happy you came here with me?” he asked, his expression gravely serious.

  It was hard to explain what she felt. Up until now, she’d ridden down one path, a path clear and open. But when Fenn had gotten engaged, she’d felt as skittish as a filly during a storm, and she’d run off her path and into the dark wooden glen of a place she’d never been. This new world was exciting but frightening at times. There were just as many shadows as there were pools of light cutting through the canopy of trees. Being with Wes didn’t feel like a path to take, but rather like a glen, a place to simply exist. And that left her puzzled and unsure of herself.

  “I’m happy,” she finally said. It was the truth. Facing one’s fears was sometimes the only way to fight for what mattered. Being happy mattered and if she had to get scared every now and then, she’d do it.

  “What about you?” she asked him.

  His fathomless eyes were tinged with sorrow. “I’ve never pursued happiness, but being with you…happiness comes so easily.” His admission was full of confusion, as though he couldn’t understand how that was possible.

  “Everyone deserves to be happy,” she noted.

  Wes frowned. “Perhaps, but many don’t look in the right places.”

  “Like your parents?” she prodded carefully. “You never talk about them, and from what Hayden says, they’re not exactly easy to be around.”

  The bitter laugh that escaped him startled her. “Easy to be around? Callie, darling, you have no idea. Never were two people born who are so absorbed with themselves and their money and power. No one else matters to them. They manipulate everyone and demand everyone to fit within their rules. Hayden and I have been disowned to some degree for our failure to conform to their expectations.”

  “What did they expect of you?” She folded her arms on his chest and rested her chin on them.

  His hands slid beneath the sheets to hold her hips, possessively gripping her. His cock still inside her made her body tingle with new awareness.

  “Father wanted a Wall Street man. Mother wanted me to marry one of her friend’s daughters to open social doors. Neither of those even remotely appealed to me.”

  Callie could sense that it made him feel trap
ped. His body tensed and his mouth formed a firm line.

  “I’m sorry.” She kissed his chest right above his heart. They made a strange pair. The man who had everything was trapped. She who had nothing and no way to really live was also in a way trapped. Yet they’d made Paris an escape for both of them. The only question was, how long could they both run?

  Chapter 17

  She’s one of the most talented I’ve ever seen,” Antoine Pichot said as he joined Wes in the observation room. They were in the bottom basement of the Louvre, in a private viewing room that had a window with a one-way mirror. For the last week Wes had brought Callie here and let her spend half the morning learning a new medium or style, with a new artist every day. Then he’d take her out to see the city in the afternoon and then home to bed, which happened to be his favorite part of the day.

  The routine had been pleasant and oddly fulfilling. He couldn’t imagine wanting anything more from his life in the past week than to be with Callie. While she took her lessons, he’d spent his time on commissions and at lunch he’d come to pick her up and take a few minutes to admire her work without her knowing.

  “She’s mastered watercolor, oil, acrylic, graphite, charcoal.” Antoine ticked off the mediums on one hand. Antoine was one of the few painters who practiced old-style portraits with oil. Wes had made only one call and sent pictures of Callie’s sketches before Antoine had agreed to coach her.

  His beautiful Callie stole his complete focus. Perched on a stool before a large easel, she had her golden hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. An over-large white button-up shirt, one of his old ones, covered in splatters and smears of paint, hung around her full, luscious figure. She looked adorable and fuckable.