Eight Ways to Ecstasy (11 page)

She'd turned all her paintings to face the wall. Their second, disastrous night, he'd gone back to her apartment to find them hidden from him again.

He'd thought it was a lack of trust, at the time, and maybe it was. But— “Is that why you didn't want me to see?” Her gaze darted up, eyes widening. The tickle grew into a chilled certainty. He clarified all the same, “What you were working on.”

She looked away. “Maybe.” It sounded like a concession. “Partly.”

“You know you've already made a good impression on me.”

She'd stunned him with her drawings. The talent and the insight in them. The skill and the sensitivity.

He'd been bewitched by her scent and her kiss, by the heat of her body and the brilliant light of her company. By the way she'd looked at him and seemed to see something more than just the money and the name.

But it had also been the things she made. Her art was a part of her—maybe the piece that had dragged him beneath the surface of her deeps.

“I told you,” she said. “It's hard for me to show people things that aren't finished.”

And this was important. He squeezed her hand and took a moment to gather his thoughts. They had to come out right.

“It doesn't have to be perfect.” He swallowed, throat dry.
You don't have to be perfect.
“If it's something you made, I'll love it.”

I'll love you.

For a second, he couldn't breathe.

He'd fought back the thought so many times now. Every time he touched her, it rose unbidden, though, and he'd pushed it down and down. All the ideas of building a future with her and making a home for her to share. All the warmth in his heart and this
need
to be with her. It had driven him across continents and boroughs and across the threshold of this maddening restaurant.

It would drive him farther still. Because he loved her.

Not the way his parents had loved each other and used that love like a weapon. Not the way they'd loved him, twisting it into a means to control him. Treating his own love like a weakness to be burned out of him.

But with acceptance. With faith.

With a part of him he'd thought he'd lost so long ago.

“So where to next, m'lady?”

It sent a little thrill up Kate's spine to have Rylan looking at her the way he was. As if he were entirely at her disposal, ready for whatever she wanted to throw at him.

And there was something more there, too, some quiet warmth lighting the soft blue of his eyes. It made her chest go all fluttery in a way she had promised herself she wouldn't give in to. She was sticking to that, goddammit all. But he wasn't making it easy.

Not with his quiet reassurances or his unwavering belief in her and her art. Not with the heat of his hand where it wrapped around hers.

The door to the restaurant swung closed behind them, the sounds from within going muffled, replaced by the rumble of engines and wind and the millions of people they shared this city with. She took a deep breath and looked away from him, gesturing down the street.

“There are a few galleries having openings tonight. I thought we could check them out? If you're interested?”

“I told you,” he said, stroking his thumb across the back of her palm, “whatever you want.”

He had. He'd left this entire evening up to her, and she'd thought it would be awkward. She always got nervous making choices for other people. But at least so far, he'd been true to his word, approaching everything she suggested with an open mind, even when it was a crazy restaurant in a part of town he'd probably barely set foot in before.

And he had asked her for a slice of her life, after all.

She tilted her head in the direction of the first place she had in mind. “It's just a couple of blocks. Not too far from where we parked.”

“Lead on.”

By the time they got to the first gallery on her list, the opening was in full swing. It was a little independent place, a converted industrial space that had been repurposed for the display of art, and the crowd was mostly people like her. Young and creative and dressed in lots of black, all eccentric, colorful hairstyles and exposed tattoos. She glanced up at Rylan as they made their way through the crush, skirting around a cluster of people who sounded like they'd been hitting the free wine pretty hard.

She faltered. While he didn't exactly stick out, he didn't quite blend, either.

“Is this okay?”

“It's fine.” His eyebrow quirked up. “Definitely interesting.”

Interesting
was rarely a compliment. But she'd take him at face value for now. Pushing her doubts aside, she threaded her hand through his elbow and started over to one of the walls.

And it was strange, how similar and yet how different it was to their time strolling through Paris's museums. Instead of quiet, hush hallways full of old masterpieces, they were in this cavernous, modern space. And the artist, whoever he was, seemed awfully fond of soaking his canvases in images of blood.

“Imagine that in your bedroom,” Rylan said, ducking in close as she stopped to consider one of the paintings.

She grimaced, because he wasn't wrong. The image was of a body bound up in wire, its heart torn out. Its chest cracked open and its shattered ribs left open to the world. The whole thing disquieted her. Horrified her. Still…“Art isn't just about being pretty.”

“Didn't say it was.”

“It's supposed to make you feel.”

“And what does this one make you feel?”

She took a step back from the canvas and tilted her head to the side.

It certainly evoked
something
in her. Something that had made her stop to examine it more closely.

Her stomach dropped down to her toes.

Because it was too violent, too gruesome. But the image looked exactly like how it had felt to walk away from Rylan. To trust, to let someone in and believe their words. To love.

Only to find out he hadn't been who she'd thought he was at all.

“Exposed,” she managed to choke out.

With that, she turned on her heel, away from that painting and on to the next. As she walked, her heart pounded hard in her chest, and that was good. That was a reassurance.

Her heart was still her own, caged safely behind her ribs.

Thanks to his mother, Rylan wasn't a complete novice when it came to the gallery scene.

This wasn't quite the corner of the gallery scene he was used to, though.

None of the other shows they'd stopped in at had been as grizzly as that first one, but they were all out there. The purpose of art might be to make you feel, but Rylan didn't particularly enjoy feeling unsettled.

He liked feeling like the world was a more beautiful place than it seemed on the surface. He liked the way
Kate
's art made him feel.

Not the way it had certainly looked like she felt, staring at that awful painting of a broken, empty rib cage. She'd gone quiet on him again in its wake, and it made his limbs twitch with a restless anxiety, to the point where he was only too happy to move on to the next place on her list. But even there, in a brighter setting, surrounded by sculptures that didn't appear to have actively been dismembered, she remained withdrawn.

Until they arrived at their fifth—and, she had assured him, final—stop of the night, where they walked in the door and smack into a guy who took one look at Kate and lit up like a Christmas tree.

“I was wondering if you were going to show up,” he said, putting down his drink. He was clearly an artsy type himself, with shaggy, dark blond hair and a streak of paint on the knee of his pants. A little shorter than Rylan was, a little leaner.

He didn't so much as spare a glance at Rylan as he held his arms out to Kate.

Something possessive sparked and flared in Rylan's chest. But he smothered it. Balling his hands into fists, he shoved them in the pockets of his jacket and tried not to glower. Kate was allowed to hug whomever she wanted. She was her own person—she could do anything she pleased. But Rylan didn't have to like it.

Fuck, but he
really
didn't have to like it when she stepped right up to the guy and slung her arms around his neck. Rylan bristled, a hot stone lodging in his throat.

At least she didn't linger. The guy made as if to keep her close, but already she was pulling back. “Sorry,” she said. “We ended up hitting the place over on Rivington first.”

The word
we
left her mouth, and that got blondie's attention. He looked up, away from Kate, darting his gaze around until it landed on Rylan. Withdrawing his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms, Rylan nodded.

The guy swallowed and inched backward, and that alone, that act of acknowledging Rylan's claim—it should've pacified the rumbling, angry thing in Rylan's lungs. Except it didn't. Because it was surprise that widened those eyes. Surprise and hurt.

The jealous heat that had filled Rylan flashed suddenly, painfully cold.

Kate hadn't told him. Not just about Rylan and who he was, but that she was even seeing anyone at all.

And this boy had gotten his hopes up. It was written all over his face.

Trailing off, Kate followed the guy's gaze, looking over her shoulder at Rylan and then back to her friend. “Oh. Um.” She fidgeted with her sleeve. “Liam, this is Rylan. Rylan, this is my friend Liam. He's in my program.”

“That's right,” Liam said. He extended a hand. “It's nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Liam's handshake was firm enough—not Wall Street firm, but most people's weren't. Rylan only clamped down harder when Liam said, “Kate didn't tell me she was bringing anyone.”

“
Kate
,” Kate said, “didn't know for sure if she was coming at all, if you recall correctly.”

That much at least was probably true. She hadn't decided on what she wanted them to do until just the other day.

“Fair enough.” Liam dropped his hand as Rylan let go.

Rylan held his gaze, made him be the one to glance away.

Of course, where else would he look next except to Kate? “The exhibit's really good. Do you want to walk around?” He gestured to the side of the room, brushing her arm with his other hand and making Rylan's blood boil. “I could get you a glass of wine? Red, right?”

And Rylan was this damn close to interjecting. He was her date. If anyone was going to get her a drink, it should be him. Being a gentleman meant leaving her alone with Liam, though, and no way he was doing that right now.

Kate nodded, and Rylan watched the guy retreat for a full two seconds before turning back to her.

“He wants you.”

Kate's gaze lifted to meet his, her chin tilting up, that all-too-rare flash of stubbornness firming her lips. Determination was a good look on her. A sexy one.

“I know,” she said.

And Rylan…somehow hadn't been expecting that. “You know?”

She'd seemed so unaware of her own desirableness their first time around. He'd been more than clear about his intentions, and even then, she'd needed reassurances.

She rolled her eyes. “He asked me out the same day you showed up again.”

Jealousy tore at the back of his throat. “And what did you say?”

“What do you think?”

He didn't even know anymore.

Huffing out a breath, she raked her fingers through her hair. “I told him I was tired, if you must know. Because I…” Her gaze darted around for a second, her cheeks flushing. “I wasn't ready.”

Pain tinged her voice, squeezing Rylan's heart.

She hadn't been ready because of him, and he kicked himself all over again for the way he'd let things unravel between them. At the same time, gratitude lit him up. What if she
had
been ready? What if he'd never come to his realization, or if he'd had it a couple of days later? If he'd knocked on her door only to find her with this
boy
…

All she'd given him were these seven nights to win her back, but he'd come so close to missing even that. If he'd returned to find her already involved…Well, he still wouldn't have given up. He would have fought for her tooth and nail. Still, he thanked the luck that had given him his chance.

And yet. His mouth went dry. If she hadn't been ready to date again, what kind of chance was he working with here? They had history, sure, but he'd admitted it to himself now: He loved this girl. Hopelessly and helplessly, and if she didn't want the more he was planning for, the future and the home he'd imagined for them to share—

He'd make her. Not by force, of course, but he'd show it to her, and she would see. They could be amazing together.

They would be.

“Kate…”

She shook her head. “I don't want to talk about it right now.”

Would she ever?

Some of the desperation he felt must have bled into his expression, all his training in keeping his emotions hidden deserting him in the face of this woman.

She deflated by a fraction.

“Come on,” she sighed. “You might as well meet everyone else, too.”

That wasn't exactly enthusiasm in her voice. But he followed along regardless.

He met a solid dozen people over the course of the next few minutes, including one of the artists on display, who was an alumnus, apparently. Rylan set to memorizing their names the way he would members of a rival board, and he did a damn good job if he said so himself. Liam returned after a fashion with Kate's drink, brushing past Rylan as he passed it to her. Acting so innocent when their fingers brushed against the plastic cup. She thanked him with a smile, and Rylan didn't punch him in his smug, intrusive face, or tuck Kate under his arm and carry her straight back to the car. Because he could practice restraint.

He wanted to, though, dammit all.

He wanted this glimpse into her life, but he wanted her to himself even more. Their first time around it had been the two of them, alone in a foreign country, surrounded by another language. Dependent on each other in a way they never could be where they lived, and he
missed
it. They'd been so insulated. So intimate.

There was so much more competing for their attention here. But he'd fight his way through it.

He'd get her to himself soon enough.

She elbowed him in the side, and he jerked his head down. “Stop it,” she hissed.

“What?”

“Growling at everyone who so much as looks at me.”

He hadn't outright
growled
, had he? “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Yeah, right.”

As if to test him, Liam edged closer to them at just that moment, his mouth tilting up into a conciliatory smile. “So, Ryan.”

Rylan gritted his teeth. “Rylan.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He actually looked contrite, like maybe he hadn't misspoken it on purpose as a power play. Then again, most people outside of his family probably wouldn't. “That's unusual.”

“It's his middle name, actually,” Kate said, and there was a pointedness to it he chose to ignore.

“Cool.”

Rylan cleared his throat. “It's a family name. My grandmother's maiden name.” He looked down to find Kate regarding him with interest. He shrugged and continued. “I'm a junior, and when I left for college, I thought…” What had he thought, beyond the blinding haze of anger and resentment? Sent off to his father's college to get his father's degree so he could be shoved into the seat at his father's side, wearing his name and his suits and…His throat bobbed. “I thought I needed something of my own.”

Kate's eyes were soft as she stared up at him. Softer than they had been before. “You never told me that.”

He hadn't told her his given name at all, until he'd had to.

He kept his hand at his side against the instinct to reach over and stroke her cheek. “Not because I didn't want to.”

With their gazes connected like that, the space between their bodies humming, it felt like a moment that could have gone on and on.