Miah (Lane Brothers #2) (15 page)

“Wait. He asked to see your work and you said no? I thought all artists dream of that shit. Seriously, Sissy, you are your own worst enemy!” Bee yells at me from the kitchen, where she’s making omelets and cream cheese bagels.

I’m perched in the eyrie, my little half loft overlooking the kitchen, looking critically at the ‘Vincent’ portrait I’ve been slaving over since I got home last night. As I’d noted, the problem I’m having is capturing those eyes—

“Stop working and come eat. And then you can tell me why you’re shying away from the big break you’ve been waiting for
and
what sounds like some seriously hot sex. I saw Vincent Blake, and that man is F.I.N.E.”

I sigh and drop my paintbrush, making my way downstairs and to the breakfast table.

“He’s…”

I don’t have the right words to explain why getting involved with Vincent would be a bad idea.

“Hot?” she prompts, glaring until I start eating.

“Very,” I answer around a mouthful of eggs.

“Intelligent?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have all his own teeth?”

I snort and choke on my eggs, shaking my head when she giggles and claps her teeth at me.

“Of course.”

“Then explain to me why you are refusing to go out with a guy who is hot, smart, has a boatload of money, and—”

“I don’t want to be Sissy Bennet, pampered girlfriend and hobby artist. If I’d wanted that I might as well have stayed in Texas with my family and accepted Daddy’s trust fund money. I want…”

Bee nods when I trail off, and I know she gets it. I come from a rich, prestigious branch of Texas’s elite. My father owns and runs the Bar Three, a huge cattle ranch that’s been in the family since his ancestors stepped off the
Mayflower
.

Bee herself is the daughter of an oil baron. We live in an apartment owned by her brother Jeffrey, for Pete’s sake.

She, more than anyone, understands the drive to escape the yoke of being the daughter of a rich man. That’s why we’re still best friends after meeting at our interviews for Angie’s Angels.

We’re kindred spirits just trying to make it on our own. If it’s hard and we just manage to scrape rent together most months…well, at least we’ve managed not to dip into the free money our parents throw at us.

It’s not easy though, not when I know one phone call from Daddy will have me featured in some of New York’s most prestigious galleries.

“I get it. Daddy tried to give me the VP position in Jeff’s company last week. It took an hour to explain to him why I’m taking night school to get my degree and find my own way. I swear…”

“Yup. So now you understand why I can’t do this whole Vincent thing. My dad will hear about it and come running to New York, and I kind of get the impression Vincent isn’t looking for a quick fling.”

I’m not either. I mean, I’m not into casual sex or one night stands, I just don’t want a relationship right now. What I want is to make a success of myself without my father’s influence. Or the man I happen to be sleeping with.

“So what are you going to do?”

“You working tonight?”

“Yeah. And then I’m staying over at Eric’s through the weekend.”

“Good, then you won’t have to ignore the buzzer when he shows up and I’m not here.”

We finish breakfast and I go back to work, hating myself for the cowardice I’m displaying, but knowing that saying no to Vincent face to face is not possible.

***

I trudge up the stairs at two in the morning after a truly grueling eight hour shift at The Thirsty Jackal. Having two jobs and painting all night does not give me much time for sleep, but short of living off my family I’m just glad I make enough money tending bar to keep a roof over my head and food on the table.

I’m so tired I bypass the stairs and slump into the elevator, closing my eyes against the fatigue dogging me as I rise to the third floor and stumble my way to my door.

I toss my bag and coat in the general vicinity of the entrance table and walk to the refrigerator in the dark, needing nothing more than a glass of milk and my bed.

“You stood me up.”

The scream that leaves me as a lamp clicks on to reveal a very pissed off Vincent sounds almost bloodcurdling. Thank God the nearest neighbor is a floor down and deaf as a post, or I’d be dealing with cops.

“Jesus Christ, what the fu—”

My heart is pounding so hard my chest hurts, and yet I can’t stop the cheeky grin twisting at my mouth when he rises and stalks towards me, his expression revealing displeasure and the tiniest hint of humor.

“This is a first for me. I’ve never been stood up by a woman before,” he admits, stopping close enough that our toes touch. “I’ve been here almost nine hours.”

“I-I had to go to work.”

It’s true, and yet I’d taken the shift with the very real intention of avoiding meeting him. Part of me is really glad he’s not taking the hint and moving on to his next conquest, even as I know teasing this very powerful man is not a good idea.

“You were hoping I’d lose interest and leave you alone,” he growls, hooking an arm at my waist to pull me into him. “Guess what, Sissy Bennet? I don’t take no for an answer.”

I don’t get a chance to reply because his mouth is on mine, his lips grinding, hand fisting my hair to get the right angle. When I whimper and try to pull away, needing air, he takes advantage and thrusts his tongue into my mouth.

His taste is a mixture of coffee and spearmint, two of my favorite things, and I moan, melting into him instead of pushing away. This… I’ve never felt this before with a man.

His kiss is a claim, an angry taking, a hard denial of my rebuff, and I glory in his aggression when he deepens it, his tongue diving deep, owning me.

I kiss him back, throwing my arms over his shoulders, grinding my moistening sex into the hard bulge at his hips.

“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll walk away,” he growls, slowing the kiss to run the tip of his tongue over my lips and teeth. “Tell me you’re not getting wet for me right now and I’ll let you go and leave.”

My only response is to lick him back and moan low in my throat when he cups my ass and squeezes, grinding my clit into his erection.

“Jesus, I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

Me too. I’d heard his voice, that crisp English accent, and seen his mesmerizing green eyes, and I’d fallen into an obsession that even a week later isn’t easy to shake.

I’ve painted him, dreamed of him, wanted him as I’ve never wanted another man. This is not a good idea; in fact, this is the worst idea I’ve ever entertained, but as he kneads my ass, stroking a glancing finger over the entrance of my sex through my jeans, I am helpless against the desire drenching my every nerve ending.

“Me too. But we hardly know each other.”

My answer is rewarded with another swift kiss before he releases me and takes a step back.

“We will, Sissy Bennet,” he promises. “Now show me your work, distract me, or you’ll be full of my cock before you can take your next breath,” he growls, his own breath a stuttered snarl.

I don’t want to. I want to keep kissing him till he loses control and takes me on the sofa a few feet away. I want to know all that power and intensity focused on me and the arousal whipping at my body.

But he’s right. The time…I can’t just sleep with him, not if I want to keep the few shreds of self-respect I still have after years of failed relationships.

I can’t take him to the eyrie. It’s too embarrassing to admit that all I’ve done this past week is paint the very face I’ve spent half the night trying to forget, so I lead him to the spare bedroom instead and watch nervously as he walks around, studying my mediocre landscapes and the few portraits I’ve done.

My favorite is of a little girl in the park. She’s chasing a ball, her blonde curls fanning out behind her as she giggles in delight. I can’t tell you why it’s my favorite above the others, except to say that I’d felt every tinkle of her happiness and innocent glee that day, and painting it had been as much a joy as watching her chase her tiny yellow ball on the grass.

Vincent takes his time and truly studies them all, his face giving nothing away. When he finally turns back to me I force myself not to blink away and raise my head defiantly.

“They’re like—”

“Photographs? Yeah. And that’s apparently why I’ll never be anything more than a struggling artist. They—”

“Perfect,” he growls, interrupting me. “The detail, I— Have you shown these yet?”

“No, they’re due at Vernon’s Gallery in two days. I just finished the last piece in the series,” I say, running a critical eye over a view of Central Park from a window at the Met. “Not that they’ll sell. Vern only displays my stuff as a favor. He doesn’t really do much to promote it.”

“I could—”

“No. I want my work to sell because people like it, not because someone I know is a rich art buff,” I warn, narrowing my eyes at the seascape I’d painted last month when Bee had dragged me to Long Beach with her and Eric.

Vincent sighs and casts another look over at the canvasses before following me out and back to the living room.

“What’s up there?”

I follow his gaze and cringe inwardly at the four covered canvasses up in the eyrie. I really do not want him going up there and witnessing my monumental crush.

“Just a few pieces I haven’t finished yet. No!”

He’s taking the stairs and whipping the sheet from the easel before I can follow and stop him, and I freeze, blushing crimson. That specific piece depicts the man reclining back against a sea of white pillows, and a sheet barely covers his lower half.

I’d painted him looking up from beneath lowered lashes, his vivid green eyes seductively inviting, just as I’d seen him in the erotically charged dream I’d had three nights ago.

It had started with a stroke of his hands over his muscled chest as I watched, rapt and needy, my hand frozen over the canvas. In the dream he’d been luring me, tempting me to stop working and come play. When I’d refused, unable to do anything but work frantically to capture the heat I’d seen in his eyes, he’d stroked all the way down his flat stomach and beneath the sheet, the movement of his fist showing in stark detail what I wanted to do to him.

I’d woken, aroused and unfulfilled, and painted till my hands had cramped, and still I can’t seem to capture him as perfectly as I’d seen him in that dream.

“Um—”

My words die when he turns to look at me, a dark, sensual smile curving his ruby red lips. Arousal, thick and hot, sets up a steady beat between my legs, reminding me of the dream and my as yet unfulfilled desire.

“I’ve set up a studio at my home,” he murmurs, his eyes running the length of my body, heating me everywhere. “You’ll paint me there, in my sheets.”

I nod, swallowing loudly when he prowls down the stairs and comes closer, not stopping till we’re melded together. He takes my hand and pulls it between us, cupping my fingers over his bulging girth, using me to stroke himself.

“And then I’ll show you why your dimensions are off.”

By four o’clock the next afternoon I’m standing on his doorstep, a mess of nervous anticipation as my hand hovers over the doorbell. If I push it I know it’s a step that I can never go back from.

This is why he’d planted a kiss on my lips and left last night. He wants me to choose this. He’s used to getting his way; I know this just as I know that my father would always play to win while keeping his integrity and respecting others’ decisions.

I’m used to powerful men. My father, brother, and cousins are in the same league, and I know how they think. They want what they want, but they won’t and never will force someone to take that step.

Vincent is exactly the same. He’ll keep after me, but in the end it will always have to be me capitulating, not being forced into a decision.

My finger stops hovering and presses down, and I hear the soft chime echo from somewhere inside the town house. When the door opens, I’m surprised to see him and not a butler or housekeeper, and I say so.

“If I’m to lounge around in the nude I’d prefer we have privacy. Let me take your coat.”

“Gosh, I love this place. Who did the mosaic?” I ask, following him down the hall and into the kitchen I’d admired a week ago.

The center island is glass topped to protect the farm scene depicted in thousands of shards of colorful tile. Whoever had done this knows their craft, and I have to admit a certain jealousy. I can’t do anything this technical without making a mess, artist or not.

“Wine?”

I nod, noting his deflection, and shrug away my irritation. If he doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine by me. I’ve been on edge and needy all day, and part of me would prefer a quick roll between the sheets and an even quicker au revoir.

“I notice a slight drawl in your accent.”

“I’m from Texas originally,” I say, allowing the twang free rein as I follow him to the living room and snuggle into the corner of the sofa. “I try not to let the twang out if I can help it, or I’ll be faced with hillbilly jokes and insults a country girl like me doesn’t need.”

He seats himself a few feet away and turns to me.

“Understandable. Some people either talk to me as if I’m another species or they feel intimidated by my accent. Unfortunately, mine is not as easily disguisable.”

“You’re a transplant then?” I ask.

Of course he must be; his accent is all British upper class and definitely not American, but he seems so at ease and free of the lingo I know most Brits use.

“Not quite. My father is Walter Blake of the Chicago Blakes. When he and Mother divorced I went to live with her and only came back for the holidays and the odd family event. I’m what you would call a mutt.”

His derogatory tone and rueful smile make me laugh for the first time since I’d left my apartment this afternoon. For him to call himself a mutt is such a crock. I’ve never met a more well-heeled man in my life, and that’s saying a lot, with Mama’s country club rich boys I’d been forced to date in my teens.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

He shrugs dismissively and leans into the opposite corner, one arm flung across the sofa back as he sips his wine and considers me.

“For a woman of your family connections, you’ve chosen a rather difficult path to tread. You’re a brilliant talent, Sissy. Why not use your father’s connections to further your career?”

“Because I want more than a pat on the head and an easy ride. I spent half my high school career defending myself whenever Daddy made a contribution to the prom fund or the ninth grade camping trip. I want to be recognized on merit or not at all.”

His look says he doesn’t agree with me, as if my reasoning is faulty somehow, and I lose my nerves in favor of the irritation bubbling through me.

Why do I always have to explain and defend myself and my actions to people? It’s so annoying, and it makes me doubt myself in a way I don’t need right now.

“I leav—”

“You have no idea what it means to grow up struggling for everything you have, so forgive me if I can’t understand your need to live like a poor person. I’ve had to claw my way to the top, one inch at a time, for the last fifteen years. Hell, when I made my first million I was still eating canned soup and living in a bedsit. I understand your need to succeed, just not your desire to suffer while you do it.”

That surprises me enough that I feel my mouth flap and my eyebrows shoot to my hairline.

“But I thought your dad was some rich guy.”

His sardonic smile is so cold it sends shivers down my spine, and I shrink back into the sofa, breaking eye contact long enough to take a huge mouthful of wine.

“My father had no use for me when his new wife gave him a son. I spent my holidays in America because my grandparents couldn’t stand the thought of losing me. They paid for everything I had when they found out my father had stopped paying child support. I was sixteen before I had enough money to stop working at the café while Mum cleaned other people’s houses. So you see, I happen to appreciate everything I have, and every helping hand that got me to this point.”

While I’ve never wanted for anything until the day I chose to walk away from my family’s fortune. I want to laugh at the irony. While he’d been struggling his way through life, praying for help and despising his bastard father, I’d been merrily skipping my way through life, taking everything my parents had ever given me for granted.

I can see his point of view a little better now, but that in no way makes his judgment of my actions any easier to swallow.

“I had no friends. None. I spent seven years of high school being shunned by even the dorks that got wedgied. No one on the planet hated recess more than I did because instead of eating in the cafeteria I hid in the art room and choked down the healthy lunch option my mama made me take to school. We all have our own crosses to bear. Yours ain't no better or worse than mine, Vincent Blake, and best you remember that if you want me to paint your ass any time this century,” I warn, giving him the same look my mama gave me whenever I acted like a brat.

It seems to do the trick, because his face loses that hard cast and he gives me an apologetic smile.

“So no help then.”

“Nope. I want to win on my own terms. Now then, where’s this studio you’ve been promising me, Mr Blake? Daylight’s fading, and I do not paint by the light of the moon, no matter how romantic it may seem.”

“If I thought romance would work…but then, you’re too realistic for that, it seems,” he says, rising and holding a hand out. I take it, wondering exactly what Vincent Blake has in mind for me, and if I am even halfway experienced enough to handle it.