I shift the painting so that I can prop it safely against the wall. And when I do, I see the faded label on the frame. “A Monet? This is a copy, right?”
“It’s an original,” he says. “If it’s not, I’ll be having some very stern words with Sotheby’s.”
“But … but …”
“It’s a sunset,” he says firmly, as if that should quell all my protests. “And it reminds me of you.”
“Damien …”
“And, of course, this gift isn’t nearly as precious as the one you left for me in the limo.” His eyes sparkle and his grin is devious. I feel a tug of heated pleasure between my thighs.
“Oh,” I say.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bit of white satin. Slowly, with his eyes never leaving mine, he lifts the panties to his face and breathes in deep. I see his eyes darken with lust and feel a corresponding tug of longing between my thighs. I clutch the back of the chair to steady myself.
“They made the ride from the restaurant to my house much more enjoyable.” His voice slides over me. I want to wrap myself inside it, but all I can do is shake my head.
“Please,” I beg. “Please don’t start.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Then he slips the panties back into his pocket. I swallow, thinking of them there, with him. I wonder if he’ll ever give them back. I hope that he doesn’t.
We lock eyes, and for a moment it’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room. Then he moves toward me, and suddenly I can breathe again as the real world rushes back in around me.
I raise my hand to ward him off. “Damien, no.”
“I assure you, Ms. Fairchild, your messages here and at my apartment have been well received.” His expression tightens, but I see the humor around his eyes and relax a little.
“Oh. Good. That’s good.” I take a deep breath. “It’s just that you look—”
“How?”
“A bit like the big bad wolf.”
“And would that make you Little Red Riding Hood? I may want to devour you, Ms. Fairchild, but I promise you that I’m capable of controlling my urges. Most of the time, anyway.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. You just make me …”
“What?”
“Skittish,” I admit.
“Do I? Interesting.” He looks pleased by the thought. I frown, feeling exposed.
“Listen, thank you for the painting. It’s amazing.”
“But you can’t accept such an extravagant gift?”
“Hell no. I love it.” And I love that he wants me to have it. “I’m perfectly happy to keep it if you really want me to have it. Despite, well, you know …”
I trail off, and he laughs. “Good. I was afraid that since you’re in the habit of denying yourself things that you so obviously want …”
Zing. Well, he definitely got me with that one.
“Actually, I was going to say that good manners would require me to offer you a drink.” I smile sweetly. “But I’m not going to, since I’m hoping you’ll leave.”
“Because I make you skittish?”
“Pretty much,” I confess.
“I see.”
Apparently he doesn’t, though, because he’s still standing there in my apartment.
“Well?” I ask.
“Well, what?”
I sigh. “Well, are you going to go?”
His eyes widen with surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wanted me to. I thought you were speaking hypothetically.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. And as I do, I realize I’m not feeling quite so skittish anymore. “I’m going to have a drink. Of course my bourbon’s probably not up to your exacting standards. But if you’d like one anyway …”
“So I can stay?” He looks very smug and self-satisfied. And sexy as hell.
“I guess you’ll have to. We only have two highball glasses, and if you take the drink with you, Jamie will get pissed off.”
“Wouldn’t want to disturb the subtle inner-workings of roommate relations. I accept your invitation.”
“Straight up? Or over ice?”
“However you’re having it is fine.”
I fetch the bourbon from the living room and bring the bottle to the kitchen to pour. “It’s a trade-off,” I say when I pass him a glass with a few ounces of bourbon and two cubes of ice. “I like it slightly chilled, but if you savor it too long the ice melts and it gets watered down.”
“Then we’ll have to drink fast,” he says, then tilts his glass and tosses it back.
“Sorry, dude. I’ve already done the wasted thing with you. I’m going to sip mine.”
“A shame. You’re entertaining when you’re drunk.” His hand slides into his pocket.
“No way. Don’t even go there.”
He smiles back at me, and it’s a nice moment. Just me and Damien Stark kidding around in my kitchen. Who would’ve thought?
He pours himself another glass. “I do have one more reason for coming here tonight,” he says. “I wanted to check on you, and I wanted to give you the painting. But there’s something else, too. I have a proposition for you.”
I let the words sink in, trying to analyze my feelings about them. Proposition. That could mean so many things. Something to do with C-Squared. With me. With me and Damien.
I swallow. The best course—the safest course—is to thank him for the present and tell him that I don’t even want to hear this latest twist. And yet …