And yet I want to. I’m playing with fire, and I know it.
But the sad truth is that part of me wants to get burned.
“I’m listening,” I say, and then I toss my bourbon back, too. I’m not sure what it is that I’m trying to prove to him, but I meet his eyes with satisfaction.
“Another?” he asks dryly.
“Why the hell not?”
He pours me the drink, then moves close to hand it to me. I stay rooted to the spot. I can feel his heat. I could reach out right then and run my hand over his chest. I could watch as my skin cracked and burned from the fire that is Damien Stark. I don’t, but I have to clutch my glass hard against the impulse.
“I’ve scoured Los Angeles and Orange County. I’ve looked at the online collections of galleries all over the country. I haven’t found what I’m looking for.”
“For your new house. We’re talking about the artwork you want to hang in the house you’re building?” Of all the possibilities, this is not one that would have occurred to me.
“I’ve finally figured out what I want, and yet it doesn’t exist. Not yet, anyway.”
He’s eyeing me with such deliberate intensity that I start to feel nervous under his gaze.
“I’m not really following you.”
“As I said, I have a proposition. You.”
“Ah. Um. I’m still not following you.”
“I want a portrait. Of you. I want a nude.”
My mouth opens, but I can’t quite form words.
“The view is from behind. You’re at the foot of a bed, facing a window that looks out over the ocean. Sheer curtains billow around you, caressing your skin. You stand at an angle, so we can see the swell of your breast, the barest hint of a nipple. But your face is turned away. Your identity is a secret. It’s known only to me. And, of course, to you.”
His words crash over me like waves, their pull as strong as the tide. I feel the tug of them between my thighs, and the unmistakable wetness as well. I want this—to be on display, and not just for Damien’s pleasure, but for all the world to see. Anonymous, and yet known. It’s not the kind of thing a girl like me is supposed to want. It’s wild and wanton and even though I know Damien would say that it’s art and it’s beautiful, there’s no denying that it’s a little bit naughty, too. The pretty princess up on display.
Except that’s not who I am. And that’s sure as hell not what I am.
Damien is watching my face with the same intensity I saw in his boardroom. “Good,” he says. “You’re not discounting the idea outright. I want this, Nikki. I can already picture how it will look on my wall.”
I don’t look at him, but trail my fingertip over the countertop. “You think you know what you’d be getting, but you don’t.”
There’s silence, and I peek up at him. He’s taking me in, his eyes moving slowly over me. “Don’t I?”
My breath hitches as he moves close, then reaches out to slowly stroke my cheek, his movements suggesting that I already am a work of art, fragile and beautiful and perfect.
The thought makes me flinch and I jerk away. “No,” I say. “Not happening.” I summon a teasing grin. “Maybe we should just find you a nice poster. Like the Hang in there, Baby kitten. That would be charming.”
My weak attempt at humor doesn’t even faze him. “Name your price, Ms. Fairchild. Tell me what you want.”
“What I want?” What I want is to be like him. Strong and confident and capable.
But I’m not ready to reveal that much of myself. So I give him the standard line. “I want a family,” I say. “I want a satisfying career.” And with a tossback to my years of pageant training, I add the pièce de résistance. “I want world peace.”
His eyes seem to burn into me, cutting through all my bullshit.
And then he’s right there, his hands on my waist. He pulls me roughly toward him, and I tilt my head back to look into his eyes. What I see makes me shiver. Makes me want. I feel the flesh between my thighs throbbing. I remember the feel of his hand there, of his fingers inside me, and my muscles clench in need.
It’s burning hotter and hotter, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to turn back. More, I’m afraid I won’t want to.
I keep my face motionless, thinking that I’m revealing nothing.
“I can give you what you want, Nikki,” he says, and his voice is so gentle that I begin to think I’ve won. Maybe Damien does see what no one else does. Maybe he sees through my mask.
The thought both terrifies and excites me. Slowly, I shake my head, then manage an insolent smile. “Will you be orchestrating world peace today or later this month?”
“I’ll pay you for the portrait,” he says, his words seemingly a non sequitur. “I’ll pay you. I’ll pay the artist. I’ll arrange a studio space. You’re a businesswoman, Nikki. Isn’t that what you ultimately want? Your own business?”
I gape at him, too surprised that he knows this to respond. Who the hell has he been talking to about me?
“This is a chance to kick-start your career.”
I shake my head, ignoring the small knot inside me that is excited by his proposition. “I’m a businesswoman, not a model.”
“You’re my model. And everyone has a price.”
“I don’t.”
“No?” He steps closer, his body full of challenge and confidence. “One million dollars, Ms. Fairchild. You get the cash, and I get you.”