“Do you have a date tonight, Ms. Fairchild?”
“No!” I blurt out the word, then immediately regret it. If I did have a date—if I was already seeing that special someone—I’d have the perfect excuse for brushing off Damien Stark.
“Where are you going?”
“What?” I blink, because that’s not the polite way to play the game. Then again, I haven’t yet seen evidence that Stark follows the traditional social norms. Why I thought he’d start now …
“If you’re not going on a date, then where are you going?”
I can hardly tell him about my new cry-on-the-couch plans, so I fall back on a version of my original itinerary. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to grab a smoothie and then go hike Fryman Canyon Park.”
“By yourself?”
“Well, I could take the Royal Guard, but I think they’re busy.”
“It’s going to be dark soon.”
“It’s not even six yet. Sunset’s not until eight-thirtyish.”
“The sun may not dip below the horizon until then, but there are foothills involved. And once the sun starts to sink, it gets dark fast.”
“I’m only going to take a few shots of the view and the sunset. Then I’m coming back. I promise you I won’t let the boogey-men get me.”
“They won’t,” Damien says, “because I won’t let them. I’m coming with you.”
“No,” I say. “I appreciate the concern, really I do. But no.”
“Then don’t go at all. Let me bring the sunset to you.”
I can’t argue with that, primarily because I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. “What?”
He leaves the kitchen, then comes back in view with a brown paper–wrapped package. From the size and shape, it’s obviously something framed. “It reminded me of you.”
“Really?” A little trill of pleasure swirls through me.
He puts the package on the kitchen table. “I had intended to give it to you earlier, but you were called away so quickly that I didn’t have the chance.”
I smirk, but if this is his way of extracting an explanation from me, it is not going to work.
“Maybe I should be grateful,” he says. “This way I get to see where you live.”
“I haven’t really put my stamp on it yet. Jamie’s taste runs to Early American Garage Sale.”
“And yours?”
“I’m much more refined. I go for Mid-Century Flea Market.”
“A woman who knows her own mind. I like that.”
From the way he’s looking at me, I’d say he likes it very much. I clear my throat and glance at the package. I know I should tell him that I appreciate the thought, but that I can’t accept it. But I’m curious to know what’s inside it. And I’m warmed by the mere fact that he brought me a gift.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
I leave the safety of the kitchen counter and venture to the table. I keep a chair between us, but even that is too close. I can feel his presence, that sense of the air thickening with awareness. I have to work hard to keep my hands steady as I slide my finger under the tape and start to peel back the wrapping.
I see the frame first and know that this is no ordinary trinket. It’s simple, but made with incredible craftsmanship. But it’s the canvas that truly takes my breath away. An Impressionist sunset that conveys both realism and a heightened sense of reality, as if the viewer were looking at the horizon through the lens of a dream.
“It’s stunning,” I say, and I can hear the awe in my voice.
I turn to look at him and see pure pleasure reflected in his face. It strikes me that he’s been silently anticipating my reaction. Nervously, even. The thought delights me. Damien Stark, worried about what I’d think about his present. “Evelyn mentioned you were enjoying the sunset.”
The statement, so casually made, sends another frisson of pleasure through me. “Thank you,” I say, the simple words too small to hold the fullness of my feelings.
There’s something familiar about the painting, and it takes me a moment to realize its frame matches the ones that lined his reception area. I remember the array of canvases, including the two stunning sunsets.
“Is this from your office?”
“It was. Now it has a new home with a woman who appreciates its beauty.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Beauty should be shared.”
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 …”
“No!” I blurt out the word, then immediately regret it. If I did have a date—if I was already seeing that special someone—I’d have the perfect excuse for brushing off Damien Stark.
“Where are you going?”
“What?” I blink, because that’s not the polite way to play the game. Then again, I haven’t yet seen evidence that Stark follows the traditional social norms. Why I thought he’d start now …
“If you’re not going on a date, then where are you going?”
I can hardly tell him about my new cry-on-the-couch plans, so I fall back on a version of my original itinerary. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to grab a smoothie and then go hike Fryman Canyon Park.”
“By yourself?”
“Well, I could take the Royal Guard, but I think they’re busy.”
“It’s going to be dark soon.”
“It’s not even six yet. Sunset’s not until eight-thirtyish.”
“The sun may not dip below the horizon until then, but there are foothills involved. And once the sun starts to sink, it gets dark fast.”
“I’m only going to take a few shots of the view and the sunset. Then I’m coming back. I promise you I won’t let the boogey-men get me.”
“They won’t,” Damien says, “because I won’t let them. I’m coming with you.”
“No,” I say. “I appreciate the concern, really I do. But no.”
“Then don’t go at all. Let me bring the sunset to you.”
I can’t argue with that, primarily because I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. “What?”
He leaves the kitchen, then comes back in view with a brown paper–wrapped package. From the size and shape, it’s obviously something framed. “It reminded me of you.”
“Really?” A little trill of pleasure swirls through me.
He puts the package on the kitchen table. “I had intended to give it to you earlier, but you were called away so quickly that I didn’t have the chance.”
I smirk, but if this is his way of extracting an explanation from me, it is not going to work.
“Maybe I should be grateful,” he says. “This way I get to see where you live.”
“I haven’t really put my stamp on it yet. Jamie’s taste runs to Early American Garage Sale.”
“And yours?”
“I’m much more refined. I go for Mid-Century Flea Market.”
“A woman who knows her own mind. I like that.”
From the way he’s looking at me, I’d say he likes it very much. I clear my throat and glance at the package. I know I should tell him that I appreciate the thought, but that I can’t accept it. But I’m curious to know what’s inside it. And I’m warmed by the mere fact that he brought me a gift.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
I leave the safety of the kitchen counter and venture to the table. I keep a chair between us, but even that is too close. I can feel his presence, that sense of the air thickening with awareness. I have to work hard to keep my hands steady as I slide my finger under the tape and start to peel back the wrapping.
I see the frame first and know that this is no ordinary trinket. It’s simple, but made with incredible craftsmanship. But it’s the canvas that truly takes my breath away. An Impressionist sunset that conveys both realism and a heightened sense of reality, as if the viewer were looking at the horizon through the lens of a dream.
“It’s stunning,” I say, and I can hear the awe in my voice.
I turn to look at him and see pure pleasure reflected in his face. It strikes me that he’s been silently anticipating my reaction. Nervously, even. The thought delights me. Damien Stark, worried about what I’d think about his present. “Evelyn mentioned you were enjoying the sunset.”
The statement, so casually made, sends another frisson of pleasure through me. “Thank you,” I say, the simple words too small to hold the fullness of my feelings.
There’s something familiar about the painting, and it takes me a moment to realize its frame matches the ones that lined his reception area. I remember the array of canvases, including the two stunning sunsets.
“Is this from your office?”
“It was. Now it has a new home with a woman who appreciates its beauty.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Beauty should be shared.”
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 …”
