Serving Pleasure (4 page)

Cool air conditioning kissed her skin, light harp music surrounding her. The gallery was larger than it appeared on the outside, and more crowded, filled with svelte, stylish people dressed in black and white, a low hum of conversation buzzing in the air. She twitched her skirt into place, refusing to feel garish or out of place.

Be cool. You’re here now, so be cool.

She put one foot in front of another, her confidence growing as no one stopped her to demand what she was doing in the place. A waiter walked past her, and she snagged a glass of champagne from the man, flashing him a smile of thanks. She took a hearty sip and slipped her clutch under her arm.

Adopting an air of studied casualness, she glided along the perimeter of the room, attempting to hide her eagerness to see her target. Her eyes skipped over the tightly clumped crowds of people. There wasn’t a single muscular male with silky black hair and artist’s fingers amongst them.

Disappointment ran through her. Had she hallucinated? Were her stalking skills that subpar? Maybe he hadn’t come in here—

She turned the corner and bumped into a woman exiting an alcove. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and moved closer to the wall.

The woman ignored her, speaking to her escort and gesturing behind her. “I like this one. It’s the best so far.”

“A shame he isn’t painting the way he used to…”

Out of instinct, Rana glanced in the direction the woman had indicated. And did a double take when the canvas in the small nook struck a chord of recognition.

She waited until the old man studying the painting wandered off, and then sidled closer. Of course she recognized this piece. She’d watched her neighbor paint it.

Rana tilted her head and released a shaky sigh. No, she didn’t understand art. But this? This she understood.

He’d been her focus, when she’d watched him through her window, the paintings a peripheral interest. Plus, the distance had blunted the full impact of his artwork. This was so much better up close.

The nude couple stood face-to-face, the male’s arm wrapped around the female, his hand splayed over her spine, the tip of his fingers brushing the lush swell of her ass. Her head was turned away from him while his was bent over hers. Her delicate hand rested against his pectoral.

A tiny, unobtrusive plaque had been placed on the wall. She leaned in close and read it.
Captivity. Micah Hale.

Micah. Hale. She rolled the name around in her mind, her lips forming the words, tasting them. Perfect.

The other paintings, the ones tastefully arranged all over the gallery, those were his too, all of them consisting of nude women and men. He wasn’t a guest tonight. He was the star.

Her gaze was pulled back to the painting, and she wished she had any idea of art protocol. There was no price tag. Was she supposed to ask? Thanks to the restaurant’s success, she could afford to splurge on occasion. Granted, usually that splurging was reserved for shoes and handbags, but she could make an exception tonight. She simply had to have this. She would fight that lady she’d bumped into for it. She’d fight anyone for it.

A shoe squeaked on the marble floor behind her, and she stiffened, a shiver of awareness running through her. She knew, even before she turned her head and glanced over her bare shoulder to meet a pair of stunning black eyes, thickly fringed by lashes. A detail she’d been too far away to notice before.

But she wasn’t far away anymore. There was barely a foot between them. She could touch the man if she wanted to.

She wanted to.

Rana pivoted on her heel. As much as she coveted that painting, she coveted him more—he got all her attention right now. He took another step, his gaze unwavering. As she racked her brain for a clever, cool, sophisticated comment, he leaned in. Each word that fell from his scarred lips was like the stroke of a velvet-encased hand over her body, so stimulating it took her a second to process the content of his words.

“You came inside.”

R
ana was considered
the most outgoing member of her family. Her youngest sister was naturally shy and preferred cooking to interacting. Her middle sister grew impatient when people didn’t make as much sense as numbers.

Not Rana. She could converse with a stump, and probably make it smile. So it was a shame that the only word she could manage at that moment was, “What?”

His lips parted, and his black eyes narrowed in intense concentration on her face, skimming over her lips, cheekbones, eyes. He took his time answering her, but finally spoke. “You came inside.”

He was…British. He was beautiful and jacked and talented and had the sexiest goddamn accent she’d ever heard in her life.
Um, excuse me, sir. Who the hell allowed you?

Wait. Oh. Oh God.

Mortification raced through her as she processed the import of those simple words. He knew. Knew she had followed him. From his house. The house she lived next door to, which meant that she could never escape this humiliation, ever.

What was the worst that could happen? This, right here.

At least she had alcohol. She brought the glass to her lips and sucked down a hefty drink, wishing the champagne was a harder liquor.

Because I’m sure he’ll be less alarmed if his stalker is drunk.

His eyes slid over her body, down her legs, and up again to her face. Even through her embarrassment, fire licked along her skin everywhere his gaze touched.

There were upsides to being so brown a blush was invisible. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck, but at least she could rest easy in knowing she didn’t look utterly discombobulated. “You know who…” She trailed off faintly, not eager to complete the sentence.

He shoved his hand into his pants pocket, the fine black of his jacket straining over his biceps. “I know who you are. You live next door to me.”

While the silence stretched between them, her mind raced, thinking of ways to make her escape. She could dive through a window, but the glass would probably cut her up. She’d just had a dermabrasion session last week.

Alternatively, she could walk sedately past him, go home, steal a dead woman’s identity, and flee the country. However, she’d miss her family an awful lot.

Mentally, she slapped herself.
You have game. Use it.
It was there. Buried deep beneath self-doubt and anxiety and a need to please others, but she had it.

Yes, this was embarrassing, but she could brazen this out, and then maybe she’d laugh about it tomorrow with her sisters. One more crazy stunt to add to her lifetime of crazy stunts. Gosh, that Rana sure is wacky, isn’t she? Especially when it comes to boys.

She tossed her head, cocking it. “Why, yes, I suppose we do live in the same neighborhood. What a coincidence we both ended up at the same place tonight.” She lifted her shoulder. “It’s not that big of a city, of course, but so weird.”

Something flickered in his eyes. His face looked like it had been carved in granite. The scar bisecting his lip extended over his cheek, lending his already harsh masculinity a more violent edge. “A coincidence.”

“Hmm.”

“You tailed me here.” His voice was rough, like a thousand pieces of glass, breaking over the clipped words.

She managed a breathy laugh, though what she really wanted to do was whimper. “Tailed you? I wouldn’t know how to tail someone.”

“I believe that,” he murmured.

She lifted her chin at the dig. Like, okay, it was a dig at her stalking capabilities, but she was still mildly insulted. “I was at La Luna,” she said coolly, referring to the nightclub down the street. “When I noticed something going on in here, and I thought I should come check it out.”

His lashes shielded his thoughts. “Is that right.”

“Yes.” She licked her lips, trying to stem the urge to babble nervously. “I’m so glad I did. This show is wonderful.” She wasn’t supposed to know he was the artist. And it was wonderful.

“Hmm.”

“This painting…” she gestured behind her, wincing when a drop of champagne spilled onto her wrist, “…for example. Isn’t it stunning?”

He glanced past her at the painting. “This one?”

Desperate to play this for all it was worth, she turned to face the painting she’d hungered for so hard. Harder now that she had seen its creator up close. She lifted her glass and drained it completely, the small jolt of alcohol warming her. “Yes. It’s great. Love it.”

His shoe squeaked. Another step, though not close enough to touch her, but she could feel the heat rising off his body. The curve of the wall carved this small section away from the rest of the gallery, the shadows helping to hide them. “The gallery manager didn’t like this piece. She thought it would be unmarketable. Plain. That’s why it’s hidden over here.”

Distracted from her panic, a real frown pleated her brow. “She needs her eyes checked.”

“She’s considered one of the best in the business.”

“Then the business is broken.” This wasn’t plain. The figures sang with vitality and life and passion. If Rana didn’t know it would be the height of bad manners, she would trail her fingers over their bodies.

“I’ve created better.”

She played dumb. “Oh, did you paint this?” She started to turn, but froze when a big finger brushed her bare shoulder. The touch was so light, she would have thought she imagined it, but there was no way she could imagine the tingle racing over her skin.

“What do you see?” His voice was luscious and deep, cool and commanding. She wanted to curl up with a smoky whiskey and have that voice say all sorts of erotic things to her.

“Need.” Her answer was embarrassingly instantaneous. She didn’t just see the need, she felt it. It lifted off the canvas and sank into her veins.

He made an approving noise. Again, the lightest of butterfly touches whispered against her other shoulder.

She could demand he stop, but she loved it. Her body swayed backward, eager for more.

“And?”

Rana shifted. “Desire.”

“And?”

She hesitated, twisting her empty champagne flute by the stem. Never had she thought about a piece of art so intently.

She wanted to please him. Maybe then he would give her another one of those light brushes of skin against skin.

She studied the way the man’s head hovered over the woman’s shoulder, his lips a breath away from kissing her. “Fear.”

He paused for a second, as if he were caught off-guard. “Her fear.”

She frowned. Her fear? No. The woman was pressing closer to the man, her hand on his chest hungry, not protesting. It was the man who was hesitating, his arm around the woman grasping, as if he feared she would vanish. “His fear.”

There was silence for so long she wondered if she had scared him off. When he finally spoke, she released a sigh of relief. The relief vanished the second she processed his harsh, blunt words. “Do you see all of this now? Or did you see it when you watched me paint it?”

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Where before she’d been hot, she grew suddenly, terribly cold, the blood draining from her face. Her fingers opened reflexively, the champagne flute tumbling.

With a speed and grace that was almost inhuman, his hand reached in front of her and plucked the glass out of mid-air. His front brushed against her backside, the fabric of his trousers scraping her bare legs. His arm crossed over her belly. To anyone watching, it would have seemed like a simple gesture, a man standing behind and putting his arm around a woman while they spoke in front of a painting.

There was nothing simple about the electricity that arced between them.

He withdrew his arm slowly. She heard the clink of glass on something as he set it down, and then his footsteps as he came to stand next to her. She continued to stare at the painting, her mind racing, struggling to come up with justification, lies, or apologies. Anything to get away from this mess.

Out of her peripheral vision, she caught his frown. A large palm cupped her hip, the heat of it making her jump, and he drew her close to his side. He was only a couple of inches taller than her, but his large frame made her feel tiny and surrounded. “Stop it,” he growled.

Her lips barely moved. “Stop what?”

“Stop being embarrassed.”

He might as well have asked grass to turn purple. Tears stung her eyes, blurring the painting. “How?”

“Just stop it.”

“I can’t. I’m mortified.”

“Are you smart?”

The seeming non sequitur distracted her from her crushing embarrassment. She side-eyed him. “I— What?”

He lifted his massive linebacker shoulders. “Are you smart? You don’t appear to be dim, but I don’t know you well enough to say.”

Did he mean, like…academically? Because no, then. She had barely graduated high school. Sitting still and learning had always been chores to Rana, much to her parents’ dismay. “I’m not stupid,” she finally wheezed, unclear on where the strange man was going with this.

His lips tightened, the scar turning white. “Then what do you make of the fact I know you followed me here tonight? And I know you’ve been watching me? And I’m not angry about either of those things?”

She froze.

Plot twist.

In a snap, the fog of humiliation lifted, the buzz around them returning to normal decibel levels. His hand remained on her waist, burning a brand on her skin through the thin fabric. She breathed in deep, eager to get air to her deprived brain cells.

“You let me,” she whispered. “You let me follow you.”

“I never drive under the speed limit.”

“You let me watch you.”

“I wanted you to watch me.”

“How long have you known?”

He looked away, but his fingers clenched, bringing her in closer to his side. They touched from hip to thigh. She tingled in every spot their bodies met. “Since the beginning, I think.”

Bewildered, she shook her head. “You weren’t mad? Why didn’t you…stop me?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

The recessed lighting brought out subtle red highlights in his dark hair. “I don’t know a lot of things.”

“I crossed a boundary. I’m not proud of…” She touched her finger to his. It twitched against her hip, sending fire racing through her. “I’m sorry.”

He shifted. “This isn’t something you do, then. Normally.”

“No.” Horrified, she leaned back. He twisted, keeping his arm where it was so they were face-to-face. “I’ve never done anything like this before in my life. Spying on someone. Following them places. And let me tell you, I’ve done some questionable shit. I can’t apologize enough.”

Impatience flashed in his eyes. “I told you. I wanted you to watch me.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.” She swayed closer, daring to rest her palm on his chest. His muscles jumped under her. “It was wrong. Especially…” A thought occurred to her, and she watched him carefully as she asked the question. “Did you know I was there last Friday?”

Her heart pounded as she waited for him to answer.
Please let him say yes.
Otherwise, there was so much apologizing she’d be doing.

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes. The answer she’d wanted, yet it opened up a whole new host of questions. “The entire time?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes popped open. “You knew I was there when you—”

“Yes.”

She shook her head, her earrings swinging. “I don’t understand why you’d be okay with it at all, but why did you want me to see you doing
that
?”

At his silence, she opened her eyes. They were so close and tucked away, she could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. She would say that his gaze was controlled and enigmatic, but that was a smokescreen. She could feel the hum of volatile emotion under his calm facade. “Why did you stay?”

She dipped her head, her guilt and shame impossible to ignore, even if he was offering her absolution. “It was like I couldn’t stop myself.”
From the moment I saw you, I’ve been unable to control my old, impulsive self.

If someone had told her a day or two ago she’d be baring her soul to a man she barely knew in the middle of a semi-crowded gallery, she would have laughed.

“You haven’t watched me since then.”

“I felt guilty. For liking it.” She glanced up at him from under her lashes. “This isn’t normal. It’s wrong, what I did.”

“Yes. My stripping naked in front of you. Touching myself. That was wrong as well.” His hand hovered over hers before finally covering it. “Maybe we bring out something…wrong in each other.”

Her breath caught as she replayed his X-rated performance in her brain, the way his big hand had cupped his cock, the long, slow pulls as he fucked himself. He’d been performing, she could see that now, with his legs spread wide and his clenching abs. Performing for her benefit. “It felt good. Not wrong.” The words slipped out, not entirely consciously.

His full lips curved—not a smirk, not quite a smile. It was the kind of smirky smile that once might have gotten all of her aggressive instincts humming, the kind that urged her to offer him a drink. Off her body.

“I wasn’t going to ever speak with you,” he murmured. “Even when I saw you standing here, I told myself to walk away.”

“Why didn’t you?”

An indefinable expression flitted over his face. “I couldn’t. I had to talk to you.” He tightened his fingers over hers, his voice dropping an octave. “Touch you.”

Not indefinable. She recognized that expression, because it was the same expression she saw in the mirror.
Starved.

She was so hungry. Not hungry for a man, but hungry for him. A man as strange and wild and imperfect as she used to be.

Used to be? As you are.

Fuck her resolutions. Fuck going back to her dry, boring, sex-less bed. One little slip didn’t hurt, did it? One little slip, and then she’d get back on the wagon. Like a smoker sneaking one tiny cigarette.

He was her cigarette, this man who created beautiful art and then smashed it to ribbons, who had a body that would make a Greek god weep, who brought himself to the brink of orgasm and denied himself.

Her eyes narrowed. One taste. That was all she needed.