Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (43 page)

“Why are you interested?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. He was closer than she thought he was, his chest inches from her shoulder.

“I just am,” he said simply, his voice low. “What name did you used to go by?” Indira twirled a lock of hair around her finger, debating for a moment whether or not she was going to answer. She rarely talked about her past with anyone. But since he was a part of her past, she supposed she could break her rule, this one time.

“Pamela,” she said, softly. She heard him whisper the name to himself, as if trying to remember. She flicked her eyes back to
Pearl
, finding her favorite part of the piece easily. She had trailed her forearm through the paint one night when she was frustrated and ready to scrap the whole thing. As soon as she added herself into the paint, it was like the clouds had opened up.

“Name your price,” he said, and she felt a light pressure on her hair. He was touching her, she realized. Arousal, hot and prickly, rushed through her and she felt her muscles tighten. Her nipples hardened. Strange. This man was almost ten years younger than her. They lived in two very different worlds. And yet her body was responding to him. She didn't often deny her body. She had learned long ago that she was at her best when her body and mind were one. But... it was still strange. She didn't often find men as young as him attractive. And he was practically family. Long lost family, but family nonetheless. She turned abruptly to face him.

“It's not for sale, Mr. Benedict.”

“Mr. Benedict, huh?” He ran his tongue over his full lips. Indira felt her eyes zero in on the small movement. “Call me Cee.”

“Erica says you're interested in another piece as well?” she said. He shook his head.

“I was hoping for the set. To go with my collection.”

“Collection?”

“I have a few more of your pieces. One I picked up at an auction. Two I inherited.” Her curiosity and vanity were piqued. She was surprised that he had kept the pieces she'd given Colletta.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you. Apparently, you're not used to taking no for an answer.”

“Are
you
, Miss Z.?” His lips twitched. He was flirting with her, she realized. Interesting.

“Erica will be in touch with your people about
Revanche
.” She motioned to the smaller painting on the opposite wall.

“You can call me personally.” His eyes were amused behind his glasses. “And let me know when you figure out how much you want for it.”

“Maybe you are still that bratty kid I used to drive home,” Indira said with a small smile. Chad reached into his back pocket and pulled out his vibrating cellphone.

“You're tough, you know that?” he said, glancing down at the screen and typing up a quick message with his long fingers.

“Yo, Cee, time's up. We gotta go.” The girl with bright green jeans said by the door. Chad nodded at her but turned back to Indira.

“You're a busy man, I hate to keep you.” She crossed her arms over her chest, letting her position be known. He chuckled, his teeth white against his dark skin, and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“Alright, I see how it is.” He let his eyes sweep her again then he glanced up, above her head. She followed his eyes to the projected image of her, shot a month ago on a beach in Costa Rica.
Always forward, never backward,
her lips mouthed, over and over. She felt self-conscious, her face bared to him 20 feet wide when she hadn't even taken off her sunglasses to let him see her eyes. When she turned back to him, he was staring at her again.

“I think of your mother often,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I'm glad to know that you're doing well.”

“Yeah.” He ran his knuckles under his chin. “We'll have dinner some time, Zee. I'll set it up.” Before she could refuse, he was walking back toward his big bodyguards and colorful P.A. She watched them go, fighting their way out through the paps and getting back into his black SUV. Only after he was gone did she take off her sunglasses, folding them up and dropping them in her bag.

***

Chadwick Benedict wasn't used to hearing no. But he was even less used to the feeling that was vibrating through his body as the SUV drove toward midtown. When Indira Z. had appeared right in front of him, he'd almost been struck dumb. She was more beautiful in person than he could have imagined. Her thick blanket of black hair hung down past her ass, and even in the shapeless bag of a dress that she wore, he could see that ass was a little fat, just the way he liked. She was tiny, almost engulfed by scarves and her dress and her big bag. And her sunglasses hid those bright, intelligent eyes from him. But her attempts at hiding herself hadn't worked. He was more intrigued than ever.

It was hard, sometimes, the life that he lived. He was an intelligent, inquisitive type, had always gone to private schools and was taught to speak in proper English by his mother. He played four instruments and had taken tap and ballet classes as a child. But when she died, he was sent to live with his father in Inglewood, California. He'd been looked at like a freak of nature, even by his own family, until he assimilated. Now, he rode a fine line between the perception of him and his reality. Indira was the embodiment of the community he'd grown up in, and the women he'd admired as a child. She had paint under her fingernails and on her shoes. She was stylish but didn't wear makeup or spend time on her hair. She was weird as hell and kind of spacey, staring off into the distance like her mind was creating even when her hands were idle.

A woman like her had no use for a man, except for an occasional roll in the hay. Which worked out well for him, because he wanted to fuck her. In fact, he wanted to buy her painting, and then he wanted to fuck her under it. He laughed to himself, covering his mouth with his hand. Georgie gave him a look.

“You know that weird lady?” she said, already back on her phone, updating his Twitter account.

“My mom knew her,” he said, drumming his fingers on his knee. Georgie nodded, her attention already moving on. She dug around in her messenger bag for her iPad, ready to rundown his schedule.

“Okay, we have the Pitchfork interview at 3 p.m., then we have the flight back to L.A. at 6 p.m., then we have to make an appearance at a club at midnight in Santa Monica. Donny's going to meet us at the airport...”

“Cancel that shit,” Cee said, staring out the window as they slowed to a stop in traffic.

“What? Why?” Georgie furrowed her brow.

“I'm staying in New York tonight. I already texted Donny.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” she said, pissed.

“I just decided. You got a problem with that?”

“Whatever, Cee.” She gave him the side-eye. “Do I get a night off, then?”

“You do whatever you want.”

“Sweet.” She smiled. “You want me to get a block of rooms at the Four Seasons?”

“I'm gonna stay in my place. But you stay wherever you want.” Georgie clapped her hands and giggled, then starting typing on the iPad. Cee turned back to the window, a smile curling on his lips. He was going to go to her art opening. He had a feeling if he played his cards right, she'd be in his bed that night. Then he could go about tackling the secret obsession he had with her head-on. Find out if his hunch about Indira Z. was correct or not. And he was hoping like hell it was.

***

About the Author

Lavender Parker has been reading romance novels since the ripe age of ten. Having grown tired of the predictable and often white-washed mainstream romance novels available, she decided to try her hand at writing the kind of stories she wanted to read. Lavender 's hot heroes and heroines come in all shades and all ethnicities! She has several novels and novellas completed and is working on many more.

Lavender currently lives with her long-term boyfriend and slightly neurotic dog in the colorful New York City borough of Queens. When on break from her day job in reality television, she also likes to write screenplays and produce low-budget films.

Contact Lavender Parker:

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lavender_parker

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