Susan Crosby - His Seductive Revenge

She glanced at the album again. Knowing now that he was the artist, she was tempted to take a second look. Composure. She had to dig deep for it.

“We have a kinship, don’t you agree? You’ve felt it, as have I,” he said, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “A connection between artist and subject improves the finished product.”

She was reminded of how he’d rubbed his thumb along the woman’s hand the other night. So, the gesture probably meant nothing to him but a means of turning off a woman’s brain while she pondered his incredible physique, his utter maleness, and his you-are-the-only-woman-for-me eyes.

“I’ll amend the offer, then,” he said as she remained silent. “I will charge you nothing, and you may do with the painting what you will. You can’t lose, Cristina.”

Oh, Lord, she loved the way he said her name. No one had ever said her name like that before. Not with an accent, but with a sultry edge, a tempting—

She stood and walked away from him, trying to find a way to elevate the discussion, trying to leave attraction—no, lust—out of it. She wasn’t a teenager. She wasn’t even frustrated. Well, not that frustrated. So, she hadn’t had sex since—She didn’t want to think about how long it had been, and it hadn’t been wonderful, then, anyway. With this man, however—

Stop, stop, stop. You don’t know anything about him.

Except that he had her hormones dancing pirouettes on every cell of her body, charging her with energy, as if she could light up the Golden Gate Bridge just by touching the steel.

“Say yes,” he said quietly.

He’d come up behind her, was standing so close she could feel his body heat all the way to her ankles. She wanted to lean against him. She wanted him to put his arms around her, nuzzle her neck, tell her she was beautiful. What was happening to her? She didn’t know the man.

Gabe lifted a hand toward her shoulder, then let it fall. He knew he affected her. Her breath came short and shallow. Her perfume became more potent as her body temperature rose.

“Do you need recommendations of my character?” he asked, backing away.

“That would help.” She turned to face him.

“Inspector Leslie O’Keefe with the San Francisco P.D. would vouch for me. Raymond, of course. Plenty of others, if necessary.”

“Are you a professional artist?”

“Do I make my living from it? No. But I’m serious about it.”

“What kind of business are you in?”

“More businesses than I can count. All of them legitimate,” he added, one corner of his mouth curving upward. “I’m a venture capitalist.”

“You make money from investments?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I lose money. It’s the challenge that appeals to me, and the work fills up most of my life. Painting relaxes me.”

“What’s your connection to this gallery?”

“I own it.”

He waited as she sifted the information. “Say yes,” he urged again when the silence dragged on.

Cristina considered all the angles. It was exhausting pretending to be so sophisticated for this urbane, mysterious man. She felt like a mouse trapped in his maze. And she had the feeling that he could drop mirrors along the path anytime he chose.

He couldn’t be much more than five years older than she, yet he seemed to have lived a lifetime longer. Being alone with him for hours at a time would be a challenge. He tempted her in ways she’d never been tempted before, was unwillingly flattered by his intense and direct gaze.

But temptation and flattery aside, she knew she could also use the time to her advantage, helping to cool Jason’s recent, bewildering attention and her father’s sudden preoccupation with her getting married.

Oh, she knew what was expected of her. Father thought he’d been subtle, but she read him well. He wanted her to marry Jason. He was in dire need of money, and the marriage would somehow help. He would be angry with her if she ignored her responsibilities for long.

It was a risk she was willing to take, because she’d never felt this pull toward anyone or anything in her life. And she wanted to experience it to the fullest. The problem with Jason would be there when Gabe was part of her past—if it mattered by then.

She finally looked at him, admiring his ability to wait her out. His patience appealed to her, showing her a level of maturity she was unused to from the men of her acquaintance.

“When would you like to start?” she asked.

“As soon as possible. I can adjust my schedule to yours.”

“I work at home, therefore I set my own hours. I imagine you want daylight, natural light.” At his nod, she picked up her purse from the chair and tugged the strap over her shoulder. “Name the time.”

He extracted a business card from a slim gold case and passed it to her. “I also work at home. Eleven tomorrow morning?”

“Fine.” She glanced at the card. His address put him smack in the middle of Pacific Heights, an area filled with wonderful Victorian-design houses that were huge, old and expensive. It was a world she came from, but had never felt comfortable in. “Please tell Raymond that if my father contacts him about the portrait, he should just stall for a while. Father won’t like it, but he thinks he understands the artistic temperament.”

“Why does he?”

She smiled “Because of me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m fine,” Cristina said into the phone, wandering around her apartment as she spoke to her father. She hadn’t accomplished anything since she’d left the gallery, and three projects awaited her attention. She’d gotten in the last word with Gabe, which pleased her, but the anticipation had rendered her useless otherwise. “And, no, I haven’t seen a single hoodlum, Father. It’s very quiet.”

“There was no reason to move out. You had your own wing, for heaven’s sake.”

“It’s not the same as having a place of my own. It was time for me to spread my wings. We’ve discussed this again and again.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been smothering you since your mother died. You’ll have a place of your own when you marry.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll have my husband’s place.”

He sighed. “I don’t understand the modern woman. Your mother was content to join me in my life and make it her own.”

“I’m not her, Father.”

“As you remind me so often. I must go now, my dear. Oh, by the way, I gave Jason your new address and phone number. I expect he’ll check in.”

He hung up before she could utter a word of protest. Logically she knew she couldn’t keep her location a secret from Jason, but she resented her father being the one to tell him.

When someone knocked on her door, she knew without question who would be there. He’d probably been sitting in his car with his cellular phone, waiting for her father to call him, so she couldn’t pretend to be gone.

She didn’t want him in her apartment, in her space. She’d divorced herself from that life, and Jason would bring it back with him.

With a sigh, she opened the door and invited him in, unwillingly comparing Jason to Gabriel Marquez. They were close to the same height and weight, although their builds were entirely different, Gabe appearing more powerful, in physique and sheer presence. Where Gabe was dark, Jason was light. Most significantly, Jason wasn’t the slightest bit exciting or intriguing or...dangerous. She watched him glance around the room that combined a living room, bedroom and kitchen. The furnishings were few, but they were hers.

“You like it here, Cris?”

She counted to five. “I love it. Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s so small.”

“It suits me. So, what’s going on?”

“I have tickets to the opera. Friday night.”