A Dangerously Sexy Secret. Stefanie LondonЧитать онлайн книгу.
and it was like a knife twisting in her chest.
Years of her life had been devoted to the inspiration that had clogged her head. More years had been spent perfecting her technique, channeling her passion. Years that were now a total waste.
“What do you do?” she asked, desperate to steer the conversation away from the part of her life she wanted to leave behind.
“I’m in IT for a security company. It’s like getting to solve a giant puzzle every day.” He laughed. “Nerdy but true.”
“People keep telling me that nerds will rule the world one day, if they don’t already.”
“I guess you could say that.” Darkness flickered across his face before the smile returned, bringing a cheeky glint to his eye. “I don’t suppose you want to show me any of your paintings? If they’re half as good as your pizza, I’m betting you’ll be the next Picasso.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said, knotting her hands in her lap.
“About being Picasso or about showing me your work?”
Part of her balked at the idea of showing him her art—of showing anyone her art—but his face was totally earnest. His interest in her work appeared genuine, and besides, what harm could it do?
This is New York, not some tiny hick town that thinks a woman’s body is a product of the devil.
“I’m no Picasso, let’s be clear about that.” She pushed up from her chair and motioned for him to follow. “Come on, my work space is through here.”
Rhys’s presence filled the air around her as they walked, his steps mirroring her own. He said nothing as she pushed open the door to her bedroom. Her mattress rested on the floor since she hadn’t bought a bed frame yet. The quilt she’d been using as her duvet was draped over it, creating a white puddle of fabric around the edges of the mattress.
Early evening light filtered into the room, highlighting the stack of canvases that she’d leaned against the wall. She’d brought ten in total. Eight complete and two works in progress—though she hadn’t touched a brush to them in over six months.
The canvases had been a requirement for the portfolio portion of her interview at Ainslie Ave, the gallery where she now worked as an assistant and acted as a mentee slash intern to Sean Ainslie himself.
“These are just experiments,” she said, reaching for the first two in the stack. One was a vivid fall landscape and the other depicted a young student hunched over a writing desk. She’d modelled the girl on her sister, painting her long blond locks in wild swirling strokes, mimicking the fury of the student’s pen scratching across paper. “They’re nothing special.”
“Do you really think that?” His eyes never left the paintings. They darted and scanned as though he was committing the images to memory. She watched for some sign of judgment, but he simply stared at the paintings in a way that felt fiercely intimate.
And terrifying.
“This one was from my abstract phase,” she said, brushing off his question. The third canvas was a garden, but to the untrained eye the angular swipes of green paint could be anything at all.
A swamp monster, perhaps.
“And this one was a gift for my mom.”
Her mother had a thing for roses and her garden back home was filled with them. Wren had painted her a small canvas for their guest room. It showed a single American Beauty bloom, just like the flower that had won her mother first place in the county fair a few years back. It’d hung on the wall until Wren had sneaked it out one night after “the incident.” Nobody seemed to have noticed its absence.
“You’re very talented,” Rhys said, his gaze finally traveling back to her. “You’ve been blessed with some creative hands.”
“I’m sure my parents would rather I’d been blessed with a head for numbers.” The words came out stinging with truth. “My sister is going to be a doctor, so by comparison art is probably not the job they would have chosen for me.”
“But you’re working in a gallery, too?”
Wren dropped down onto the floor and sat cross-legged. After a moment, Rhys followed her. The rest of her canvases sat against the wall, facing away from them like a group of children who’d been sent to the naughty corner.
“Yeah, I’m an assistant for an artist who has his own gallery. I organize his appointments and manage his calendar. I also greet people who come to meet him at the gallery.” She toyed with the end of her long silk skirt, twisting the fabric around on itself. “Then I get to paint in his studio and he gives me critiques and tips. Plus, I learn about how the gallery is run and get to watch him with potential buyers. Stuff like that.”
“And you think you’re not an artist,” Rhys scoffed.
Con artist, maybe.
“It sounds weird to call myself that.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s a leftover doubt from my family always nagging me to get a real job and work in an office. Like you.”
“Working in an office does not mean you’ve made it in life.” He leaned back on his forearms and surveyed the room. “Trust me.”
His large form was so appealing laid out that way, a dessert for her eyes. All that sculpted muscle and sexual magnetism made her body thrum. And here he was, on her floor right in front of her. A gift for the taking.
Debs’s words floated around in her head: You won’t regret it. Sex is a very natural and healthy part of life.
She’d tried to enjoy sex with Christian, but it had been very repetitive. Her ex had only ever wanted to be on top and had complained when Wren had suggested they try other things. It was something he’d thrown back in her face when he’d discovered her secret paintings.
But something deep down told her that Rhys would be different. That being with Rhys would be different.
“You’re looking at me very intently, Wren.” His lips wrapped around her name in the most delicious way.
“I am.” Tension built inside her, filling her chest and stealing her breath. “Is that a problem?”
“No problem. I was only wondering if you’re planning on making a move.”
Was she? Shit. She’d told herself she had time to get to know him before she acted on her attraction, and then she’d cut herself. Now they were here. And she desperately wanted to find out if her theories about him were true.
“If you’re not...” His brown eyes were lit with fire. “I will.”
Please. Please, please, please.
She opened her mouth to respond when a crash shattered the quiet, halting her words. The stack of paintings behind Rhys had slipped, put out of balance by her removing the heavier ones that had been holding them in place.
“I’ll get them.” She scrambled to her feet in an attempt to prevent him from getting there first, but she accidentally leaned on her injured hand.
“It’s fine, I’ve got it.” He reached for the paintings, his frame stilling suddenly.
Wren’s face filled with heat. She didn’t need to guess which painting he’d discovered.
“Wow.” The word was so filled with shock that it made her stomach twist into a knot. “This is...”
“I wasn’t going to show you that one.” She walked over to the pile and started replacing them against the wall, flames licking her cheeks.
He held the painting in his hand—the one that had been the cause of her troubles back home and, most ironically, the one she secretly thought of as her best. It was of a woman, her legs open and her head thrown back in ecstasy. Eyes closed. Lips slack.
The shades of pink and