Chapter 1: The Whispered Tease
The air in the gallery was thick with the scent of money and slow-burning candles. Below the mezzanine, a sea of black tie and silk moved in a cultivated murmur, a living exhibit of privilege. Eva Sinclair gripped the cool marble of the balustrade, her knuckles white. She was here to network, to see the new acquisitions, to be seen. The emerald silk of her gown was armor.
“They’re missing the point entirely, of course.”
The voice was a low vibration at her ear, a sudden heat against the exposed nape of her neck. She didn’t startle. She inhaled, slowly, the scent of him cutting through the perfumed haze: sandalwood, ozone, and something dangerously clean.
Julian Croft moved into her peripheral vision, leaning his forearms on the railing beside her. He didn’t look at her. He gazed down at the crowd, a curator observing a flawed installation. The chandelier light caught the silver at his temples, sculpted the sharp planes of his face.
“The Dali,” he continued, as if resuming a conversation. “They’re all talking about the technique, the historicity. Not one of them has the guts to mention the sheer psychosexual terror of it. The melting is the least interesting part. It’s the ants. Always the ants.”
Eva took a measured sip of her champagne. The bubbles felt sharp going down. “Perhaps they’re uncomfortable with the idea of decay being so intimately tied to desire. It’s easier to admire the brushstrokes.”
Now he turned. His eyes were a piercing, impossible green. They traveled from the coiled fire of her hair, down over her freckled shoulders, with a slowness that was its own form of touch. A smile played on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Eva Sinclair. The dissertation on Baroque iconography in post-war abstract expressionism. It was… provocative.”
“You’ve read it?”
“I collect provocative things.” He plucked the flute from her hand, his fingers brushing hers. He set it on the broad ledge of the balustrade. “Tell me, Eva. Who are you when you’re not being provocative on purpose?”
The question hung between them. Before she could form a deflection, his hand settled on the marble, just beside her hip. His body was a dark wall, blocking the view of the rest of the mezzanine. The world narrowed to the heat of him, the intensity of his gaze.
“I want to know who you are,” he murmured, his breath disturbingly warm against her ear.
His other hand slipped from the railing. It drifted down, a shadow against the emerald silk of her dress. The crowd’s murmur below swelled for a moment, a wave of laughter. His fingers found the hem, brushing her calf. Then, with infuriating slowness, his palm slid up the back of her thigh.
She froze. Every nerve ending screamed. She should knee him. She should shout. But her body was a traitor, a flush of heat spreading under her skin. His touch was firm, deliberate, a claim made in plain sight yet hidden by the fall of her gown and the shadow of his body.
His fingertips reached the junction of her thighs. He pressed, once, through the damp silk of her panties. A direct, intimate assessment. A soft, shocked gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes flew to his. His expression was one of detached curiosity, as if he were testing the texture of a fabric.
A waiter glided past, silver tray held high.
Julian’s eyes never left hers. He withdrew his hand, bringing his finger to his lips. He held her captive with that green stare as his tongue swept out, slowly, deliberately, licking the moisture from his skin. His lips closed. He swallowed.
“Later,” he said, the word a quiet command.
Then he was gone, melting back into the chiaroscuro of the gallery, leaving her trembling against the cold marble. The imprint of his hand was a brand on her thigh. The taste he’d taken was a violation that pulsed deep in her belly. She was furious. She was electrified. She was wet.
The next hour was a blur of painted smiles and meaningless chatter. She felt his gaze from across rooms, a physical weight. Every time she tried to leave, a staff member appeared with another glass of champagne she hadn’t ordered, or a colleague detained her with inane talk. He was herding her.
Finally, under the pretext of finding the washroom, she broke free and pushed through a discreet door marked ‘Private’. It led to a dim, carpeted hallway lined with storage rooms. Silence, heavy and immediate, replaced the gallery’s hum.
She leaned against the wall, trying to steady her breathing.
“Lost?”
He emerged from a doorway farther down, a silhouette against the low light of an office. He’d shed his tuxedo jacket. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing corded forearms.
“You’re unbelievable,” she spat, the anger finding its voice.
“And you’re curious.” He walked toward her, not quickly. A predator with all the time in the world. “You followed the trail.”
“I followed a path to get away from you.”
“Same thing.” He stopped a foot away. The air crackled. “You’re still thinking like an academic. Analyzing. Cataloguing. ‘He touched me here. He tasted me there. It was inappropriate.’” He mimicked her voice, a cruel, accurate parody. “Stop thinking.”
He closed the final distance. His hand came up, not to her face, but to her throat. His thumb rested against her hammering pulse. It wasn’t a choke. It was a possession. “What are you feeling?”
“Angry.”
“Good. What else?”
She shook her head, biting her lip.
His other hand grabbed her hip, yanking her against him. The hard ridge of his erection pressed into her belly. A jolt of pure, undiluted lust shot through her. “Say it.”
“Aroused,” she whispered, the admission a defeat and a liberation.
“Better.” His mouth descended on hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a takeover. Hungry, demanding, all tongue and teeth and claiming pressure. He tasted of the
champagne she’d been drinking and something darker, uniquely him. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I melted against him, my anger dissolving into a need so sharp it hurt. I arched into his body, my fingers fisting in the crisp cotton of his shirt, feeling the hard muscle of his chest beneath.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged against my lips. "In here," he growled, steering me backwards through the open office doorway. The room was dominated by a massive, antique desk. He kicked the door shut with his heel, the click of the lock final. In the sudden quiet, I could hear the frantic drum of my own heart. I feel my breath catch in my throat and my heart