“Is something wrong, Ms. D’Amico?” he asked. “You seem a bit… confused.”
Charley jumped and spun around, coming face-to-face with Malcolm, his mistrustful gaze boring straight through her.
“No, I…” She took a step back, bumping against the glass-topped table, her mind whirling as she tried to recalibrate.
She should’ve apologized. She should’ve acted drunk. She should’ve turned the charm on full blast, forced out a nervous giggle, and invented another excuse about getting lost on the way to the powder room.
But with Malcolm towering over her, all she said was, “I need to speak with Dorian.”
“And you thought you’d find him down here?” He glanced over her shoulder at the table behind her. “Under the glass, perhaps?”
“Please, Malcolm. If you could let your brother know I’m looking for him—”
“Well, well,” he said suddenly, his gaze shifting to the elevator. “It seems the devil’s ears are ringing.”
The door slid open, and Dorian walked out alone, his tie undone again, eyes red, jaw tight. His hair was a hot, sexy mess.
“Dorian,” she whispered, fingers curling at the thought of running her hands through it.
And though he shouldn’t have been able to hear her all the way across the room, he glanced up immediately, his eyes and mouth softening at the sight of her.
“Ms. D’Amico,” he said, approaching them so gracefully, he practically glided. “Is my brother harassing you?”
“Hardly,” Malcolm said. “I found her here, looking as if—”
Dorian cut him off with a raised hand, the two brothers glaring at each other over the top of Charley’s head.
Were they always at odds, or was it just her? She was starting to get a complex.
After another few seconds of silent dick-measuring, Malcolm finally retreated, heading back upstairs and leaving them blissfully alone.
“What’s wrong, love?” Dorian asked. “He didn’t frighten you, did he?”
Charley had a million questions now—where were you? What’s down there? What’s up with your crazy family? Why didn’t you tell me about your father?—but she couldn’t hold his gaze.
Instead, she turned toward the table and pointed at the statue beneath the glass. “Where did you get this?”
“Hermes?” Dorian slipped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. Then, sliding his hands across the front of her thighs, “Care to make a bid? I’m willing to part with it for the right offer.”
This can’t be happening…
Charley wanted nothing more than to sink into the warm comfort of Dorian’s strong embrace, to lean back against him and feel every muscled ridge of his body molding to hers. She wanted him to reach up and cup her breasts, to growl into her ear with that deliciously deep, commanding voice. Maybe then she could forget about what she’d found. About where she’d come from. Who she was.
But when she turned around in his arms and met his eyes, Charley knew she couldn’t forget. She was casing her almost-lover’s house, and she’d just discovered another piece of art connected to her father’s murder.
She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening, no matter how badly she wanted to surrender. “Where, Dorian? Tell me where it came from. I need to know.”
Dorian backed Charley right up to the glass, pressing his hands against the case and trapping her inside his arms, his gaze narrowing suspiciously. “Why?”
Charley’s heart rattled in her chest, the voice in her head screaming for her to forget about Hermes, forget about the LaPorte, and seduce her way out of yet another sticky situation with Dorian.
But she couldn’t let this go.
“Tell me,” she pressed.
“I don’t know what your interest is, Charlotte, but obviously you’re upset.”
She didn’t need to confirm it—every muscle in her body was vibrating.
