“Wow. Gave me quite the scare, Mr. Redthorne.”Not to mention the hottest five minutes of my life.“Okay, then. Still breathing. Good sign.”
“I’m… sorry.” He shook his head, muttering to himself. When he looked at her again, the haze had cleared from his eyes, replaced with something that looked a lot like guilt. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away. It… It won’t happen again.”
He turned on his heel, about to walk away.
Charley was more than ready to let him go, desperate for a literal and figurative breather from his unwavering intensity, but then she remembered the statue.
“Dorian, wait! Aren’t you going to tell me about Hermes?”
He stopped and let out a deep sigh. “That’swhat’s on your mind?”
Heat burned in her cheeks, but she couldn’t stop now. “I need to know. It’s important.”
“Fine. I’ve got another deal for you, then.” Dorian glanced toward the upper floor, where the din of revelry still floated above them—laughter and clinking glasses, classical violins, footsteps echoing on marble. “As soon as I clear thesewretchedpeople from my home, I’ll fix us a nightcap, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know about Hermes, as well as anything else in my collection.”
Charley did some quick calculations, hoping she had enough time before Travis came sniffing around. With a little more of that luck she’d been banking on all night, she could get the scoop on Hermes, finagle a tour of the upstairs, and sneak in some questions about the LaPorte painting too.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Redthorne.”
“You haven’t heard the rest of the terms, Ms. D’Amico.” He finally turned to face her, running his thumb across his mouth and wiping her blood from his lips. His eyes held a dangerous spark.
Suddenly, Charley felt like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a predator. “Terms?”
“Think of it as a confessional. I’ll tell you about the art. And you, my little prowler…” He gripped her chin and lowered his gaze to her own still-bloodied mouth, the deep tenor of his voice buzzing across her skin. “You’ll tell me why you’re casing my home like a common thief.”
Chapter Thirty
What. The fuck. Was that?
Charley could barely get her legs to work as she stumbled out of the manor, sucking in the cool night air like her life depended on it.
They hadn’t even had sex. Yet somehow, every encounter with Dorian Redthorne made her feel like she was drowning.
And Charley was really,reallydeveloping a taste for drowning.
“You’re out of your damn mind, girl.”
Taking another steadying breath, she walked along the cobblestone path behind the manor, past the spot where Dorian had ambushed her earlier, past the guest house, past the brambles and bushes and trees until the imposing Elizabethan giant was no more than a blur of stone and warm yellow light behind her.
With every step, her mind cleared a bit more, refocusing on the stolen artwork she’d discovered, unleashing a dozen new impossible scenarios in her mind.
She was so wrapped up in her art-world conspiracy theories, she didn’t even see the man on the path until she’d crashed right into him.
“Whoa, easy.” He reached out to steady her just before she fell and twisted an ankle, cold hands gripping her elbows.
“I’m so sorry!” Charley plastered on a smile, slipping the socialite mask back in place as she found her footing.
But when she glanced up and met his gaze, all bets were off.
Her blood went cold. Even a fine tux couldn’t hide the asshole inside.
What the hell ishedoing here?
“Mr. Duchanes,” she ground out, taking a step backward and shoving a hand into her purse. Beyoncé 2 awaited her command, and this time, Charley wouldn’t drop her.
Duchanes bowed slightly, clasping his hands behind his back and giving her wide berth, as if he wanted to appear as meek and non-threatening as possible. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. And watch your step.”
Without another word, he scooted past her and disappeared up the path toward the house, clear out of sight.
