Page 107 of None Of Your Business

“No.” Her gaze holds mine without a trace of flinching. “It wasn’t that kind of dream.”

“What kind of dream was it?”

Her mouth curves wickedly, like she’s decided that if she’s already caught, she might as well enjoy watching me sweat.

“The kind where you didn’t keep your hands to yourself,” she whispers, leaning in. “The kind where you had me backed up against the glass in your little observation room, your hand slid under my shirt, and you didn’t stop until I couldn’t breathe.”

The air gets sucked straight out of my lungs. My pulse hammers violently in my ears, every blood cell in my body rushing south.

Jesus Christ.

I stare down at her, my jaw locked tight as I picture her against the glass, my hand on her skin, her breathless, ruined sounds filling that small, dark room.

For three months I sat inches away from this woman and told myself the distance was clinical. Necessary.

I don’t feel a single shred of clinical restraint right now.

“Rowan! There you are!” Someone’s booming voice shatters the moment.

We both snap back, the sudden intrusion breaking the spell.

Rowan smooths down her dress with shaking hands as the gallery director bustles over.

“The collector from Chicago wants to meet you before her flight,” he says, gently taking Rowan by the elbow. “Come, come.”

Rowan glances over her shoulder at me, her cheeks still flushed. That dangerous spark is still burning in her eyes.

I stay right where I am, watching her go as I try to settle the heavy ache throbbing beneath my belt.

Thirty-One

Rowan

By the time the last guests filter out, the noise still rings in my ears, even though nobody’s left to make it.

Alistair’s already gone, locked away in his office to count the night’s numbers. The catering staff moves through the back, boxing up glasses and half-eaten canapés. Out here, it’s just me, Hudson, and a lot of my own anxiety hanging on the walls around us.

The butterflies in my stomach haven’t quit since Hudson’s hand found my hip four hours ago. I can still feel the exact imprint of his fingers.

Is this where I touched you? Right here?

Who says that to a woman and then spends the next four hours calmly drinking water and discussing art?

Hudson Vaughn, apparently.

Bastard.

He tracked me all night. Every time I turned around, his eyes were on me. I’m so turned on, it’s a miracle I made it through the last hour without losing my mind.

“You survived,” Hudson says, his voice echoing in the empty gallery.

“Barely. I think I lost a piece of my soul to a woman who told me my brushwork reminded her of her therapist’s Rorschach tests.”

His mouth twitches.

I’m sitting on the low platform near the entrance, shoes abandoned beside me.

“How am I looking, Doc? On a scale of fine to total cardiac collapse?”