Page 53 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

“Also, could you put Miss Belmont’s coat in the dryer, ready for later?”

“Certainly.”

“And a pot of tea when you have time, to be served in my office,” Alex added, as she nodded and backed away.

“Of course,” she replied politely, and from the warmth in her eyes, I could tell she thought a lot of Alex. She was clearly happy to be working here.

“Let me get you a sweater,” he said, turning his attention back to me. Attention, I couldn’t deny, I liked having. “You’re still shivering,” he added, and I glanced down at my arms to see goosebumps on my skin that I hadn’t noticed before.

Were they the result of the cold air or the way he was staring at me? If I was honest, I couldn’t really tell. Maybe a bit of both.

He went to walk away, but I called out, “No, don’t worry. I’m fine. It’s just the breeze from the open door.” I turned to see the door in question was now closed. There was no breeze. “I’ll be okay. Honestly.” I turned back to face him, hoping he didn’t notice the blush of embarrassment in my cheeks. “Why don’t you show me your paintings? I’d love to see your collection.” I announced to distract us both from the awkward tension that’d started to build.

He grinned back at me, and the way he smiled made my stomach swirl with nerves, like they had the first time we’d met. I loved how he could do that.

But then I remembered who’d made the artwork he wanted me to see. The artwork he collected so fanatically, and I felt conflicted again.

Did I really want to see the work of a man who was making my life hell, even though Alex was going to be the one showing them to me?

“Okay,” Alex said. “Follow me.”

And I did, knowing I would probably have to fake my enthusiasm.

Nothing that artist did would ever fill me with awe again.

Not now.

I strode forward, walking in step beside Alex, as he led me down the hallway. The walls were wood-panelled but painted cream to match the carpet, and there were huge sash windows that let in so much natural light it gave everything a bright, airy feel. It was the opposite of what I’d expected when I saw the building from the outside. I thought it would be all dark wood and antiques, not this modern haven of a home. I couldn’t deny, I loved the feel of the place.

“Your home is beautiful,” I said, as I admired the detailed coving along the ceiling. “It’s very warm. Very... stylish.”

“You’ve only seen the hallway,” he gave a light chuckle and added, “And the foyer, but thank you. I made a lot of changes when I took over the estate. I’m glad you like what you’ve seen so far. I have to admit, I’m a sucker for beautiful things.” He gave me a boyish grin, like he was talking about more than the house, but when he turned and pushed open a set of double doors to reveal a room filled with artwork, I stopped still, staring in disbelief.

“Wow,” I gasped. “This room is amazing.” And it really was.

I stepped inside and peered around at all the art on the walls. There were portraits, landscapes, modernist, impressionist, every type of ‘ist’ painting you could think of in this room. It was an impressive collection, and not at all like the S.K.A.M. pieces I’d seen so far.

“This is my mother’s collection,” Alex stated, as I crept further into the room, studying each masterpiece. “She loved art. She was the reason I went on to collect myself. She taught me a lot.”

I stopped in front of a painting of Sunford Manor, and leaned forward, squinting to read the artist’s name.

“My mother painted that one,” Alex said, his voice near my ear, making the skin on my neck prickle. Now I definitely had goosebumps, and not from the cold. “She was an amateur painter,” he added.

“It doesn’t look amateur to me,” I replied, feeling breathless and a little dizzy. Having him so close was doing things to me. Things that I wanted more of.

“She’d love you for saying that. But she only painted for herself. She didn’t sell anything or have anything featured in a gallery. I think it was her dream, though. To have that sort of recognition.” And he sighed. “But I guess sometimes, we have to find other ways to make our dreams come true. Follow other paths.”

I hummed in agreement and moved farther into the room, staring at each painting as I walked slowly on. And then I reached a portrait. The lady in it had long black hair that was threaded with delicate daisies, and she was smiling for the artist with her head tilted slightly. She was sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, a white sundress skimming her ankles, and her feet were bare. In front of her, on the wooden floor, was a globe. If I had to describe her look, I’d say it was bohemian. A free spirit.

“That’s my mother,” Alex said as he came to stand next to me. “She commissioned a local artist to paint that.”

“She looks so care free,” I commented, “Like nothing could faze her.”

“She was. She loved to travel, hence the globe in front of her. She was something of an anthropologist. She found people and their lives fascinating.”

“I think I’d have liked her.”

“She’d have loved you,” he replied, and my cheeks grew redder.