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Chapter 1
This is what I'm sacrificing my Friday night for? I tilt my head to the left hoping to gain some much-needed perspective. I find nothing. I tilt it back to the right so swiftly that the chandelier earring in my left ear bounces against my neck. It's not helping. I'm still at a loss. The large canvas hanging on the gallery wall directly in front of me still looks like something my three-year-old nephew might have created if given an abundance of finger paints and five minutes of unsupervised time to use them. I sigh heavily. How did I end up at another of these pretentious, stuffy, art events? It's all Liz's fault. My best friend had whined for days about not wanting to attend the opening of Brighton Beck's collection alone.
I turn, my eyes quickly scanning the few familiar, and the many unfamiliar, faces in the gallery. No Liz. I try to discreetly adjust the neckline of the extra low cut black dress I'd hastily chosen for the occasion. I feel like the definition of cleavage all wrapped into one ill-fitted, overpriced creation of an up and coming designer who doesn't understand the concept of women's breasts. I regret not giving myself a once over in the mirror before rushing from my apartment. I also regret not trying this on last month when I found it on the discount rack at a boutique in Chelsea. I'm uncomfortable, I'm hungry and I'm quickly resenting Liz for abandoning me as soon as we walked through the gallery doors an hour ago.
As I circle back towards the enormous and all-encompassing piece of questionable artwork before me, I fumble in my clutch for my phone. If I can't find Liz by sight, surely she'll answer a quick text suggesting we make a hasty exit to grab some dinner.
"This is called Seduction." I feel the rush of a man's breath on my neck. He smells of cologne, soap and there's the subtle hint of a woman's perfume.
I stand silent for a moment, imagining the man attached to the voice. It's a game I first played when I was a freshman in high school. He'll be mid-height I decide, perhaps five or six inches taller than my five-foot-two inch figure. His hair will be black and cut short, in direct contrast to mine, which is shoulder length and blond. And his eyes, his eyes will be a deep blue that will draw me in the moment my green eyes lock with his.
I turn slowly.
My gaze is met with the chest of a man, dressed sharply in a crisp white shirt, open at the collar and a dark blue, flawlessly tailored suit. Even though I'm wearing heels he towers over me. He's at least six-foot-two.
"You consider breathing on a stranger's neck seduction?" I smile coyly.
"It can be." He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks as he lazily runs his eyes over my body.
"Does that work for you?" My face flushes at the thought of being seduced by a man like this. My heart pounds as I try to level my breaths. I'm reacting as if I've never been this close to a man before. If I'm being honest with myself, I've never actually been in the presence of a man who exuded so much raw magnetism.
A hint of a smirk brushes across his lips. "More often than you'd imagine."
What am I supposed to say in response? "I imagine you've bedded many women just by glancing in their direction and if you stand any closer, you can take me right here on the gallery floor."
"For the record, I was referring to the painting." He points to the wall behind me with a sudden flick of his wrist. "That piece is titled Seduction."
"Confusion might have been more appropriate," I say quietly, disappointed that I'd assumed he was trying to seduce me when all he was doing was appreciating the art.
He smiles. When his grin opens his brown eyes widen just a touch. He runs his hand through his thick brown hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
I study his face while he looks over my head at the painting. His jaw is uncompromising. There's a quiet sophistication woven into his features. He's strikingly handsome and the way he carries himself suggests he's very aware of it and its usefulness in getting what he wants.
"Do you like it?" His voice is deep and rich.
Again, I'm not certain what to offer as a reply. Do I like it? I like it so much I want to run my hands along its face, down its chest and torso before wrapping my fingers and lips around its...
"Are you a fan of the piece?" He gestures over my head towards the wall behind me. The raised eyebrow that accompanies the question rattles me. Does he realize where my mind keeps wandering to?
I hesitate briefly before blurting out, "not especially." I shake my head faintly back and forth, wrinkling my nose.
He laughs. Not a voracious laugh, but more of a chuckle. "Honesty. Nice." There was that smile again.
My hand jumps to my mouth. I'm mortified by the sudden realization that in my dazed state I may have accidentally insulted one of Liz's most promising allies. She's been chasing after the illustrious Brighton Beck for the better part of the past three months and I could have destroyed all of her hard work within a minute of meeting him. Why the hell didn't I Google him so I'd recognize him tonight? I briefly contemplate making a mad rush for the gallery doors but there's the little matter of the hundreds of people standing in my way.
"Are you alright?" His voice takes on a softer tone.
"Please tell me you're not Brighton Beck." I wince as I say the words knowing that if this is indeed the star of tonight's gallery showing that I'll be dealing with a very pissed off best friend.
"Not." He leans down so his breath grazes my forehead. "I'm Jax." He offers his hand and I reach for it. It's much larger than mine. He cradles my hand in his right as he covers it with the left. "It's nice to meet you."
"Ivy..."
"Marlow," he interrupts. "You're the jewelry designer. I read the piece The Dialogue did on you. What did they call you? You're one of the hot twenty-five entrepreneurs under twenty-five."
