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I’ve already surmised the obvious basics about him, anyway. Intelligent. Successful. Wealthy. Far out of my league in more ways than I care to count. Besides, even if I was tempted to creep into his life online, the things I want to know aren’t going to be listed on his Wikipedia page or in any article that might turn up on a search engine.
I want to know why a rich, devastatingly gorgeous man—who must be one of the city’s most sought-after, eligible bachelors—chooses to live alone in his tower penthouse at the top of the world. I want to know why he wants me, of all the women he could have drooling at the chance to be with him. I want to know how he got the terrible scars on his right hand and arm.
Most of all, I want to know why I see flashes of hauntedness and pain in his eyes in those fleeting moments before he shutters his gaze to me. I want to know why I sense that this powerful man is hiding his own ugly secrets, that he might be just as damaged and afraid as I am.
I doubt I’ll ever uncover all of Nick’s truths. Maybe I shouldn’t even hope that I can.
The fact that he hasn’t tried to reach me all week only seems to confirm that just because we’ve been naked and sweaty together a few times, we’re not suddenly going to be a couple.
It’s a sanity check I apparently needed. Because whatever is going on between us—the dark, magnetic attraction that drew us together from the moment our eyes first met—it’s temporary. It’s not part of our daily lives and never can be. I know that. Hell, I’m determined that it won’t be.
And yet, I find it takes all of my willpower to resist sending him a quick hello as I head out of our building to meet Margot at the gallery for lunch.
She’s not on the main floor when I enter Dominion and greet her perky, brunette assistant.
“Margot’s in a portfolio meeting with one of our artists,” Jen informs me. “She’s running a little late. They should be wrapping up in a few minutes.”
I nod. “No problem. I’ll just browse on my own until she’s ready to go.”
An attractive couple speaking to each other in a foreign language are the only other customers on the floor with me. I give them a brief smile as they pass by me on their way to another display. I’m shocked to feel a pang of envy as I watch them holding hands, their fingers laced together, eyes full of adoration as they quietly converse in front of the art.
It doesn’t escape my notice when the man’s hand drifts to the curve of his companion’s backside. He whispers something in her ear and her reply is a low murmur, filled with desire. Will they go home soon and tear each other’s clothes off the way Nick and I did? Or will they take their time making love, knowing they have forever in each other’s arms? The pang in my chest sharpens, and I decide I really don’t want to play this little game after all. Turning away from the couple, I divert my attention with a collection of abstract works on the other side of the gallery.
Although I intend to look at some of the displays I missed at the party a few nights ago, it doesn’t take long before my feet have carried me in front of Beauty. She is just as striking and starkly sexual today as she was the other night. Possibly more so, seeing how she was the catalyst for Nick and me leaving together.
Then again, considering the inevitability of our collision and everything that’s followed, maybe Beauty was just an innocent bystander.
My lips curve at the thought of that night. My time in Nick’s bed. The carnal need for him that’s still simmering inside me, and only a single inappropriate thought away at any given moment.
“Dare I hope that smile means you like her?”
The deep male voice that sounds beside me is unfamiliar, but warm as whiskey. The faint traces of an easy, southern drawl only add to the smoky timbre.
I swivel my head and find a thirty-something man as tall and beefy as a linebacker standing next to me at the display. With his shoulder-length mane of luxurious sandy brown hair, his untucked, faded chambray shirt, black jeans and cowboy boots, he’s gorgeous in a wind-tossed, rodeo rebel kind of way. A thick, neatly trimmed beard frames his ruggedly handsome, suntanned face and lopsided grin, while molasses-brown eyes hold me in a curious, interested stare.
The full power of which is trained on me.
I get the idea he knows his look works for him because he just stands there, waiting patiently for me to find my tongue.
I blink and clear my throat. “I do. Like it, I mean. It’s an amazing piece. You have an incredible talent.”
I don’t have to ask if he’s the unnamed artist who painted it. The look of quiet pride that lights his eyes at my praise is unmistakable. He glances at the canvas and nods thoughtfully. “It helps to have the right inspiration.”
“Yes,” I agree.
Before I can ask him about the woman in the painting, he pivots to me and extends his hand. “I’m Jared Rush.”
“Avery Ross,” I reply as he briefly clasps my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
His grin is devastating. “You must be Margot’s lunch date. Sorry for holding you up.”
I shrug. “It’s all right. I didn’t mind waiting.”
“Oh, there you are!” Margot exclaims from across the gallery. She glides over to us and pulls me into a quick hug. “When I didn’t find you out front with Jen, I thought we might’ve missed each other again.”
I shake my head. “Just browsing while I waited for you to wrap up with Jared.”
Margot’s gaze bounces between us in surprise and not a little intrigue. “You know each other?”
