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No way. “You own a public beach?”
“A long stretch of it. That part is on loan to the city for twenty years.”
“Why?”
He glances back at my painting and another hot flush tumbles down from my head to my toes. “I thought I shouldn’t be the only person who got to see the sunset.”
My humiliation softens. It’s the kind of thing an artist would say. So much of the world is off-limits to people, and that means we can’t paint it. We have to fight and scrabble and pay admission, and I don’t think that’s right. Emerson understands that.
A prickle of nervousness interrupts the warmth I feel. I wouldn’t normally meet a patron that way. For one thing, I’m not a big enough name for that, so it’s random people buying my work. For another…the address. The time. It’s true that I went of my own free will, thinking I was visiting a public beach.
But.
Emerson is exactly the kind of person I should be afraid of. It doesn’t matter how beautiful he looks in the partial illumination of the gallery, all perfection in an expensive suit. He’s someone full of privilege, like my father. Wealthy, commanding, and ultimately a bully.
I can’t have feelings for him. This is strictly an art collector and an artist. A transaction. Over as soon as the money changes hands. That’s all it’ll ever be.
Chapter Seven
Emerson
Everything about DaphneMorelli is mesmerizing.
Her art. Her body. The hummingbird breaths that make her chest rise and fall in her unassuming navy dress.
I have never been so invested in the oxygen exchange of another person. Not like this. My awareness of her supersedes every past focus. I would have sworn there was nothing more heightened than waiting for the sound of footsteps outside a locked door, but there is, and it’s watching Daphne Morelli breathe. It’s watching the light play in her huge, dark eyes. More intense by the minute. She goads all the emotions I keep far away. Goads them into becoming something real, something in motion. She’s been standing so close, for so long, the scent of her in the air and her voice in my ears and her fluttering heartbeat. I swear I can hear it.
The only thing to do when confronted with this much sensation is to walk away. Get back into the familiar exchange of a purchase. And leave, at the end. Leave and never come back. Stay detached. That’s the way to stay alive. Keep your eyes on those slices of light at the door. They’re a warning. Something more dangerous than you is coming.
She could wreck me, out in the world like this. Better to keep her where I have control.
But Daphne isn’t something to acquire.
Not yet.
She’s much more than a statue. I can’t picture her in marble. She’s too warm for that. Her emotions play across her face like shadows on a hillside. Humiliation and curiosity. Anger and fear. Understanding, when I say the bit about other people seeing the sunset, which has the benefit of being true. But then a wariness creeps into her eyes, and I can’t stand it.
I can’t shove this emotion, this want, away from me. It won’t go. She’s so near. So warm. So alive. The air between us feels like an insult. The fact that I’m not touching her is a grave mistake.
Her huge, dark eyes skip down over me, the glance involuntary, and when she looks back into my eyes—
Longing. Her face is filled with longing. I recognize it from the photo in my report. Flushed cheeks and wide eyes and a set to her mouth that begs for something, anything, other than standing here like two pieces on a chessboard.
One step toward her, and Daphne freezes in place, a deer caught in headlights. Another step, and she’s alive again, anticipating me. Responding. A flash of fear, but she doesn’t run. She lets me back her into the far corner of the gallery. She lets me trap her there.
My shadow falls over her, but her eyes stay bright. Catchlights flicker like stars. She’s breathing fast and sweet.
One of her hands comes up to the front of my jacket. A test, I think. To see what I’ll do. I’d bet anything that Daphne Morelli isn’t this cautious when she’s at her canvas. It’s the smallest connection between us. Slim fingers between the buttons. Not to pull me close. Not to push me away.
I want to pin her to the wall. That need surges through my veins, skipping out of bounds. But that would mean losing control. That would mean giving it up entirely.
I can’t do that with Daphne.
She’s more birdlike than ever, touching me like this. It’s an opening move. An invitation, really. Her breath hitches. I press one palm flat against the wall to keep from looping it around her throat. Her eyes follow the movement, but she’s quick about it, as if she thinks it’s dangerous to look away from my face for more than a glance.
As if she doesn’t want to look away.
Fuck me, I want to be touching her. More than this. Her knuckles burn a hole in my shirt, straight through to the skin. There are a thousand positions I’d like to see her body in, a thousand sounds I want her to make for me.
