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Iknow Ishouldn’t go with him. It’s one of the most basic rules of staying alive. You don’t follow a man down a dark hallway without telling other people. My heart beats fast, up near my throat. Leo sent his favorite driver, Thomas, with me tonight. I made him stay at the edge of the ballroom. I didn’t want to be watched. I didn’t want someone hovering while I shook hands and tried to do art-world networking.
I regrettedthatthe instant Peter Clay leaned in to proposition me.
I’m not sure I regret it now.
“I haven’t painted you yet, Daphne,” Peter cooed into my ear. “People would go crazy for that piece. I’d make you look incredible.”
There’s no way on the planet I’ll ever get naked and cry for Peter Clay. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to slap him for putting his hand on my waist like he had any right. But old instincts kicked in and I did nothing. It’s safer to do nothing. To be nothing. But it feels like shit.
I’m not paying attention to where Emerson is taking me. Through the main room of this renovation. A door. Hallway. I check over my shoulder to make sure Thomas isn’t following. Another door. He makes a turn into a corner that’s pure shadow and dark and opens yet another door. Ushers me through. I come back to myself when the door closes behind me with a firm click.
He locks it.
We’re in a closet. A storage area. White fabric drapes over tables and chairs. Faint golden light comes in from outside. Christmas lights from the garden outside. Emerson’s hand makes gentle contact with the small of my back. I shouldn’t trust him. Shouldn’t let myself be locked in this room with him. My heart feels like a ticking clock. How long do I have before Thomas finds me?
Emerson moves in front of me, skimming his fingers over the place Peter touched me. His eyes take my breath away, even in this soft light. Everything about him is perfect. Perfect dark suit. Perfect fall of sandy hair. He touches my wrist next, then runs his fingers up my arm, his eyes on my face. I thought I was holding it together out there. I thought I was hiding it pretty well. Now I feel unsteady in my heels. All my muscles are tired from standing, and I haven’t been standing very long. Waves of heat and cold go down the back of my neck.
“You can tell me, little painter.” His palm is on my cheek. He has big, strong hands, and a lean, solid body. I try to breathe normally. Fail.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “It was too warm in there. Peter was—” Disgusting. “I don’t like him, but I didn’t want to make a scene.”
“What else?”
“There’s nothing else.”
“I saw your painting,” he says again, a glimmer of emotion in his voice. “I know there’s something else.”
His touch feels more possessive now. A harder grip. My heart goes into overdrive. The door is locked.
And.
My chest aches with how much I want to tell him. It’s dangerous to tell secrets. It’s dangerous to reveal anything. And Emerson was so quietly furious when he pushed Peter away from me. I can still feel that intensity in his touch. It’s slowly filling up the room. I could drown in it. The pressure’s too much to stay quiet.
“It’s my brother.”
Emerson’s eyes narrow. There’s an instant charge in the air, like the hum before a lightning strike. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. Jesus. Why would you say that?” I don’t realize I’m pulling away until I feel the pressure of his hand holding me in place.
His thumb skims over my cheekbone, his eyes fiercer now. Brows drawn together. “Because you sound terrified. Because you won’t answer my texts. Because you keep saying you can’t leave. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t hide your face.” It’s an easy command. Him to me. I was doing it without knowing. I look back at him, defensiveness scraping at my insides along with a conflicting urge to obey.
“Leo would never hurt me.” A memory flashes into my mind. Looking over Leo’s shoulder while he took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. He was carrying me in his arms. I was small, then. Small enough to be afraid without knowing exactly why. It’s a very old memory, fragmented and short. His hands on a pile of CDs next to my pink CD player, slipping headphones over my ears.Listen to the whole CD and tell me which is your favorite. Don’t you want to listen? I’ll be right back.“Don’t ever say that. I’m worried about him. That’s what I meant.”
Emerson looks into my eyes like he can see what I’m not saying. “Is he sick?”
“He was.”
“Like cancer?”
“No. He’s okay now.” I can feel myself backing away from the topic. Morellis don’t tell family secrets to other people. I’m running up against a firm boundary. I cannot tell Emerson that Leo was shot. I can’t tell him he almost died twice. I can’t tell him about the chalk-pale color of Leo’s face after Haley left. All of it’s hitting me now, like it did in the car on the way over. “But I was—I was living with him, and I saw how bad things could get. I’m worried something else will happen to him. All I want—” I wish I could breathe normally. Keep it cool. But I can’t. “All I want is to be independent, but I can’t. Not with my family. I don’t want to leave them behind, or cut myself off—I couldn’t do that. But I’m scared,” I admit. “I’m scared. I can feel how weak it makes me.”
“You’re brave, little painter. Not weak.”
I let out an unsteady laugh. “You don’t know that. I bet you’re Mr. Independent.”
