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Emerson gives my hip a little squeeze. An intimate, casual gesture. “It’s wrong to keep art locked up where no one can see it, little painter. That’s how important pieces retain their value. A collector is always open to private showings.”
The doorbell rings again.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Emerson leaves.
Sin stands near the furniture in the center of the gallery, sipping his drink and looking at me. He could be standing in a real art gallery, except…
He’s hard.
It gives me the tiniest sense of control. They can look at me, but I can see them, too. Emerson’s wanted me for even longer than Sin.
Obviously, I’m newer to his brother. His eyes travel over my face. My body. He glances at the other paintings on the walls, then back at me.
Emerson steps into the doorway and ushers another man inside. His other brother. He has Emerson’s blue-green eyes and light hair. He does not have Sin’s composure.
His mouth drops open as Emerson pulls the door closed behind them. “Jesus goddamn Christ, Emerson.” Both hands go to his hair. “Are you fucking kidding me? Is this what we’ve come to? Fucking women together?”
Emerson frowns. “I didn’t say you could fuck her.”
“None of you are going to f—fuck me.”
Good. Great. Tripping over that word makes me sound super confident. My cheeks are hot coals.
“Drink?”
Emerson’s brother stares at him for several moments. Then he shakes his head. “My god.”
“That’s not a drink order, Will.”
“Vodka,” he snaps. “Fuck.”
Sin goes over and claps Will on the shoulder. “Has Dad been stalking you, too?”
“Yes,” Will says, numbly. “He got my office phone number. I can’t take any direct calls.”
Emerson pours a drink for Will. His brother looks down at it, his expression stormy, but in the end he relents. He grumbles something under his breath.
And then the three of them are coming toward me at a lazy pace. Emerson and his older brother in front. Will reluctantly a half-step behind.
Like they’re visiting an art gallery. Three sets of eyes like Emerson’s, only his brothers aren’t as sharp. Aren’t as obsessive.
“She’s surprisingly innocent,” Emerson comments. He uses an even, noncommittal tone. This is how he talked about the paintings when I gave him a tour at Motif. He’s cool and collected and I’m art on the wall. To hear him talk about me like that—
Unfortunately, very very unfortunately, I find it hot. I’m getting wet again. Maybe I never stopped in the first place.
Sinclair cocks his head and looks at me, his eyes searching. “A woman who looks like her?”
“A virgin,” Emerson confirms. “Before I found her, anyway. Her family damn near kept her cloistered.”
Will snorts, the sound derisive and disbelieving. If he means to stand up to his brothers, he’s not doing a very good job…because he’s still looking at me. Still drinking me in. “She’s tied up in your house. On your wall.”
“Yes.” Emerson takes another drink. “I thought for a while about which lighting would compliment here. I considered this wall.” He points to the left. “There, we’d be able to see her with the ocean as a backdrop. But I put her where the lighting is best. Besides, anything else just detracts from her.”
“You can always move her,” Sinclair offers. “Try her in different places.”
