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“Well? Did you sell me out? Again?”
“Not exactly.”
I sat across from him in the chair and explained Jane’s plan.
“What do you think?”
“I think she’s right,” Ambri said. “At the show, a pair of gents compared you to Jan van Eyck. Three million is conservative.”
“I meant, what do you think about coming on the tour?”
“Paris,” he said, his eyes darkening.
“I know.” I moved to sit beside him, put my arm around him. “You could skip it and meet me in Madrid, but…call me a selfish asshole, but I want you with me for all of it.”
Ambri shot me an imperious look. “Can’t bear to part with me for even a moment? Understandable.”
I grinned. “It’s a miracle that I manage to close my eyes at night to your radiance. Every blink is a tiny torture—”
He snarled and took me down on the couch, settling himself over me, a dangerous smile on his lips and a glint in his eyes. Over the last few days, we’d spent a generous amount of time getting to know each other’s bodies with our mouths and hands but hadn’t had sex again. My breath caught, and I wondered if now he’d take his turn and fuck me until we were both spent and gasping.
“I’ll tour with you, Cole,” he said, his hands leisurely sliding up and down my chest over my black Henley. “Paris too. As it happens, I can’t bear to be parted from you either. And a change of scenery might be smart.”
“It’ll help keep you hidden?”
His shoulders slumped. “Buzz kill, Cole Matheson. That’s an idiom I know.” Ambri planted a kiss on my lips and then climbed off of me. “I’ll order dinner. I’m in the mood to watch you eat pasta. Italian all right?”
“Sure.”
He stopped on the way to the kitchen.
“You’re right to be cautious, Cole. We can’t make the mistake of thinking it will always be this easy. I have much to pay for.” His gaze landed heavily on me. “More than you know.”
twenty-three
Within the week, my humble little slice of Chelsea is overrun. Publicists walk to and fro, forever on the phone and saying things like, “Mr. Matheson isn’t available at that time. Perhaps tomorrow at four?” and snapping at someone else to bring “Mr. Matheson” a latte or a bottle of water or a sandwich—none of which I ever hear him actually ask for.
There are interviews here at the flat nearly every day, crammed in before our departure for the European tour. A stylist had given Cole a haircut, contact lenses, and a new wardrobe of simple but impeccably stylish clothing. Gone are his ragged sweatshirts and paint-splattered pants. Now he’s effortlessly handsome in light jackets, slacks, designer jeans, and many a tight-fitting long-sleeved shirt that accentuates his lean, toned body.
Except for the aforementioned shirts, I chafed at the changes, fearing they’d erase the Cole I know and replace him with a stranger. But bare of glasses, his dark eyes are somehow even more arresting. And while I mourn the loss of hair that fell over his brow, he still has enough to run my fingers through (and grip in the heat of the night).
Moreover, he’s still himself. The assistants fetching him coffee and brushing powder over his face—for a photo spread inArtForum—seem not to faze him. He’s as gracious and kind as ever and constantly checking in with me to ensure the “craziness” isn’t too much or too intrusive.
When the fawning hordes leave for the day, he works, studying his sketchbook filled with God-knows-what and gathering canvases and paints for his next collection that he’ll begin on the road. I don’t ask him his plans; I still haven’t brought myself to look at my portrait. Something tells me that the right time will come, and I’m in no rush—I’m terrified it’ll be exactly as I hoped it would be.
Cole painted it; of course it will be beyond your wildest dreams…and then what?
To be perfectly honest, I never considered what I’d actuallydowith a portrait of myself—a portrait that belongs in Hever or a museum, not in my bloody living room where the shame of my human existence would be staring down at me with my own eyes.
No, thank you.
I know it hurts Cole’s feelings a little that I haven’t beheld the fruits of his labor, but I also know he understands why without my having to say a word. I’ve come to learn acutely that for Cole, my feelings come first. His own, a distant second.
I can relate—I’d commit merciless bodily harm on anyone who threatened his happiness.
It’s all going to come crashing down, and then where in the bloody hell will we be?
But as the days pass and there is no sign from the Other Side, hope starts to rear its nasty little head again. Perhaps Asmodai has grown bored with me. Perhaps the hierarchy is busy with other matters. Perhaps an angel has intervened…
