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She takes a step, then stops, her gaze focusing on someone who has just entered the room behind me.
“Cora, hold on a minute, will you?” The newcomer says in a pleasant voice. It’s a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Peter Markham, director of the Mercer Museum, and the man I’m here to see. He’s also Cora’s boss. “Mr. Kane!” He extends one hand in my direction, wearing the star-struck smile I’ve seen directed toward me over the years from many classes of people, from college nerds to renowned professionals. “I was informed you were in the building, and I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
“You’re not.” I take the proffered hand. “I am early, and…” My eyes go back to Cora, who looks as if she’d disappear into thin air if she could. “I had a sudden yearning to revisit the past.”
Peter inclines his head. “Perfect. You already know we have a very prestigious collection, and right now, some award-winning exhibits you should find interesting. It would be my honor to show you around.”
Dragging my gaze from Cora, I smile at the older man. “There’s no need. There’s about half an hour before our meeting. I’ll find my way to you.” I turn back to Cora. “Your curator here was just about to tell me more about the early twentieth century expressionists.”
At the lie, Cora’s anger blasts out at me like an explosion. My eyes hold hers, her impotent fury and discomfort making me smile. I’ve put her on the spot and there’s nothing she can do about it, not without making Peter suspect there’s something wrong with her. I am, after all,theTristan Kane. Most people would risk anything for a minute of my time.
“That’s great then.” Peter nods, agreeing. “Cora is one of our most knowledgeable curators. She’ll give you a tour. I’ll send my assistant to bring you up when it’s time.” He looks from Cora to me, and there’s a quick flash of curiosity in his eyes, as if he suspects there might be more going on than he can see on the surface. It quickly disappears. “I’ll be in my office.”
After Peter leaves, a thick silence descends, broken only by the low hum of treated air seeping into the room. Cora glares at me, her eyes flashing poisoned daggers.
“You must be out of your mind if you think I have anything to say to you other thanget the hell out.”
“There you are,” I murmur. “The Cora I remember.” Her anger is, frankly, arousing. “It’s been such a long time, babe,” I continue in a mocking tone. I have no sympathy for her. She doesn’t deserve it, and compared to what she did to me, a surprise appearance at her place of work is mild, to say the least. I hold her gaze. “It’s great to see you again, after all this time.”
CHAPTER4
CORA
Tristan is obviously enjoying himself, and it irritates me to see he still affects me, that he can make me lose control of my emotions so easily.
Of all the museums in the world…
In the moments since I first turned around and confirmed it was him standing behind me, my eyes have drunk their fill of his familiar and unbelievably perfect features. Startling blue eyes blaze behind thick dark lashes, a lover’s eyes—intense and heavy with the promise of pleasure. His sculpted nose sits beautifully above perfectly carved, sensual lips. Dark wavy hair frames his face, highlighting the beauty of his angled cheekbones.
He’s the epitome of male beauty, perfectly formed to destroy all resistance, and then to destroy… literally.
He’s dressed semi-casually. In charcoal gray pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and a tailored jacket that shows off his tall, broad-shouldered body. A body I know from experience contains not even an ounce of spare fat. The simple clothes are, of course, a tool to proclaim that he doesn’t need to wear a suit. They’re probably more costly than what I earn in a month.
I try not to notice the length of his legs, the breadth of his chest, the undeniable sexual magnetism that flows from him in palpable waves, the kind that makes women want to tear their clothes off and offer themselves to him.
Women, meaning me.
Closing my eyes, I try not to remember that I know his body. I know all its angles and planes, all its hard muscles, all the pleasure it’s skilled at creating.
Because the man who owns it creates nothing but pain.
It’s great to see you again.
Babe.
The glib words make me want to lash out at him.
“It’s not great to see you, Tristan.” Hiding the storm raging inside me, I let my lips curl in derision. “Not from my perspective.”
His eyebrow goes up, just the one, and the tightness the small gesture causes in the depths of my belly increases my annoyance. I pull in a breath. “And never call mebabeagain.”
He laughs softly, mockingly, his handsome face lighting up as his eyes blaze. “You break my heart.”
I swallow the pain and lightheadedness that makes me feel almost as if I’m drowning. His voice is as smooth as velvet, with a low vibration, a burr that seeps under my skin and starts a throbbing low in my belly. I flush now, thinking of all the nights I’ve spent remembering that sound, remembering the seductive whisper of his lips close to my ear, and fantasizing about the pleasure…
… the incomparable pleasure.
I press my lips together, unbearably hot even in the temperature-controlled coolness of the room. It has been five years since I walked away from this man, and yet, he only has to appear, unexpectedly, uninvited, and I can barely resist the perverse urge to rip off my clothes and surrender to the mad, uncontrollable desire burning inside me.
