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Those deep sea-colored eyes roamed up and down my body in an appreciative, but possessive way that both sent a thrill up my spine and put me right back in my sour mood. Though he looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, I knew he was too young to be my Basquiat buyer, but I chalked him up to be the same sort of man. Brash, rich enough to buy whatever they wanted, and with enough ego to think everything, and everyone, was for sale. No better than the one back home who was currently haggling with my mother over my bride price. Yes, this one was so handsome he took my breath away for a split second, but I quickly got myself under control.
His eyes darkened, and he took a few steps in the room, a smile curling his very kissable lips.
Knock it off, Theresa. He’s clearly not interested in your paintings.
Where was my voice? His presence stole my ability to think, and the closer he got, the more space he took up in the small room. No, I did not like the way he was practically eating me up with his eyes. Not one little bit. And his wicked smile wasn’t the source of my goosebumps at all.
“The sale doesn’t start for an hour,” I managed to snap, despite my sudden breathlessness.
He barely glanced at what I’d already hung, then turned his heated focus back to me. “But I’m prepared to buy whatever you’re selling now.”
His smirk infuriated me, along with his brash confidence that I’d crumble under his weighty charm. Sure, he was gorgeous, and the body contained in his thousand-dollar suit made me want to take up sculpting, but everything about his tone confirmed my original assessment of him. The kind of man who believed everything and everyone had a price. The fact he kept eyeing me like I was prime steak instead of looking over the art sealed it for me.
Ignoring the shiver his clear interest gave me, I nodded toward the door. “Well, it’s a private show. Invitation only.”
One eyebrow rose to almost meet the wavy blond hair falling over his forehead. My fingers no longer wanted to sketch him, they wanted to run through those golden locks. Traitors.
“Tell me how to get an invitation,” he all but purred.
Oh, he was absolutely certain he was going to get exactly what he wanted. I took a step toward him and planted my hand on his very hard shoulder, ready to wipe his self-satisfied grin off his perfect face. I was going to enjoy taking him down a notch.
Shoving him toward the door, I said firmly, voice dripping ice, “There aren’t any left. Have a nice day, sir.”
The brief shutter of disappointment in his eyes did my heart good, and I almost wished he would have put up more of a fight, as I continued nudging him out of the conference room. He was probably too stunned that I didn’t immediately fling my panties off at his first well-practiced smile. Okay, sure, I might have considered it for a split second, but not once I had his number as just another powerful man who thought everything was for sale.
Once I had the door shut behind him, I looked over my art, my gleeful mood at besting Mr. Confidence evaporating. Everythingwasfor sale in here, and he’d offered to buy it. Was I the world’s biggest idiot for not selling him at least one painting? I might have just cut off my own nose to spite my face in not taking his money, especially since I was plotting my escape from life as a Lorenzo right before he came in.
I tried to calm myself down while I hung the rest of my babies. No, I made the right decision, even if it wasn’t exactly business savvy. My art was too close to my heart to let any of it go to someone who was so clearly not interested in anything other than trying to get under my skirt. Knowing I was heading home to fight off just such a man, and one who couldn’t be anywhere near as good-looking, stole the last ounce of my hope.
I forced my thoughts away from that direction, focusing on the poker game later that night. That was something I was really looking forward to, and another opportunity to get my hands on a big chunk of money. The fact it was a highly sought after underground and completely illegal game added to the thrill. Nobody knew who I was here so they’d underestimate my skill, especially if I played off that I didn’t know what I was doing for the first few hands.
With the last picture hung, I reopened the door and straightened the sign, smiling welcomingly at a family of tourists heading down the hall toward the pool. When the mom veered off, cooing at my watercolors, the smug and sexy man got shoved to the back of my mind. I hurried to greet her, hoping the sucker I was unloading the fake masterpiece onto wasn’t the only sale I made that day.
***
I looked back and forth between the full length mirror in my hotel room, showing my curves being barely contained in my little black dress, to the big, inviting bed. Did I still want to go to the poker game or collapse onto the crisp comforter that seemed to be calling to me? It was almost nine o’clock, and I should have had a lot more time to myself after meeting with the oil magnate. But he’d insisted on buying me dinner and wanted to tell me every last detail of his life before even asking to see the Basquiat. I had brought it down to the conference room where my own art mostly still resided so he wouldn’t have to come into my room. My sale had been an utter bust, with only two small pieces selling, and I’d been too disheartened to pack it all up again right after. Maybe I’d been hoping the oil magnate might see them and get all starry eyed, but if he noticed them he didn’t offer any interest. He only wanted the Basquiat because it was something he’d been told was rare and that he couldn’t have, not because he actually admired the brilliant man’s work.
It did my cold, black heart good to know he still wasn’t getting what he wanted to get his grubby hands on so badly, and was going home with a piece of my own art after all. Thinking he got a bargain, too, almost giggling as he transferred the millions to my mother’s account. His expert had turned out to be a friend who seemed to be scamming him as hard as I was, and clearly didn’t know his elbow from his asshole, let alone a real Basquiat from a Theresa Lorenzo. I would have felt a little bit sorry for him if he hadn’t been bragging and pawing at me all through the endless dinner.
Sighing, I slipped out of my black dress and into the fiery red one I brought for the game. I needed a confidence boost, and there was nothing better than wiping the floor at high stakes poker. Especially since my mother had called again, suggesting I get a facial before I met her new friends. I touched my flawless skin and smirked at my reflection before heading out, refusing to let her get to me. Of course I was going to take advantage of this hotel’s top rated spa, but not because she told me to.
The game location was only a few doors down the beach, through a packed, noisy nightclub, down a spiral staircase, and in a large and impressive private room. It was decorated like an old time speakeasy, with leather upholstered armchairs and couches up against the wood paneled walls. The lighting was soft, each table under the glow of its own sparkling chandelier. A stunning woman in a painted-on dress asked me what I’d like to drink as soon as I was seated, and a bartender who could have been an Armani model poured my ginger ale from behind a highly polished brass bar rail. Miami was certainly dazzling, even underground. I had to blink a few times before I could concentrate on my table, taking in the other players and getting my game face on.
It nearly cracked when I saw who was seated directly across from me, taking me in with as much intensity as he did earlier. Mr. Confidence, more smug and even sexier than before with his tie slightly loosened and the top button of his shirt undone. My eyes traveled down the column of his throat to the patch of bronzed skin before I could stop them. I tried to pretend I didn’t recognize him but he caught my slightly faltering look and smiled. Damn it. I needed to do better than that if I meant to win. Which I did, and it was more important than ever now, because I didn’t just want to win anymore, I wanted to beat him.
Everyone at the table made short introductions, first names only. Nobody here needed to know anything except what cards we were playing. When he said his name, Aleksei, with a very slight accent I hadn’t caught before, my goosebumps came back with force. It was as if we were the only two people there, or at least I couldn’t remember anyone else’s name once he said his.
Aleksei.
He won the first hand, laughing with altogether too much pride. That was okay, because it was part of my strategy to get the other players to forget I even existed until I had all their money at the end. After a few more hands I realized he wasn’t just lucky, he was probably as good as I was. Every time I glanced his way, he was looking straight at me, and every time our eyes locked before I could skitter my gaze to something else, his lips slowly curled upward. As if he knew what I was thinking, and that it was the same thing he was. He wanted me as badly as he wanted to beat me at cards.
The fact he wasn’t going to let me win without a fight pissed me off for a tiny, shameful second. Despite my cleavage and the fact my hair fell in soft waves down my shoulders, despite the red lipstick that matched my dress and the fact I was knocking the other men out like flies with a mere lick of my lips. This one, Aleksei, despite so clearly wanting me, wasn’t going to roll over.
Actually, I liked that.
But I did not like him. Every hand he won was accompanied by a raucous laugh that was as warm and rich as the brandy he insisted on buying for everyone at the table after his first victory. I normally never drank during a game, but I refused to let him think I was weak in any capacity. And I strangely didn’t want him to think I was too young. Too young for what? It wasn’t like I was thinking what he was thinking. Not at all.
The other woman at our table dropped out after the fourth hand, then two of the men after that. Aleksei and I were neck and neck, taking turns hogging the wins. His heated looks were harder to ignore now that there were fewer people playing with us and the fact he seemed to be able to tell he was getting under my skin made me furious.
