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Something had happened in Italy. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem like a happy memory. But Jesus, he had the posters plastered on his walls as a constant reminder.
“You’re into art?” I hurried on.
“Yes.”
“Where'd you get that one?” I pointed to the nude woman with the dark hair and the defensive posture.
Patrick squeezed my shoulder. “You like it?”
“I wouldn’t say Ilikeit. I’m curious.”
“I painted it.” He toyed with my collar.
“You did? That’s crazy. It looks professional.” Squinting at the careful blending and precise strokes, I tried to picture a brush in his huge hand. Patrick shrugged off the compliment. “Who is she?”
“Nobody.” His hand was firm on my shoulder, his leg warm between mine. Either he’d moved closer, or I had.
I wriggled free and turned to the door. “If that’s how you talk about girls you’ve slept with, I’m leaving.”
A smile tugged his mouth. “You asked me to protect your privacy, Christina. Why shouldn’t I do the same for her? I’m no gentleman, but I don’t talk.”
I snorted and walked over to the picture. Patrick’s signature, small and precise, marked the bottom right-hand corner. Dark eyes glared up from the half-hidden face, her pose secretive, sensuous, and exposed all at once.
Patrick leaned against the wall, his gaze skating over me. I’d thought he was a wild animal when we met, pretending to be tame for his own purposes. Now I was the animal, pacing his room, while he waited patiently for me to come to him.
“You didn’t sleep with her,” I announced.
“How do you know?”
“The way she’s looking up. I can’t put it into words, but the way you painted her — it’s like something you want, not something you have. I don’t even know if she’s real.” I backed away, examining the shadowed figure. “For your sake, I hope she’s not. Because if I’m going to be here three times a week, I havefeelingsabout seeing a girl on your wall who can’t decide whether to bang you, kill you, or run away from you—”
“Christina.” He sat down on his bed. “Come here.”
“I’m looking at your painting.”
“I said, come here.” His voice was soft as a secret, sharp as a knife.
Sweet Jesus. I wanted to find out what he’d do if I resisted. But my legs were unsteady and slippery in between. The order sent a rush of heat through me.
I went to him and stood in front of his spread knees.
My chest rose and fell. A light tug on the tie of my blouse threatened to pull it apart — to pull me apart.
“I dressed up,” I whispered.
“I noticed.” His lips twitched. “You look like a hot secretary. Now take it off.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“I’m nervous.” My mouth was such a fucking traitor, giving up my truth.
“I know you are,” he said softly. “Take your clothes off.”
My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my blouse. The silky white fabric slid away.
Shaking, I unhooked my bra to expose my breasts. My nipples were stiff in the cool air. My boots dropped on the floor one at a time. I unzipped my short pink skirt and bent to peel off my tights.
