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“This is good,” he says finally, looking up. “This is very good.”
“Oh.” I lower my fork. “Really?”
“Yes.” He sets the drawing aside carefully. It’s the way he makes sure that the paper doesn’t touch anything, not the food, not his glass of water, that’s how I know he really means it. He treats the sketch like it’s an actual prize.
Which lights up a strange feeling in my chest.
I’m proud of the way he’s looking at me.
“Thanks,” I say, cheeks flushing red. I go back to eating to cover my embarrassment. “It’s just a start. I mean, doing the whole painting, making it as realistic as possible, it’s going to take a lot of work. I need first-hand accounts of what the painting looks like, you know what I mean? Close-ups of the brush strokes if possible. We’ll also have to figure out what colors he used and what those colors were made from so we can make it as historically accurate as possible. If we’re smart, we can make it such that nobody can ever tell the difference, even the experts.”
He’s staring at me again with that look, like he’s glowing on the inside. Like he’s freaking into the way I talk, which I hate. I hate to keep remembering that no matter how handsome this man is, he’s my kidnapper. He drugged me. He stuck a needle in my arm in a goddamn parking lot.
“We can do that,” he says at last. “I’ll get you whatever you need.”
“Start with the pigments. Hire someone to do the research, or get me books and I’ll do the research myself.”
“No, you paint. I’ll hire someone.”
“Fine.” I clear my throat and take a slower sip of wine. “Okay. Great.”
“I am very happy that you decided to take me up on my offer.”
I shake my head slowly. “I haven’t done that yet.”
“No?” His eyebrows raise. “Then what’s this?” He gestures at the drawing. “Why talk about pigments? You’re excited. You’re planning. And I’ll be honest, it looks good on you.”
I hold up a hand. “First of all, quit complimenting me. You’re so full of shit.”
“I mean every word. Your excitement is intoxicating. I love the way you light up when you talk about your work.”
I grind my jaw, annoyed that he’s making me feel good. “I haven’t accepted yet because we haven’t discussed terms.”
He stiffens. His face drops into that mask again. Erick is so good at shutting down, it’s terrifying.
Marina comes over and refills my wine glass. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, this is so good, thank you.”
She winks at me and shoots Erick a look like she wants him to behave.
He takes a long breath. The man’s gorgeous face remains impassive. “You want to discuss terms.”
“I figure I have something you want, so I might as well get something in return.” I stare at him.
Inwardly, I’m freaking out. This is stupid. I’m aware that it’s stupid. I’m basically dangling myself into the tiger’s den with a hotdog necklace around my throat trying to ask them questions about quantum physics or something. I’mbegginghim to cut my throat.
But something Ren said put the idea in me. Erick’s keeping me alive. The others, they want to make an example of me, but Erick doesn’t want that. Which means I’m valuable to him for some inexplicable reason.
Maybe he’s the only serious art-collecting mafia psychopath in the world and he really does think I’m talented.
Or maybe this job has some serious potential, and I can’t see it yet.
Either way, I’m in a negotiable position.
“What do you want in return? Aside from my promise not to kill you, which is itself already a lot.”
“Money.” I put my fork down and raise my wine glass. “Let’s say, ten percent of your cut of the profit.”
