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Glancing at Giselle outside the hotel as we wait for the Uber, it’s hard to believe that she thinks I’m married. Seeing Ashlyn made her come to that conclusion, for sure. But she could have asked.
“Giselle,” I begin but am interrupted by the arrival of the car. Quickly, I open the door for her.
Her expression shows she would rather be anywhere else but here with me. She grudgingly slides into the vehicle. My lips twitch with humor when I see the way she scoots over to the other side, almost plastering herself against the door. Sighing, I slide in beside her. The stiff way she holds herself as she looks out of the window makes me think that she might develop a backache by the time we get there.
I would have loved to wait until the meeting is over to explain to her about Gwen and Ashlyn, but given her icy demeanor, I think it’s best to tackle it now. The meeting might be stilted if she doesn’t loosen up and become her usual, easy-going self again. Although, she appears more than capable of holding her feelings in and not showing them to the outside world.
“Giselle,” I start again. “I think I owe you an explanation.”
“Please, Miles. This is hardly the time for this,” she cuts in curtly, without looking in my direction.
My lips thin in annoyance. “We can’t have a successful meeting with the FBI agent if things are stilted between us.”
“You don’t have to do anything, Miles. Contrary to what you think, you don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I believe I do. We—”
“We made a mistake sleeping together, and that’s it.”
My forehead creases. “Do you really believe that?” I stare at her tightened face.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. We’re here on an assignment. Let’s make sure we are successful.”
“I know. Still—”
“If you don’t stop talking, I’ll tell the driver to pull over, and I’ll walk to the meeting. I don’t even understand why we need to take a car in the first place, when we could have walked.”
Observing the tautness in her face and the firm determination in her eyes, I give her a curt nod and look away. If she thinks this conversation is over and done with, then she truly doesn’t know anything about me.
A tense silence falls between us for the rest of the short drive. I keep my mind focused on the meeting. Even though I came along just because I wanted some time alone with her, I’m very much interested in the museum getting the piece for the exhibit.
From the corner of my eye, I look at Giselle holding herself rigidly. Being in proximity to her is unnerving. I itch to draw her into my arms and force her body to relax against me by kissing away the mutinous line her lips have thinned into. I want to undo her hair clasp and rake my fingers into the glorious tresses. I—
“We’re here,” the driver announces.
Nodding, I open the door and get out of the car. Giselle does the same on her side. I scrutinize the massive building that has been heavily criticized for its architecture and location on Pennsylvania Avenue. I actually don’t see what’s so ugly about it, since it’s a utility building. Although the trees with their falling leaves and the many flags lend an artistic quality to the fortress.
The gravel-filled dry moat draws my attention as I stride into the building among the people entering and exiting. Giselle’s heels click on the floor beside me, but I don’t look in her direction. We’ll keep things professional.
For now.
We go through the security check and get in touch with our contact.
A tall, well-built man with dark brown hair and stormy eyes walks toward us with a smile on his angular face. His eyes rove Giselle’s features, and I stop myself from gritting my teeth. It takes everything in me not to throw my arm around her shoulders just to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas.
I catch myself in shock. When did I become such an insecure and possessive man? I reluctantly admit that Giselle’s brush-off is getting to me. Her rebuff is a challenge, and I’m determined to chase her and make her mine.
“I’m Special Agent Robert Armstrong. You must be Jo’s sister.”
Jo? Sister?
Smiling brightly, which makes me stiffen with jealousy, Giselle replies, “I’m Giselle Bartholomay.” She takes his outstretched hand before turning to me with a stony expression. “This is Mr. Carrey. He’s a member of the Met’s Board of Trustees.”
The man and I exchange a firm handshake and nods.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us and show us the sculpture, Agent Armstrong,” Giselle thanks him.
He shrugs. “Please call me Robert. It’s my pleasure. When Jo called to inform me of your intention, I couldn’t say no.”
