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He returns it easily, his steel-blue gaze glinting. “I was nearby and thought I’d pop in. See what you have on display. Just bought a place and I’m in the process of furnishing it.”
I assess him. Expensive clothes, perfectly trimmed dark hair, and parked out front is a car that must be his. A black-on-black Bentley. Besides that, however, there’s an air of confidence and power rolling off him in waves. Generally, people with a lot of money have a designer do this for them. Unless they’re extremely controlling.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” I ask. “Landscapes, modern, still life?”
“I prefer things that are…” He rolls his hand as if searching for the right word. “Unique. Usually pieces found in private collections,” he says.
Before I can open my mouth to tell him we’re not selling anything privately, my father steps downstairs.
“Mr. Black,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.”
The man smiles. “I was in the area.”
“Em,” Dad says. “This is Gideon Black. He’s purchasing a few items I was going to sell at auction.”
My lips draw into anO. Gideon is the one who saw what my father would be selling at Maxton House. That was before he lost the ring that would allow him entrance.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
“Why don’t we go up to my office and chat?” Dad says.
Gideon inclines his head to me as he makes to follow up the stairs, then gives me a smile so wolfish, there can only be one way to describe it. Cunning.
“It was lovely meeting you, Em,” he says.
A shiver goes up my spine. If I ever believed there was something dark hidden away in Noah’s gaze, Gideon has something in his that’s downright obsidian.
I scoff. Dad says Noah reeks of trouble. But Gideon doesn’t just reek of it. He permeated the air in the entire gallery with that scent.
Five hours later, my feet aching and eyes tired, I head home. I shower, taking care to rid myself of the day and prepare my skin for what comes tonight.
Shit. I’m ready to go and it’s only seven. Why did he have to make our date so late?
With lots of time to kill, I head up to my studio. It’s been months since I picked up a brush. Even longer since I sketched anything.
Skimming my fingers over the acrylics and watercolors, I stare at the blank canvases on the shelves and try to conjure up the desire to paint. Nothing happens. That should make me sad, but it has the opposite effect, because it means I’m missing that emotion that usually drives me into this room. The thing I purge from my heart whenever I paint. Despair.
It’s been gone since the day I met Noah.
Sketching is a different matter altogether, though. I’m not exactly sure what makes me do it. I suppose it’s not a what, but a who. There are only certain souls that can be captured by a sketch.
Noah is one of them.
The image of his deep, intense, beautiful gaze comes to mind, and I find myself walking toward the table that contains all of my sketches.
My fingers twitch, as if they’re already tracing the lines my mind is creating. I itch to draw his essence. The subtle nuances, flecks, curves, and tones that makes him so unique. I want to capture his soul because he’s so thoroughly captured mine.
I grab my sketchpad and graphite pencils and have just plopped into a chair by the window when I hear a knock on the door.
My father peeks in cautiously. “May I come in?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“You’re sketching again,” he says.
“Yes.” I glance at the folder in his hands nervously. “What’s that?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he comes closer and says, “You’re staying in tonight?”
