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She smiles a little at that, her fingers finally stilling. “I guess that’s right.”
I walk around and open her door, helping her to the curb as I give Marco a sharp nod. He’ll wait for us.
“Don’t worry about what your father thinks. I won’t tell him about today if you won’t.”
She nods. “Deal.”
It seems making a deal with the younger Fraser is quite a bit easier than trying to make one with her father. Then again, I’m playing fair with Cadence. At least, I am at this moment, though I’m not foolish enough to ignore the darker motives swirling at the back of my mind. I’m interested in her, I can’t deny that, and the interest is far more than simply professional. But I can’t deny I want to understand both how she works for her father as well as the other facets of her personality.
“This is nice.” Her eyes widen as I lead her through the glass doors and into our art exhibits.
“We’ve picked talent from around the world and invited them to display their works here.”
“I guess you and your dad are really into art?” She pauses in front of an abstract painting of a girl on a swing.
“I’d like to say I am, but I’m more interested in the benefits–tax and otherwise–to having the gallery and free exhibition space for up-and-coming artists.”
“Oh.” She frowns a little.
“The ends justify the means,” I add. “And I enjoy the pieces”—I glance at the multi-colored toilet with flowers crafted from bits of trash sprouting from it—“for the most part. Even if I don’t understand them.”
She stares at the toilet for a few beats. “I don’t know if anyone understands this one.”
We walk around the rest of the pieces on display, an easy silence falling between us. She’s clearly very interested in everything, her eyes seemingly missing no detail. When pleasure skirts across her expression, my heart quickens, and I peer at whatever artwork she’s staring at to try and find exactly what has caused that reaction. But I told her the truth when I said I don’t have an eye for art. There’s an entire world hidden in these pieces, like a language that I don’t speak but certain people–people like her–are fluent in. I’m somewhat in awe of her as we finish our turn around the gallery.
“Which was your favorite?” I ask.
“Hmm.” She turns and walks to one of the darker canvases, the shadows cascading in almost gloomy shades until a single pop of bright iridescence near the top edge draws your eye. “I think this one.”
I stand behind her and almost put my hands on her waist. The thought of pulling her to me, keeping her close while she tells me the secrets of this canvas–it’s like a drumbeat in my head. I push it down and simply step closer to her, so close I catch the scent of her hair and the slightest hint of vanilla and maybe orange. “What do you like about it?”
She cocks her head to the side. “The depth, I guess.” She lifts her hand and waggles her fingers like a wave. “It ebbs and flows. It’s darkness punctuated by the tiniest bit of light, but the light is what sets the piece apart. You see the way the different shades of gray and black all seem to be drawn to and somehow also drawn from the light at the top?” She traces through the air as if painting the canvas herself. “Here and here?”
I follow her fingers, trying to see what she sees. “I’m not–”
She spins, her gaze upturned to mine. So close, I could pull her to me, I could touch her, taste her–and fuck, I want to. “Let your eyes lose focus.”
Lose focus? I don’t think that’s something I’m capable of. “Focus is one of my main character traits.”
She smiles, her full lips parting the slightest bit. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
I snort a laugh. “You think I’m afraid?”
“Art is dangerous. Always has been.” She shrugs. “And maybe you aren’t afraid, exactly, but I think you aren’t the sort of man who ever lets go. Like my father. Control is in your nature, and you don’t know who you are without it.”
Fuck. She sees me,reallysees me, and I don’t know how. I’ve given her nothing, nothing major about me or my life, but she seems to have pierced me straight through like an arrow.
Slowly, she presses her palm to my chest. “Your heart is racing.”
“Maybe you were right. Maybe I’m afraid.” I lean into her touch.
Her eyebrow arches slightly. “Maybe. But like I said, I’m here to keep you safe. Now look at the painting and soften your gaze. Let it get fuzzy.” She steps to the side, taking the warmth of her palm away from me. I want to grab her wrist and bring her back, but I don’t.
She takes my elbow. “Just look.”
I exhale and close my eyes, then open them and stare at a point in the center of the painting. I stop looking at it, stop focusing on anything at all. My vision goes blurry, and I finally get an inkling of what she was talking about. The iridescent patch at the top seems to light the darkness in rays, as if it’s the sun piercing through the shadows but also pulling the shadows into its brightness. It’s just as she said.
“You see it, don’t you?” Her voice is soft, a reverent whisper.
