His Wicked Games: A Billionaire Romance (The Cunningham Family #1) Page 11

  * * *

  I don't even know where to begin seducing a man.

  I mean, I suppose I know how to bat my eyelashes and push my breasts together with my arms, but that just seems so amateur, especially when we're talking about a man like Calder Cunningham.

  He's already made it clear that he wants me. But how do I play that to my advantage without seeming too obvious?

  I study him once more from the corner of my eye as we continue our tour. He hasn’t made any references to what happened at the pool, and I’m perfectly fine with that. Still, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Is he angry with me? Confused? Indifferent? How am I supposed to know how to flirt with him if I can’t figure out his current feelings toward me?

  He’s perfectly pleasant as he leads me through the house. And I must admit, the house is freaking amazing. More than once I find my attention wandering from my self-imposed task to my incredible surroundings.

  He shows me a lounge, a game room, a library that rivals the public one back home. Just when I think I’ve seen everything, he leads me into the family’s own personal movie theater.

  “Is this real?” I ask.

  The room is huge, with stadium-style seating and a screen so large I wonder how they managed to get it in here in the first place.

  “My father loved movies,” Calder says. He’s standing close enough to me that I feel the tiny hairs stand up on my arms, but I pretend not to notice.

  “He must, to build a room like this,” I say. My fingers itch slightly. I should probably reach out and touch him—just a small, casual touch. One that might come across as an accident. Just an innocent little touch to get him worked up.

  But before I can raise my hand, he moves past me.

  “My father was particularly fond spy films. He used to have a marathon every year on Ian his birthday.”

  I smile in spite of myself. “Who doesn’t love a good spy movie?”

  He chuckles and turns back to look at me.

  “For his sixtieth birthday, he hired a bunch of stunt actors to help him recreate his favorite scenes out in the garden.”

  I grin at the image. In my dealings with Wentworth Cunningham, I’d always found him a friendly, likable man, but I never got to witness the goofier side of him.

  “My dad is really into adventure movies,” I say. “Now I know what to get him for his next birthday.”

  Calder laughs with me, but his eyes are still distant, and I know he's thinking of his father.

  “You must miss him,” I offer. The words sound lame now that they've left my mouth. I'm not very good at comforting people.

  He blinks and turns away from me. When he speaks, the vulnerability of a moment ago is gone and there's a hard edge to his voice.

  “My father was a selfish bastard.”

  My mouth falls open. “Your father did so much for the Frazer Center.”

  “One good act doesn’t make a good man.”

  “But certainly he—”

  “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” he snaps, spinning on me.

  I stumble back a step, stunned. I want to tell him that that's no way to speak of the dead, especially a dead parent. But I’m afraid of the emotion I see in his eyes.

  Calder pulls his hand through his hair. His shoulders are rigid, defensive. Just a moment ago he was speaking with such longing, such admiration—and I know I didn't misinterpret the affection in his eyes when he spoke of his father's love of spy movies. What's changed? Why is he suddenly so tense? He did the same thing last night at dinner, when the subject of his father came up.

  Don't be so hard on him, I try and tell myself. He lost his father only a few months ago. You'd be a mess, too, if your dad died. Just thinking of Dad's anguish over the Center makes me upset. Imagining his death… that makes me physically ill.

  “Well?” Calder says, snapping me back out of my dark thoughts. From his annoyed tone, I suspect I've missed something he's said.

  “Well…?”

  “Are you ready to move on? Or would you rather stare at the movie screen for another ten minutes?”

  I almost think I preferred him when he was trying to get in my pants.

  “Let's go on,” I say, hoping that a change of scenery will get him back to normal.

  It does, but it takes two floors and numerous rooms before he begins to regain a bit of his charm. He shows me a lush conservatory, an indoor gym, a study with an enormous fireplace. He shows me the bedroom he and his sister were convinced was haunted when they were younger, and the large room of his father's collectibles where he and his sister used to play hide-and-seek. Talking about Louisa seems to make him happier, and once more I see the nostalgia and boyishness return to his eyes. I don't say anything, though, except to admire this piece of furniture or that decorative wall hanging. No surprise, it's all extremely beautiful—and undoubtedly extremely expensive. I try not to think of how the Center might use that money.

  Don’t forget why you’re here, I tell myself. Don’t forget what you need to do.

  I need to step it up. I already screwed up with Garrett. I can’t let this opportunity with Calder slip away from me, too.

  “So,” I say, resting my fingers gently on his arm. “Where to next?”

  His eyes flick down to my hand, then back to my face. “I thought maybe you might enjoy the gallery.”

  “Gallery?” He hasn't mentioned anything like that to me yet.

  “My father and my grandfather both collected art. As you can probably already tell.” He gestures at the walls as we move along the hallway, indicating the paintings and sculptures I've already been studying as we pass. “The gallery is where they kept their favorites.”

  I can't help the quiver of excitement that runs through me at the thought of viewing the Cunninghams' collection. Wentworth had a reputation for his fine taste, and I've no doubt that his father before him did as well, judging by the pieces I've seen here so far.

  Calder notices my reaction. His fingers close around my own.

  “I knew you'd be excited. Come on. It's not far.”

  The skin of my hand tingles where he touches me. I want to pull away from him, to try and regain a bit of control, but the action would be too suspicious. Instead I let him lead me down the hallway and pretend the warmth of his fingers isn’t making my stomach do somersaults.

  Calder turns me down another hallway and leads me to a pair of large double doors. He pushes one open, and I gasp. The room beyond might have been in a museum. It's long, with a high ceiling, and there are so many works along the walls that I know I'll never have the chance to properly examine them all.

  “This is insane,” I breathe. Beside me, Calder chuckles.

  I slip out of his grip and walk over to a glass case against the nearest wall. Inside, there's a collection of small jade figures.

  “My father picked those up on a trip to China when I was about ten,” Calder says beside me. “There were actually two more, but my sister and I stole them. We ended up losing both of our figures out in the garden. My father was furious. He grounded me for a month. Just me, because I'm the older one and the one who actually broke into the case.”

  I can't help but smile at the image of a young Calder forced into such punishment. Though honestly, being grounded in this place doesn't sound like a bad thing at all.

  I glance up at him, and I'm a little startled to catch him watching me. I look away, heat creeping up my neck, but I know I can't waste this opening.

  “Tell me,” I say sweetly, turning and looking down the length of the room. “Do you have a favorite piece in here?”

  He rubs his chin, his thumb skimming along that perfect line of stubble.

  “That's a tough one,” he says. His gaze flicks back to me, and there's humor in his eyes. “Maybe you should guess.”

  It's a challenge, and I'm not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. If I play this right, I might be able to ramp up our flirtation a few notches without
making him suspicious.

  “What are the stakes?” I say lightly.

  His eyes darken. “You’re leaving it up to me?”

  A flutter stirs in my gut, but I don't want him to know how much his suggestive gaze affects me. I need to hold the power here.

  I shrug. “You suggested the game. You should name the prize.”

  His mouth curls. “That's some dangerous power you've given me.”

  I match his wicked smile with one of my own. “You better not abuse it.”

  “Even if I think you'd enjoy it as much as me?”

  I don't dignify him with a response. Instead, I turn and begin walking down the length of the gallery.

  “I'll go easy on you,” he calls after me. And then, far too quickly, “If you guess incorrectly, then you have to give me a kiss.”

  A kiss. All things considered, he could have suggested something far worse. I pause as if considering. Let him think he’s thrown me off-kilter.

  “How many guesses do I get?” I ask.

  “As many as you want. As long as you pay up every time you’re wrong.”

  I can definitely see this game spiraling out of control very quickly. Better place a limit on things.

  “Let’s make it a one shot deal.” I tell him. “It’ll be more interesting that way.” Even though I know my odds aren’t good, it’s still better than trusting myself to kiss him a dozen times. “What happens if I’m right?”

  “Then you don’t have to kiss me,” he says, grinning. “Unless you want to, of course.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “This bet’s a little one-sided, don’t you think?”

  He shrugs. “You’re the one who told me to name the stakes.”

  He’s right, of course. And I’ll play along. If indulging him gets me any closer to recovering the pledge money, I’ll do whatever it takes.

  “All right,” I call back to him. “It's a deal.”

  The corner of his mouth curls up in that charming little half smile of his. He spreads his arms wide.

  “Make your guess,” he says, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “I’ll be waiting.”

  “How do I know you won't change your answer if I guess correctly?”

  “You can trust me,” he insists.

  I'm not sure I can, but this is going too well for me to want to pick a fight. He seems to be enjoying our little game, and I mean to play him for all he's worth.

  I continue my stroll down the gallery, scanning the art on either side of me as I pass, looking for anything that jumps out from the others. I'm at a major disadvantage here, that much is certain, but I'm willing to lose this battle if it means ultimately winning the war.

  Still, the competitive side of me wants to give it my best shot. I'd really love to see his face when I get it right. My eyes roam over the collection. There are paintings of every style and medium I can imagine, as well as sculptures of clay, wood, metal, even marble.

  I stop in front of an oil painting depicting a nude woman lying on a bed of wildflowers. Her arm is curled around her head, her leg slightly raised. It's a very sensual image, and I raise my eyebrow and look back at Calder.

  “Interesting choice,” he says, moving closer. “I'll admit, this piece certainly has its charms.” His eyes roam over the canvas before flicking back to me. “You're wrong, though.”

  “I never said this was my guess.”

  “No? I believe you were about to.”

  “Then perhaps you should exercise a little patience next time,” I say lightly, brushing my finger across the end of his nose. “Let me have a real guess, or you forfeit the prize.”

  The amusement deepens on his face.

  “Very well, then,” he says, gesturing toward the rest of the room. “Make your pick.”

  But my eyes fall to the painting beside the lounging nude.

  “Is that…” I step forward, peer down at the tiny plaque beside the work. “This is a Ludlam. A fucking Ludlam!”

  “Ludlam?”

  “Benjamin Ludlam,” I explain. “He’s probably my favorite contemporary artist. He’s freaking brilliant—his work combines modern techniques with a style reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites.” I shake my head.

  “I can’t believe you have this,” I continue. I’ve heard of Ludlam’s work going for upwards of half a million dollars at auction—though, now that I think about it, that’s probably pocket change for the Cunninghams.

  That thought brings me crashing down from my high. Half a million dollars could do so much for the Center. As much as I love seeing this painting in person, I can’t forget why I’m here.

  “But I’m supposed to be finding your favorite piece,” I tell Calder sweetly. “Not picking my own.” I brush my fingers against his cheek as I turn and move back toward the Center of the gallery.

  I feel his eyes boring into my back as I move away from him and continue my inspections. This collection really is amazing—but I never expected any less from Wentworth Cunningham, the man who gave us so much support throughout the years. He was truly a man who loved and respected the arts.

  I stop the next time in front of a stretch of wall devoted entirely to colorful Pop art. It's an eclectic collection, that's for certain, but it's clear that someone with practiced taste and a refined eye selected these pieces. I stare at a multi-media work depicting a brightly painted bus with a series of even brighter advertisements pasted to its side.

  All the time I’m contemplating my decision, Calder’s eyes are on me. I don’t even have to look—I can feel it. It's like a tickle on my skin, a sensation creeping up my spine. I don't think these particular works would count among his favorites. They're too modern, too strange.

  On the opposite wall I spot another glass case, and I wander over to have a look. I know without glancing up that Calder's eyes follow me. I sense them sliding over my body as I move. A rush of pleasure surges through me. It's intoxicating, even this small taste of power, but it's also terrifying. I can’t fuck this up.

  I lean over the glass case, making sure Calder has a nice, clear view of my backside. I've always been proud of my ass. If it wins me a few points for the Center, all the better. Meanwhile, I'm perusing the items inside the case. These pieces appear to be crafted entirely of ivory. My eyes lock on one of the larger works, a long curved tusk depicting a scene at sea. On one side of the carving, there's a large ship with a number of men—some scrambling about the deck, others brandishing harpoons. On the other half, a sperm whale rises from the water, its teeth bared at the sailors. It's the sort of scene that a young, adventurous boy would love.

  I glance up at Calder, who's come to stand beside me at the case. Instead of focusing on me, his gaze moves about the ivory carvings below us. His face is carefully calm. I'm not sure what to make of it.

  He seems to be studying the pieces in the case as carefully as I, but I don't miss the way his gaze lingers on the same work I noticed, the long tusk with the ship scene.

  “That's it,” I say softly.

  He blinks, look up at me, as if I've interrupted some deep thought.

  “What did you say?”

  “That's it.” I nod at the tusk. “That's your favorite thing in here.” He doesn't have his father's appreciation for form or technique or history; no, his favorite will be the one that speaks to him on an emotional level, one that inspired and excited him as a child.

  His gaze shifts back to the tusk. He stares at it for a long moment, his eyes flicking between the sailors and the whale. I watch him with interest, no less because, for the briefest of seconds, he looks almost boyish. But quick as a flash, the wistfulness disappears, and his usual expression returns.

  “You're wrong,” he says. “It's a remarkable piece, to be sure, but I'm afraid you're incorrect.”

  I don't believe it. I stare at him, trying to catch the lie in his eye, but the openness of even a few seconds ago is gone. In its place is the guarded, smug Calder he prefers to show me.

  “No. You're wrong.
You can deny it if you want, but that piece means something to you.”

  “I never said it didn't,” he replies. “It's a charming scene. Nineteenth century. I believe my father acquired it from a museum.”

  He's cheated, and I know it. He might act indifferent, but it's obvious that he has some sort of emotional reaction to this tusk. Still, if he refuses to acknowledge it, there's nothing I can do. I won't press the issue. This whole game was about flirting, not delving into his emotions. Disappointed as I might be, I have a job to do.

  “Well,” I say. “If this isn't your favorite, which is?”

  The question seems to knock the last of the shadows from his eyes, and he flashes me a smile before guiding me back toward the center of the room.

  When he stops, we're standing in front of a round, abstract painting that is, by all accounts, exactly the opposite of any choice I would have made. It's small, probably only a foot and a half in diameter, and composed almost entirely of jagged, angular shapes in shades of taupe and tan and bronze. The shapes curve around the center of the piece, where a slash of bright red cuts across the canvas.

  If I'm being honest—and I have a strong appreciation for art, even the weird stuff, so this is saying something—it’s one of the ugliest things I've ever seen. I don't know what to make of it.

  “It's… interesting,” I say finally. This has to be a joke. He picked the most hideous piece in here because he knew I'd never even consider it. It’s cheating, pure and simple, and he’s not even being subtle about it.

  “You don't seem impressed.” His voice is thick with amusement. “Or is it just that I've surprised you?”

  “It's very different than what I expected you to pick,” I admit, tilting my head to see if it looks any better from another angle. “Why this one?”

  He steps up behind me, so near that I can feel the heat of him against my back, even though we don't touch.

  “What do you see?” he asks. His breath stirs my hair.

  I'm not sure if the question's a trick. Maybe he just wants to see me flustered, to see me scramble to compliment a piece that I clearly don't like. After all the fuss I've made over the Center and the importance of arts, confessing that I don't appreciate this particular painting might undermine my points and give Calder the perfect opening to press his own case against me. All he'd have to do is claim the same opinion of the art our students and sponsored artists create.

  But it was probably Calder's father that purchased this piece, not Calder himself, and I generally trusted the late Wentworth's taste. Maybe he saw something in this painting that I don't.

  “It looks like a sun,” I say finally. “A muted sun—like it's covered in dust. A hopeless man's sun.” I tilt my head. “Or a hopeless woman's.”

  “My, but that's a depressing interpretation,” he says. “Is that all you see?”

  “It's your favorite. Maybe you should tell me what you think.”

  “Mmm.” His hand brushes against my hip. “I'm afraid I see it a little differently. You see, I have a theory about abstract art. If an artist wants to paint a sun, why doesn't he just paint a sun? If he wants to paint a tree or the ocean or some pastoral scene with shepherds and goats, he can just paint it outright. Abstract art, on the other hand, is an attempt to depict something deeper—those subconscious, primal emotions and urges that can't be expressed in concrete images or terms.”

  “Abstract art is for abstract concepts, you mean,” I say.

  “Yes, smartass,” he growls in my ear.

  I'm not sure I agree, but I'm willing to play along.

  “And which 'primal' emotion do you think this painting depicts?” I ask.

  “Well.” He reaches around me, indicating the left side of the painting. “This bit here—the strokes are short and angry. And as you follow them around,” —he gestures with his hand, pressing closer to me with the motion—”they get shorter, more agitated. Round and round they go, building frustration.”

  His chest is flush against my back. I can feel his hard muscles even through the fabric of our clothes, and once again I'm assaulted by images of him in his room last night. My initial urge is to jerk away from him, but already my body is stirring in response to his nearness. Besides, I don't want to disrupt this flirtation we've started. I just have to concentrate and stay in control.

  “So you believe this piece represents frustration,” I say, a little more breathlessly than I intend.

  He gives a low chuckle. “To an extent, yes. But look.” He shifts, indicating the red slash at the center of the painting while his other hand comes to rest on my waist. “If the outer edges represent frustration, what do you make of this part?”

  I'm not sure how he wants me to answer—and I'm having trouble concentrating anyway. The heat of his fingers seems to burn through my clothes. His hand moves ever-so-slightly, just enough to brush the top of my hip once more.

  “I—I guess the center's the opposite of frustration,” I say, noting the softer, curved lines.

  “You could say that. The cause of the frustration, maybe, but also its cure.”

  I'm not sure what he means by that. I'm too distracted by the way his hand has shifted again on my hip, sliding slowly downward.

  Easy, I tell myself. Stay in control.

  “But why is this one your favorite?” I press.

  “Mmm.” His warm breath rushes across my ear. “Because I think the artist has captured it perfectly. Haven't you ever felt that—that restless agitation? Like you were going to burst? Like everything in the world was going to crumble down around you unless you calmed the disturbance pulsing through you?”

  “I… don't know.”

  He leans forward, and his lips brush against my ear. My heart pounds against my ribs, and what little breath I have left catches in my throat.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  He responds by tilting his head and kissing the side of my neck, first just below the ear, then lower. His mouth begins a slow trail down toward my shoulder, and the sensations that dance across my skin at the contact make my head buzz.

  “Mr. Cunningham, I—”

  “Calder,” he murmurs against my neck. His voice is deeper, but there's still a hint of amusement there. “I'm just trying to show you what I mean about the painting.” His mouth brushes against the place where my neck meets my shoulder. His tongue slips out, flicking softly against my skin, and I suck in a breath.

  Warning bells go off in my head. I need to take control of this situation. I need to lead this seduction, not the other way around. But his tongue brushes against my neck again, and all of my protests slip out of my head.

  Certainly there's nothing wrong with teasing him a little, letting him think I've succumbed to his charms. I'll give him a taste, fuel his desire, and then I'll have him right where I want him.

  He tightens his hold on my hip, pulling me closer to him. His other hand moves to the shoulder of my shirt, yanking it aside so he can continue his soft march of kisses. I shiver involuntarily.

  “Calder,” I whisper. “Perhaps we should—” I gasp as he nips at me with his teeth.

  “Is that what you really want?” he says against my skin. His hand moves forward along the neckline of my shirt, his fingers skimming just beneath the edge of the fabric. He slides the garment off my shoulder, exposing the top curve of my breast.

  “You have such beautiful breasts,” he says, his mouth against my ear once more. His hand moves lower, gliding over one of my breasts and then the other, his touch featherlight.

  My breathing is shallow, uneven. I know I should stop him, take back control of the situation, but I don't. In this moment I'm not even sure I want to.

  “Feel the frustration building?” he breathes against my ear.

  His hand moves lower and lower, with such agonizing slowness that I have to struggle to keep from pressing back against him. His fingers graze my nipple. I stiffen as he takes the nub and rolls it gently between his forefinger and thumb.r />
  “It's subtle at first,” he whispers, giving a soft pull. “Your blood pumping faster, your skin becoming more sensitive. The beginning of an ache between your legs.”

  His fingers become more insistent, pinching and tugging at my nipple.

  “That's where we want to focus. On that ache.”

  I close my eyes and let my head roll back against his shoulder. My nipple is rock hard beneath his touch, and still he massages it, pulling and twisting to the point of pain. I should tell him to stop, but I don't.

  And then, suddenly, his fingers release me. A sound of protest escapes me before I can stop it, and Calder chuckles into my hair.

  “We're not done yet,” he says.

  He moves to the other breast, pulling it halfway out of the shirt so that he can reach the nipple. He repeats his rolling and pulling until that one, too, is hard and sensitive against his rougher skin.

  “It builds slowly,” he murmurs into my hair. “But little by the little the ache grows stronger, more insistent.”

  He moves his hand from my hip and across my upper thigh, stopping at the place where my legs meet. He pushes down softly, just enough to press the fabric of the skirt against my most sensitive spot.

  “What, then, is the cause of this frustration?” he breathes. “What's the cure?” His hand slides further between my legs. I push back against him involuntarily, and he tightens his grip on me, keeping me hard against him. I can feel his arousal through his clothes.

  His hand continues to move against me, back and forth across the fabric between my legs.

  “You can't ignore it now,” he says. “You can't think of anything else. It's more than an ache, now. It's a hunger. A need.”

  He stops touching me, but only to tug up the edge of my skirt and slide his hand beneath it. His fingers dance over the skin of my inner thigh, tracing the same path my own fingers followed last night. He touches the fabric of my panties, and then he shifts them aside, slipping his fingers beneath. I shiver when his touch meets my bare flesh.

  I need to stop him. I need to pull away. I need to control this situation. But I can't make myself move. I can no longer pretend I don't feel an intense attraction for him, and I can't ignore the sensations coursing through my body, across my skin. I'm reckless, wild, free—just as I was in the passageway last night.

  “So wet already,” he whispers in my ear. His hand moves slowly—too slowly. I squirm against him, trying to shift against his touch, looking for the friction I so desperately crave.

  “Not so fast,” he says, pulling his hand away. “We're doing this at my pace.”

  I still, and he resumes his agonizing touches, his fingers sliding along my folds. This is exciting him, too, I can tell. His breath is short and shallow and hot against my ear, and I can feel his heartbeat galloping away against my back. He gives me another yank back, drawing me harder against his arousal.

  “The ache is growing more desperate now. You don't know how much longer you can stand it. All you can think about is relieving that tension, finding release.”

  He slips the end of his finger inside of me, and I whimper.

  “You're so close,” he says, his voice ragged, his finger moving slowly in and out of me. “But that just makes it worse. You're hot with need, aching for release, and the more the frustration builds and builds, the farther away it seems.”

  It's all I can do not to grind against his hand, but I won't beg for it. Not from him, no matter how much I want it. My legs tremble beneath me, and if it weren't for his arms around me, I wouldn't be able to stand. My entire body is on fire, alive with need and frustration just as he claims.

  “Tell me what you want, Lily,” he whispers. “Tell me.” He slips a second finger inside of me, and I moan.

  I want to touch him. I want him to feel this desperation, too. I start to reach around behind me, but he tightens his hold and closes any last sliver of space between us.

  “No,” he says gently. “This is about you. What you want.”

  I want to touch him, to make him melt beneath my hands. I want to see the wickedness I know I'll find in his eyes. But I can't find the words to say that out loud. Instead, I close my hand over his hand between my legs and press against it. I want him to stop the slow, cruel movements of his fingers and instead ram them inside of me.

  This is a bad idea, a tiny voice in my head reminds me. Stop him. Push him away. You're supposed to be the one in control. You're supposed to get him to…

  But for the life of me I can't seem to think of anything but the feel of his flesh on mine, the hardness of him at my back, the ache of pleasure building between my legs. I want him to touch me. To tug and push and pinch at my flesh. To take me to the brink and back.

  Fuck all the rest.

  I press harder against his hand. He obeys my silent order, moving his fingers more quickly. The heel of his hand finally slides against my clit, and I shudder.

  “You're close,” he observes. “The tension has swelled and swelled and there's only one way out. You'll do anything for release. Anything to ease this frustration. Your body is ready for it, tense for that one touch that will take you over the edge.”

  Yes! my mind screams. Yes! Take me over the edge!

  “Tell me what you want, Lily,” he asks again, his voice deep and throaty.

  “Do it,” I rasp. “Please…”

  I'm shaking. Just one more touch, one more ounce of pressure. I'm so close, so close…

  But instead he releases me, so suddenly that I nearly fall over. I reach out and catch myself against the wall before my trembling legs collapse beneath me. I still ache, terribly, between my legs. I was there, right on the cusp of letting go. Why did he stop?

  I turn, still leaning against the wall for support. Calder stands behind me, his shirt rumpled and his hair disheveled. He looks so fucking sexy I want to throw myself at him. His eyes are half closed, darker than usual, but I don't miss the devilish gleam in their depths.

  “What—what was that?” I ask, my voice hardly more than a squeak.

  He steps closer. For a brief, fluttering moment I think he means to finish the job, but instead he only brings his lips to my ear once more.

  “That,” he says huskily, “is the frustration I see in the painting.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT