5. What Would You Pay?
Chapter five
What Would You Pay?
Kira
W hat the fuck was happening to me? One minute I was looking at Delacroix, and the next, I was talking about breasts and feeling his hard chest against my back. He was so close - too close .
Only by the flimsiest common sense was I able to pull myself out of this fog and into reality. I could not be here with Eoghan Fucking Green… I was supposed to be in their orbit to observe while I did my real duties. That was it. I was never supposed to break the pane of glass that split me from them.
But I couldn’t conjure up a “no.”
I should run. I should run far, far away, but he smelled so good. He felt so warm, and I couldn’t move. He may as well have bound me to him. I was drawn to his magnetism.
I didn’t know how to lose his attention now that I had it.
Worse yet, I didn’t want to lose it.
He stepped away and put distance between us. The overwhelming disappointment started at my toes and rose to my chest. I turned to look at him, but he had moved on, and was staring at a different painting, as if his talk of tasting my breasts hadn’t happened at all.
How can the rumors about him be true?
How could a man who knew art and beauty be as cruel as they said? Gangsters didn’t know Delacroix. People who took out knee caps didn’t speak French. They didn’t recognize Cimon and Pero. They didn’t wax poetic and make jokes about art. I had seen those bastards in action, and none of them ever acted like Eoghan.
He presented his elbow to me like some kind of regency gentleman, his black eyes looking at me with a quizzical expression.
“Come on, Miss Kekoa,” he gently coaxed me like I was a skittish animal. “We have much to see before the night is through.”
And we did. So many great classics were on display here. There was an entire wing of impressionists and modern art that Eoghan loudly groaned through.
“Fucking twats,” he said, loud enough that the patrons in the room all turned their heads and glared at him. “Impressionism is the style of the lazy bastards who can’t paint.”
The Pero and Cimon had been painted by a woman. He had gone to look at the exhibition catalog and beamed as he said, “you’re right.”
He kept my arm tucked in his elbow, his free hand stroking my fingers as he led me from place to place like we were some fancy couple. It was courtly, and sweet. When I pulled away, even if just to reach for another wine glass, he tightened his elbow to his side, not letting my hand slip from our connection.
It was a subtle and possessive move, one that no one would have noticed. No one but me... and I liked it.
I liked that I could smell the cologne of spice and musk, and the faintest smell of wood pencil shavings and charcoal. And I loved the way he introduced me to everyone who nodded in his direction.
“This is Miss Kira Kekoa,” he kept saying. “She’s one of the great art experts at Gallery Four. You won’t find an eye as good as hers anywhere else!”
It wasn’t lost on me that some of the women glared with jealous resentment. How many of them had graced his bed? How many others had he led around like this? My stomach clenched at the thought, but I pushed it aside when he brought me in front of another beautiful masterpiece.
It was a woman, her naked back pointed to the viewer. A cherub held a mirror as she adored her own reflection. It was wildly sensual, and created in a time when nudity was verboten to the Catholic Church. The shock gave it a place in art’s history.
The subject had a knowing smirk, as if she knew she’d be witnessed by thousands, if not millions, of people who would derive pleasure from her creamy skin. And she liked it. She liked being looked at and admired.
“I like this one,” he said quietly.
“Of course you do, it’s a naked woman.”
He pinched my chin between his fingers, turning my face to look at him.
“Don’t underestimate me, Miss Kekoa.” His black eyes were like an abyss that I wanted to fall into. He was a snake, and I was the mouse, caught in his gaze. “I am not one who falls for simple delights. I don’t fall for cheap thrills. I pay a high price for what delights me.”
I swallowed. His fingertips traced down to my throat, stopping at my pulse point.
“What would you pay?” My voice was breathy, and I wasn’t sure what I was asking.
“I’ll give you this gallery.” His hand moved down until his palm lay possessively over my throat, his finger and thumb digging into the underside of my jaw.
“What?” My thighs clenched as his possessive hold did terrible things to my brain.
“Let me taste your cunt, and I will buy you this gallery, and everything in it.”
Those alerts swirled in my head, warning me like a siren of upcoming danger. I needed to get out of here. I needed his attention off of me and on to someone else. I couldn’t breathe.
Run!