Chapter Fourteen
Gemma
I dragged on cream underwear then a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a blue-green blouse that knotted at my waist and brought out the color in my eyes. I was grateful to find Evander had thought to also throw in a little bag filled with my toiletries, including my toothbrush and hairbrush.
After brushing out my hair, I pushed my feet into a comfortable pair of woolly slippers.
Bliss.
I was dressed by the time he came in with a towel slung low on his hips. I resisted licking my lips. From his corded shoulders and the dark hair that tapered from the middle of his chest down past his corded abs before arrowing beneath the knot of his towel, he was masculine perfection.
That he’d noticed my stretchmarks, my battle scars as my mom had called them, had brought back a rush of painful memories I’d managed to push into a box at the back of my mind. Now they were like open wounds once again, burning and aggravated and just waiting to hurt me all over again.
I pushed a hand over my face. Some things really were better left dead and buried.
He stilled, his eyes assessing me. “Are you all right? I-I didn’t hurt you?”
I jerked my head up. “Don’t pretend you care now.”
His eyes narrowed, a muscle in the side of his cheek moving convulsively. “Does it sound like I’m pretending?”
I threw my brush onto the bed. “I-I don’t know anymore,” I admitted in a small, hollow voice.
“La mia Gemma, come here,” he said throatily.
That I stepped into his arms like it was as natural as breathing was my own fucked up fault. And yet, I took great comfort in his physical touch.
More fool you.
I forced myself to step back. “Since we missed breakfast, I assume lunch is on offer?”
He nodded. “Of course. How does lasagna and salad sound?”
“Delightful.”
“Good, because you’ll be helping to make it.”
I couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across my face. “Are you sure that’s wise? Last time I cooked for you I turned our food into charcoal.”
“You can dice the vegetables and herbs, I’ll cook them along with the mince and the béchamel sauce.”
It was kind of nice to sit on an old wooden stool at the kitchen bench and chop up the onion, celery, garlic and herbs for the lasagna. While he cooked those along with the mince, I chopped up the salad ingredients, which included lettuce, tomato, cucumber, radishes and grated carrot.
I tossed it all into a bowl and wrapped it up before I put it into the fridge while Evander assembled mince, lasagna sheets and béchamel sauce in layers in a baking dish, topped it with cheese, then shoved it into the oven.
He straightened, looking approvingly at the bench that I’d wiped clean. “I think we should check your landscape painting now, see if it’s salvageable.”
I nodded, though it was the last thing I wanted to do. No artist in their right mind would treat their work with such callous indifference. I followed him outside, Rembrandt joining us as far as the porch where he scratched the decking to sharpen his claws while we continued out onto the grass.
I followed Evander to where my painting lay face-up and seemingly unharmed. “I think it’ll be fine,” he said as he picked it up with a satisfied nod. “There’s no damage done to the actual picture itself.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “You were lucky.”
I shrugged, sheepish now. “It’s not like it will ever hang on anyone’s wall.”
“Says who?”
I huffed out a breath. “Not everyone can be the mysterious Chase Holland and enjoy a meteoric rise.” I blinked at him. “Speaking of whom, how did you manage to convince him to paint us together?”
That the artist had captured the essence of our intense passion without ever seeing us together still blew my mind. Though nothing had really been shown in a physical sense, I’d felt compromised and exposed, the intimacy on the canvas far too personal.
He blinked back. “Is that what you—“
He shook his head as if to clear it. “You really haven’t put two and two together.”
I narrowed my eyes. “If only I’d known I was here to solve an equation!”
He carefully placed my landscape back onto the easel, ignoring my defensive outburst as he informed, “I’d like you to paint a canvas every morning.”
“Thank you, but no thank you.”
Never mind that the idea held too much appeal, I refused to obey his every whim and command.
He crossed his arms, his stance unyielding. “Either that or stay chained to my bed. It’s your choice.”
“That’s blackmail,” I breathed.
“It’s a choice. Your choice.”
I blew out a slow, steadying breath. “Why? What’s in it for you?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “I enjoy watching you work.”
“You also enjoy me taking your dick in my mouth. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do that every day.”
“Says who?” he asked with a grin, repeating his earlier words.
My pulse rate escalated, my words coming out husky. “Says me.”
“There was a time you wanted to do exactly that every single day.”
“When I didn’t know any better.”
“Or maybe you did know better back then.”
I blew some hair off my face. “Have you always had this ability to twist words around to your favor?”
He shrugged. “I heard it’s a gift.”
“So you don’t just specialize in murder and mayhem?”
He curled a hand around the back of my head, his touch warm. “You’ve got it all so wrong,” he said throatily. “I specialize in foreplay and fucking.”
I managed to snort even as my entire, traitorous body quivered in response.
His thumb stroked the back of my skull and it took everything I had not to push into his hold and purr like a contented cat. Rembrandt could take some lessons from me at this rate!
“If it’s proof you need,” he added, “I’m happy to provide it. I’ll have you know I'm a man of many talents.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, wrenching my head from his intoxicating hold. I was not going to fall for him a second time!
He smirked a little, his eyes glinting. “You don’t sound impressed. Perhaps I should woo you with my cooking and feed you instead.”
“I wouldn’t think about the intimate feast he’d already provided as I nodded my head like a puppet and stepped back. “Good, I’m starving.”