Chapter 21
Christian
A storm had found its way into Louisville somewhere late in the night.
I’d felt the vibrations long before they reached the city limits, a deep thrumming that had kept me stimulated.
Almost as much as having Penelope in my bed.
I’d watched her as I’d done so many times, both inside her house and on camera, now within the dark confines of mine.
My private space.
My bedroom.
No one had ever been inside the private areas of my house before. I simply hadn’t allowed it. That would mean the woman had been given permission to discover more about me. My likes and dislikes, my tastes in everything from liquor to clothing.
Even music.
And my painting.
Yet with her, I didn’t mind leaving her alone, but only after indulging in watching her sleep. Who did that kind of thing? Who got their jollies from doing nothing more than staring at a beautiful woman while she was dreaming?
Evidently that’s what had sparked my creativeness for the first time in months. Now I stood in my studio, almost finished with a painting I’d started less than two hours before.
A decent night’s sleep had always been elusive, but normally, I’d spent hours in my office, working on whatever crisis needed my attention. To feel so free in expression while savoring scotch was a gift that had been offered by the beautiful woman still asleep in my bed.
Like Goldilocks or Sleeping Beauty. She’d been shocked when I’d brought her to my house, taking several minutes to explore the downstairs.
There were a couple of paintings hung, artistry she’d gravitated toward.
She’d remarked on the use of color and brushstrokes, offering a sense of knowledge that was also very rare.
I’d kept my full attention on her, enjoying the way she offered brief glances to ensure I hadn’t gone far and of course, I hadn’t.
Lightning struck somewhere close, leaving a trail of electric blue dancing across the sky. I never closed the blinds, the location of my home preventing anyone from appearing unwanted or unneeded.
The security system alerted me long before intruders made their way down the driveway. And God forbid they dared scale the fence as I didn’t take kindly to interruptions or any intention of invading my privacy.
Tonight I felt alive, almost wishing some asshole would land on my radar. What did it say about me that I’d enjoyed a night spent doing several things I’d never known I was missing and yet I still hungered to create bloodshed?
That I was my father’s son, a man incapable of living as everyone else.
At least with painting, I felt both a sense of satisfaction and even a hint of calm.
Even if there was rage ebbing and flowing just below the surface.
All because the man she called the troll had gone on a tirade, demanding she answer him.
I found some sense of restraint, and I owed it all to Penelope.
Which was why the painting was dedicated to her.
Bold colors infused with an intimately violent design.
I grabbed another brush, running it through black and outlining the woman’s figure. All my strokes were subtle, providing merely an overview of the passion she felt.
As I was placing the finishing touches, a rumble of thunder vibrated under my feet.
The storm was getting closer.
Seconds later, I felt her presence. Maybe I’d purposely left the door open, the music loud enough it had been possible for her to hear and certainly easy enough to follow once awake.
A part of me had wanted to keep it a secret until I was completely finished, the bold strokes too raw or perhaps too telling about my personality.
Although she’d already determined I was someone to study as I’d done with her.
What I found fascinating was that she wasn’t looking at the brushwork or the composition.
She was looking at the subject’s exhilarated, half-hidden expression exactly the way I had envisioned.
For a terrifying second, it felt like she was revolted, discovering the ugliness furrowing inside for the first time.
Then, as her lips softened and her eyes tracked the chaotic background, the knot in my stomach loosened.
She didn’t just see the paint. She saw me.
The angry, unsettled, even monstrous man who’d never known anything different.
Until her.
Until the woman who’d peeled away enough layers I no longer recognized myself.
In the time I’d been with her, she’d appeared witty if not sarcastic, intelligent and observant, an excellent listener and highly creative. She was also passionate, even though she was still holding herself back as if uncertain or embarrassed.
As if some asshole had done a number on her self-esteem regarding intimacy.
My nostrils flared, the scent of our desire surfacing between us. It was almost as if when we were together, the spark of desire created a continuing tether.
Her expression was almost sheepish as she walked into the room, noticing I’d slowly dropped my gaze to her bare feet and back to the shirt she’d chosen to wear.
My shirt.
Another wave of possessive energy rushed through me.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
She could read my mind. “You look incredible.”
Her shy reaction was unusual, or perhaps a sensual ploy. It worked. My cock was already throbbing. As she walked closer, a slight smile faded as soon as the painting drew her attention.
For seconds, there was no sound, other than the rapid beating of my heart. How strange that it was as if I craved her approval. Maybe it was completely appropriate given the subject matter.
“Violence is often essential in aspects of beauty.”
Her statement stilled me. “An interesting reaction.”
“A truthful reality. The painting is… breathtaking.” As she walked further into the room, she alternated her heated gaze from the large canvas to me, yet wincing every time there was a flash of lightning.
I said nothing as she approached, mesmerized by both her beauty and her reaction.
She suddenly stiffened. “The girl in the painting looks like me, yet you’re not angry with me. You’re angry with the thought of someone touching me.”
“How can you tell given the bold paints used?”
With a slight tip of her head, she searched my eyes. “I can tell. You’re very talented, extremely reflective.”
“Often untethered.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “That too. You should consider a career change. The hospitality industry is so… boring in comparison.” When she looked at me, the sly smile on her face was evident with the slight upturning at the corners of her upper lip.
“Is that why you left the business, because it wasn’t creative enough for you?”
“I was lucky to be involved with marketing. That wasn’t why I left.”
“Then what was? I know you mentioned downsizing, but from what I’ve heard, Covington is doing very well in the business.”
The roll of her eyes as she flashed me a look was a clear indication the subject was off limits.
“I forget just how powerful and knowledgeable you are. Nothing can get past you. Let’s leave it at that I had my reasons.
I will tell you I thought for certain I’d grow into an executive position in the world of hotels and restaurants.
” Without touching the painting, she traced the woman’s face, taking shallow breaths as she did.
“You can have that in return.”
The pinching of her face was another indication, this time of continued fury, but not with me. With the circumstances. “The business doesn’t want me any longer.”
“An interesting way of putting it.”
“It’s what I told myself to set a fire under me for starting a business.”
“Now I need to ask why such a one-eighty. Not that being an influencer isn’t hard work, but it’s very different.”
“Not necessarily. I always loved to read, which was the only other thing that gave me joy, especially during a very difficult time in my life. However, just reading books didn’t seem to be enough to pay my bills.
Believe me, I tried.” Her laugh was genuine, a beautiful clarity about why she’d become important to me.
“How did you settle on being an influencer as well as a graphic banner designer?”
“I know to a man such as yourself, it doesn’t seem thrilling, but it’s very creative. To take a piece of a writer’s imagination and bring it to life thrills me. Maybe because as a child I also dabbled at sketching. And trust me. I suck at it, which was why I turned to a computer instead.”
“I think starting any business can be thrilling. But it can also be daunting as well.”
“Trust me. I know. I need sponsors from the upper echelon of the book world and several hundred thousand more followers to make anything matter. But for now, I’m happy.”
“And no hospitality position could change your mind.” I don’t know why I felt the need to push her, but I did. Maybe I was testing her resolve.
“Perhaps a vice president position.” She winked and I hadn’t noticed, but she was swaying in time to the music.
My instinct told me she’d been forced out for an entirely different reason. I would find out.
She was almost bewitchingly beautiful tonight.
Which was why I had an idea that refused to be denied. I moved to my drink, taking a gulp while mulling over the idea. With a dark chuckle, I grabbed a fresh canvas, placing it on another easel.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ve given me an inspiration.”
“Oh, yeah?” She moved closer to the new canvas just as I grabbed a new brush, dipping it in to a solid black for an outline.
“I take them where I can get them. They don’t often surface, especially when I’m in the heat of battle.”
“Is that what you call your current operations? Battle zones?”
“Sometimes.”
“What a pity. A man of your experience and wealth so unhappy.”
“Who said I was unhappy, sweet Penelope?”
With every touch she offered, including now in the way she used a single finger to trace the thick cord in my neck, taking her time to roll it down the arm I was using, I found myself holding my breath.