If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(36)

I’m also buzzing from several wine samples I’ve consumed, which has made me form a new respect for Mark’s insistence everyone leave their keys in the desk up front.

“So dear,” Mr. Rider, the ex-CEO continues, “I’m interested in an Alvarez painting, but I’m not certain I see the exact piece I want here on the showroom floor. Is there a way to arrange a private viewing of his more precious pieces?”

“I most certainly will see what I can arrange,” I assure him, thought I have no clue what I can, or cannot, do. “I’m sure you know the gallery’s resources are many.”

“And you, Ms. McMillan, certainly are their newest asset.” He retrieves a business card from his pocket. “Call me Monday, my dear.”

I beam at his departing form, and with the prospect of viewing Alvarez’s private collection, along with him.

“I take it your smile means that went well?”

The familiar male voice radiates through me, and I can almost feel my body quiver from inside out. I whirl around to find Chris standing behind me, a rebel in denim and leather amongst black ties, and his surprise appearance does far more to impact me than Mark’s had. Every muscle I own tightens deliciously at the sight of him, and I’m not the only one to react to his ruggedly handsome good looks. Two women walk by, their eyes raking over Chris with admiration, their heads tilting together to exchange comments.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, and yes, there is accusation in my voice. I am illogically angry with Chris and I cannot seem to figure out why. Oh wait. He told me I didn’t belong here and yet he still manages to make me hope he’d show up all week long.

His eyes meet mine and hold, and if he notices my temper, he doesn’t show it. “I came to lend you moral support.”

“Why would you want to support me?” I challenge, fighting the thrill inside me at the idea he came here for me. “You said-“

“I know what I said.” He steps closer to me, his fingers curling on my elbow, his touch unexpected, electric. My body hums in reply, and I fight the seductive lethargy threatening to consume both my anger, and my capacity for logic. He told me to leave. He told me I don’t belong.

My anger sparks all over again. “You said-“

“Believe me, I know what I said and I was trying to protect you.” His voice soft and rough at the same time, sandpaper with a silk caress I feel from head to toe.

My stomach knots and I shove aside a blast of uncomfortable emotions his words evoke within me. I am too aware of his touch to fully process what I feel. My voice softens to a whisper. “You don’t even know me.”

His eyes darken, the dim light catching on the gold specks in their depths. “What if I said I want to change that?”

His words are everything I don’t expect, and deep down, everything I had hoped for. I am shocked, and pleased, and in disbelief. More so, I am confused. The crowd, the swell of voices, and clinking glasses fall away with that question. I am staring up at him and his eyes hold me captive. No, he holds me captive, this man, this artist, this stranger, who says he wants to know me. And I want to know him. I just plain want where he is concerned.

“You do know this is a black tie event, correct?”

Mark’s voice is a splash of ice water. I jerk around to find the sharp glint in his silvery gaze fixed on Chris and Chris alone. Power and supreme agitation radiate off of my boss while Chris appears completely unaffected, or perhaps, pleased at Mark’s disdain?

Chris faces Mark, his hands out to his sides. “Artistic expression. Isn’t that what you like about me?”

Mark’s lips press into a thin line. “I prefer your expression to be contained on the canvas.”

“Or in your bank account,” Chris muses, and while his tone speaks of jest, there is a sharp undercurrent to his words that match Mark’s steely stare.

“Excuse me.” A forty-something female and her husband that I recognize from an earlier, rather unfriendly chat, interrupts us and their intense interest in Chris is evident. The woman is practically giddy with excitement. “Are you Chris Merit?” she asks, and good lord, she sounds breathless, when only fifteen minutes before she’d been pretentious and borderline rude to me.

Chris’s eyes hold Mark’s for several crackling seconds that the couple seems to be oblivious to, before Chris turns his attention to his admirers.

“I’ve been known to answer to that name,” he replies, offering them one of the charming smiles that I’ve learned pack a real punch.

“Oh my God,” the woman gushes, whisking a lock of red hair from her eyes, and shoving her hand at Chris. “I love your work.”

Avoiding Mark’s gaze, feeling somehow as if I will be blamed, for well, something, I watch how Chris interacts with the couple. Eventually the husband wrangles Chris’s hand from his wife’s, to shake it himself, before he turns to do the same with Mark. “You really do know how to surprise your guests in all the right ways, don’t you, Mr. Compton? You certainly have earned our business tonight.”

Chris’s eyes meet Mark’s and even in profile, I can tell Chris is barely containing a smile. “I was more than happy to attend,” Chris comments, “but I did have one condition to being here.” The couple hang anxiously on Chris’s words, and though Mark shows no reaction, I’m pretty sure he is too. “I’m supposed to have a Corona beer waiting on me.” He shrugs out of his leather jacket, a statement to Mark he is staying I believe, and a waiter quickly takes it.