Park Avenue Prince(11)

I walked farther into the room and looked more carefully at the books, desperate to get more information about this man who at times seemed so controlled and all about business and then wanted to talk to me about passion and made me laugh. There were some thrillers I’d never heard of, and a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo sat on top, dog eared and clearly read over and over.

Who was this man?

I turned full circle to make sure I hadn’t missed something, but, no. There was nothing in this apartment but a couch that should have been donated to the Salvation Army, a mattress and some books.

Mr. Shaw lived like a squatter.

And yet the man owned an apartment at one of the most expensive addresses in New York and paid me for the art I sold him with an American Express black card.

“And your dressing room?” I asked.

“Through there.” He pointed to an archway. I stepped through to find his wardrobe full. Custom suits. Handmade shoes. But no wall space where I would want any of my paintings to sit.

“I think the office would be good for the nudes,” I said, absentmindedly reaching out to feel one of the suit jackets.

“Sure, whatever you think.”

“Do you have any idea where you’ll put the furniture?” I asked from over my shoulder as I made my way back up the corridor.

We stopped at the doorway to the office and he shook his head, glancing again at his shoes. “No. Not yet.”

With an empty apartment of blank walls, it wasn’t difficult to find space for any of the pictures, and within twenty minutes I’d decided where everything should go.

“And the La Touche, I think that should be in the dining room.” I’d saved the best until last.

He nodded. He’d offered no opinion or information as I’d moved pieces from one resting spot to another. He’d just watched me. We hadn’t shared pleasantries, or talked about the weather. I’d worked in silence. But somehow it became more comfortable the more time I was there, as if we were getting to know each other even though we weren’t speaking.

I held the frame against the wall. “What do you think?” I asked.

“I like it,” he replied with a nod. We’d had a breakthrough—I’d managed to coax an opinion from him.

I grinned, pleased that he seemed to like my favorite piece. “You have a beautiful smile,” he said and I looked away. Our interaction had felt oddly personal since I’d met him but this was the first time it felt as if a line had been crossed.

“Thank you.” I put the painting on the floor, resting it carefully against the wall.

“You ever wonder who she’s writing to?” he asked as he stepped closer to my side.

I couldn’t dampen my smile. “I think she’s writing to a lover, or someone she wants to be her lover.”

“What would she be saying to someone who she wanted to be her lover? Is she trying to seduce him?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the painting.

The air between us thickened and the heat of his body warmed me. This was more intense that just flirting. I could feel the weight of him almost touching me. Was that why he’d insisted I bring the paintings and advise on where to hang them? Did he want me?

“Whoever the painter is, he’s trying to figure it out as much as we are,” I whispered.

“I think you like trying to figure people out,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face and tucking it behind my ear. He’d done the same thing at the gallery. This time it wasn’t enough. I wanted more than his fingertips scattering across my skin.

But he was right. I’d been trying to figure him out from the moment I’d seen his empty apartment. He was rich, handsome and confident, but there was an undercurrent of sadness about him, reflected in this echoey place, that I couldn’t explain but I was drawn to.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

To someone watching a video of us, not having experienced what had been passing between us since I arrived, his declaration would be out of place and inappropriate but being here with him, when he said it, I realized he was always going to kiss me.

I liked that he’d given me warning but not asked my permission. Perhaps in his lips I’d understand him more.

Towering over me, he took my face in his hands and pressed his mouth against mine once, then pulled back and kissed me again, harder this time. His touch created a hum across the surface of my skin and my body sagged despite the voice inside my head saying, Who is this man? I don’t find men like him attractive.

But I wanted him to kiss me.

My arms circled his waist, stroking up his broad back, over the muscles tight under his shirt, so different from the slight men I was used to dating. Instead of finding it strange or uncomfortable, it felt right, like every other man’s touch had been erased by his.

He stroked his thumbs over my cheekbones, then reached around to the small of my back and pulled my body against his. I gasped and he smiled against my mouth. In that moment he had all the power, not because he took it, but because I gave it to him, willingly.

His tongue pushed between my lips and I tilted my head back, wanting more of him. My knees weakened and my mind and body became unsteady as if he were taking all my energy—all my self-control.

He gripped my waist and pulled me up. “You okay?” he asked, his stare boring into me.