There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(27)

“I grew up in the Mission District,” I say, trying not to look at Cole Blackwell. “I’m inspired by murals and graffiti.”

I can feel Cole’s eyes burning into my back. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, beneath my long rope of hair. My heart is racing and I’m terrified, fucking terrified. I can’t believe he’s standing five feet behind me. Why is this happening? What does this mean?

It’s him, I know it’s him.

He’s wearing a dark suit, just like that night, with a cashmere polo in place of a dress shirt. That’s not common attire—I didn’t make that up, I couldn’t.

Another panel member, a woman in a red wrap dress and chunky bracelets, is asking a question, but I can’t hear it over the pounding in my ears.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I stammer.

I have to turn and look at her, which means turning toward Cole.

He’s definitely smirking now. Watching me sweat.

“I asked if that figure is a reference to Japanese Neo-Pop,” the woman says, kindly.

“Yes,” I say. “The juxtaposition of cute and sinister.”

I don’t know if that makes sense. Nothing is making sense right now.

“I like the peeled-off layers,” the last panel member says. I think his name was John, but I can’t remember now. “You should consider a piece focused on that technique.”

“Right.” I nod, pushing my hair back out of my face. “I will.”

My cheek feels wet where the back of my hand touched it. Fuck, did I just smear paint all over my face?

My skin is burning, I want to cry. Everyone is staring at me, most of all Cole. He’s draining the life out of me with those black eyes. Sucking me in.

“Well, if no one else has any questions, we’ll move on to the next studio,” Sonia says. “Thank you, Mara!”

“Thank you. All of you,” I reply awkwardly.

My eyes fix on Cole Blackwell once more, on that cold, malicious, and utterly stunning face.

“Good luck,” he says.

It sounds like a taunt.

They file out of the studio, Sonia in the rear this time.

I watch them leave.

I'm gasping for breath in a room that suddenly seems devoid of oxygen.

What just happened, what just happened, what just happened . . .

I should stay right here. I should keep my fucking mouth shut.

Instead, I storm out of the room, chasing after Blackwell.





11





Cole





We’re about to enter the junior studio on the opposite side of the building when Mara catches up with me.

“Excuse me!” she pants, her cheeks flaming pink. “Could I speak to Mr. Blackwell for a moment?”

The other panel members turn to look at me, to see if I’ll comply.

Sonia is particularly curious. She knew something was up the moment I told her to offer Mara the studio. The discounted rate was a fabrication, invented by me on the spot. The same with this grant. It’s all leverage to get Mara right where I want her: completely at my mercy.

“Of course,” I say quietly. “The rest of you go on without me. I’ll join you momentarily.”

I lead Mara down the hall to an empty studio several doors down. I step into the clean, deserted space. She hesitates in the doorway, afraid to be alone with me.

“Are you coming?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

Pressing her lips together, she marches into the room, closing the door behind her.

I wait for her to speak, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest, thrilling at the hectic spots of color on her cheeks.

She’s illuminated with fury, eyes blazing, cheeks flaming. Her dark hair swirls around her face, defying gravity from the pure electric tension between us. Her thin hands tremble, and she digs her nails into the thighs of her jeans.

“I know it was you,” she says, her voice low and hoarse.

I’m enjoying this so much I can hardly stand it. Her rage, her fear, and the delicious predicament I put her in, all mixed together in a potent cocktail. Her expression of shock when she saw my face, and the awful struggle as she had to discuss her work with the panel, while her brain must have been twisting and turning inside her skull . . . I’m so glad I have it all recorded. I can’t wait to watch it over again tonight.

“What was me?” I say mildly.

“You know,” she hisses. Her whole body is shaking. I’d like to hold her against me, to feel those tremors vibrating through my frame . . .

“Please explain.”

Her eyes glint with tears of fury, but she refuses to let them fall. Her lips are swollen and chapped, as if she’s been biting at them . . .

“Someone snatched me off the street. They tied me up, cut my wrists, and left me in the woods. You were there. I saw you. You stood over me, staring at me. You saw I needed help. And you walked right over me. You left me there to die.”

“What a bizarre accusation,” I say. “Do you have any proof?”

I know she doesn’t. I just want to see how she’ll respond.

“I saw you,” she hisses. “I’ll tell the cops.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” I tuck my hands in my pockets, tilting my head as I look at her. “That would cause a lot of problems for you. You’d lose the studio, of course. The grant, too.”