Misconduct(3)

He was bold, too.

I held his eyes – the color of a cloud heavy with unfallen rain – as he rose, standing tall and not making any move to back off.

“Losing shoes, spilling drinks… Are you normally such a hot mess?” he teased, the confident mischief in his eyes turning everything below my waist warm.

I raised my eyebrows, shooting him a cocky smirk. “Feeling up strange women, condescending remarks… Are you normally so rude?” I asked.

His eyes held a smile, but I didn’t wait for him to answer.

I plucked my champagne flute off the table and glided around him, back to the painting.

If he was the kind of man I’d hoped he was, he’d follow. He was attractive, and I was intrigued, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have to work for it.

I tilted the glass to my mouth, taking in the chilled bitterness of the bubbles on my tongue as I felt him watching me.

“You don’t appear to be having a very good time,” he observed, stepping up to my side.

His subtle cologne drifted through my nostrils, and my eyelids fluttered for a moment.

“On the contrary…” I gestured to the imitation Degas with my champagne. “I was just contemplating how some gasoline and a match would improve this painting.”

He laughed under his breath, and I loved how his eyes shimmered in the dim light of the ballroom. “That bad, huh?”

I nodded, sighing. “That bad.”

Standing next to him, I felt the full measure of his size. I was no shorty at five seven, but even in heels, I still came only to his shoulder. His chest was wide but lean, and I loved that I could make out the muscles in his upper arms when he crossed them over it. Even through his tux.

He looked down at me with the stern expression of a superior. “Do you often have pyrotechnic fantasies?” he asked, looking amused.

I turned back to the painting, absently staring at it as I thought about his question.

Pyrotechnic fantasies? No.

I had lots of fantasies, pyrotechnic and not, but how obvious would I be to tell him that? It was a cheap response to a leading question. I wouldn’t be so obvious.

“I don’t want to start fires,” I assured him, staring at the Degas with the flute against my lips. “I just like standing in the middle of burning rooms.”

Tipping back the glass, I finished off the champagne and turned to set it down, but he took the base of the flute, stopping me.

“How long would you stay?” he inquired, his eyes thoughtful as he took the glass from my hand and set it down on the table. “Before you tried to escape, that is.”

“Longer than anyone else.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“How about you?” I questioned. “Would you join the mayhem in the mad rush for the exit?”

He turned back to the painting, smirking. “No,” he answered. “I’d already be outside, of course.”

I narrowed my eyes, confused.

He grinned at me and leaned in to whisper, “I set the fire, after all.”

My jaw ached with a smile I refused to bestow on him. I didn’t like surprises, but he was interesting, and he looked me in the eye when he spoke to me.

Of course, I wasn’t as interested in his answers as I was in his ability to keep the conversation going. I could indulge in small talk, but this was more fun.

I let my eyes drift away from him.

“I’m sorry you don’t like the artwork,” he said, regarding the piece on the wall.

My thigh quivered with the vibration from my phone, but I ignored it.

I cleared my throat. “Degas is a wonderful artist,” I went on. “I like him. He aimed to depict movement rather than stationary figures in many of his works.”

“Except this one.” He nodded to the piece of the lonely woman sitting in a bar.

“Yes, except this one,” I agreed, gesturing to L’absinthe. “He also tried to show humans in isolation. This one was called ugly and disgusting by critics when it was unveiled.”

“But you love it,” he deduced.

I turned, slowly moving along the wall, knowing he’d follow.

“Yes, even when he is copied by bad artists,” I joked. “But luckily no one here will know the difference.”

I heard his quiet laugh at my audacity, and he was probably wondering whether or not to be insulted. Either way, he struck me as the type of man who didn’t really care. My respect probably wasn’t what he was after.

I felt his eyes wash over my back, following the lines of my body down to my hips. Other than my arms, my back was the only part of my body left bare by the fabric and crisscross work.

Turning through the open French doors, I walked onto the wide, candlelit balcony. The music inside slowly became a faint echo behind us.

“You don’t really care about Degas, do you?” I asked, turning my head only enough to see him out of the corner of my eye as I walked to the railing.

“I couldn’t give a f*ck less about Degas,” he stated without shame. “What’s your name?”

“You don’t really care about that, either.”

But then his hand grabbed mine, pulling me to a stop. I turned halfway, looking up at him.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to.” It sounded like a warning.