The moment he reached her side, he stuck his face close to hers, and the tips of their noses touched. “Now tell me this, if you think I’m in need of a critique, why should you come to me?”
“Just because you create twelve masterpieces doesn’t mean all your work is flawless, undeserving of criticism.” Her chest heaved. And she despised the threadbare quality to her rebuttal.
His harsh gaze fell to her mouth, and she found herself staring with a like raptness at his handsome lips, when she hadn’t known lips could be handsome. His were. Masculine and hard, and…
They curled up like sin in a smile, before coming down hard on hers.
Claire froze. She’d never been kissed… That was, before now. And now, she found herself kissed by the unlikeliest of men.
As he slanted his mouth over hers, there was nothing hard about lips that were usually curled in a taunt. There wasn’t any mockery in this, the most primal of kisses. Or insult. There wasn’t a hint of the fact he didn’t like her. Nay, just the opposite. He kissed her like he was a man hungry, and she the only meal he wanted, and she wanted to taste of him in that same way. Her bag slipped from fingers, and she raised her hands, curling them in the harsh fabric of his cotton shirt. Under her palms, she felt only heat and muscle and raw vitality that sent an unfamiliar and new stabbing between her legs. A sensation that bordered on bliss and pain and robbed her of the simple-until-now ability to stand. Her legs weakened under her.
But Caleb caught her.
“Open for me,” he ordered, kissing the side of her mouth, and she let her lips part in a happy acquiescence.
He thrust his tongue inside.
They danced with danger, with the risk of anyone walking by that window and seeing them as they were. In the throes of passion. The possibility should have sobered her. It certainly should have stopped her. It should not, however, have been responsible for adding to the dampness between her legs.
She whimpered, overwhelmed by every glide of that hot flesh against her own. Claire undulated and twisted, wanting to wrap her arms about him. To hold him. To feel the bulges of his biceps. To trail her fingers over the ridges of his triceps. And in this, he taunted her in a different way, mercilessly withholding from her the ability to feel him in all the ways she wanted to. Hungered to.
Claire let her head fall back against the wall and surrendered her mouth to his mastery in conquering.
He tasted of sin and wickedness, and she was lost, wrapped in that heady web of desire he now wove. And she found herself relying on a man who hated her to soothe whatever ache this was.
Of their own volition, her hips begin to move. Through it, there were no words exchanged. Just raspy, little grunts and moans between them that caused a greater, keening ache between her legs.
And then, as quick as the inferno had been set ablaze, it ended.
He released her arms, and her lifeless limbs collapsed to her sides, her entire body sagging as he removed his mouth from hers. He placed it close to her temple. His breath, hot and tinged with coffee, stirred the damp tendrils that had tugged free of her chignon.
“Paint your passion, Your Majesty.”
It took a moment to register over the pounding of her heart the hoarse words whispered against her ear.
Paint… your passion?
“Release me.” She gritted the command, which emerged with no impressive hint of strength behind it.
He gestured with his arms, indicating that she was already free, that he no longer held her.
Claire gave him her back, and with shaking hands, she attempted to set to rights the curls that had come loose of her hair combs.
What had she done? What had they done? Why, they didn’t even like each other. As was evidenced by his coolly derisive words following their embrace. It had been a lesson. Well, it would be one that she remembered. If she could get the haze out of her head.
Alas, she had been spun around. Her head clouded. She stood there, dazed and befuddled, from the aftereffects of his kiss.
He pointed to the door. “That way.”
“You smug, overbearing, boorish, insolent, repulsive—”
“Wasn’t so repulsive when you were kissing me.”
“—monster,” she continued over his mocking interruption and grabbing up her bag, she marched headlong for the doorway. She ground her feet to a halt. And squeezing her eyes shut, she let her mouth move in a silent curse before making herself turn once more. “I don’t suppose you’d sell the dreary fiery one.” Only complete love and loyalty to Faye brought her to ask that question.
“Nope.”
“That’s not even a word,” Claire muttered as she headed for the door, and this time, she didn’t stop, but pressed the handle and let herself quickly out.
His laughter followed her.
She firmed her jaw. She’d swallowed her pride enough where Caleb Gray was concerned.
This would be the last she ever sought him out for anything.
Ever.
Chapter 2
God, he’d thought he was done with Claire Poplar.
She was relentless, ruthless, singularly focused on attaining that which she wanted at all costs, so he’d known from the start just one thing—a person best be wary about her.
No, it hadn’t really been from the start. Upon their first meeting, he’d been more bemused by her than anything else. With a resilience and determination he’d not seen from a man in either the British, French, or American Navy, she’d doggedly petitioned him for lessons. She’d entered Lady Bolingbroke’s art room and asked him for art lessons on behalf of her and her sisters, with such a confidence and determination he’d been hard-pressed to reject her. In fact, the only reason he had—aside from the fact that he despised instructing art students—was because he’d been committed to Lady Bolingbroke’s lessons.
All possibility of helping Claire Poplar with her craft had faded the moment she’d questioned his motives toward her sister-in-law and interfered in them, as well.
Just then, as he shoved the door open into the back room of the museum, he found his only other friend already organizing the materials to pack up the canvases.
“You know, you can’t really afford to throw out all opportunities to make money,” fellow American and assistant Wade Harrison drawled as Caleb entered the workspace.
“You heard that?”
“You throwing away the sale of a painting?” Wade snorted. “Yeah, I heard that.”
So Wade hadn’t heard what transpired just before that.
The other man looked up from his task and smiled. “I heard that… and more.”
Caleb felt his neck burn hot. “Get finished on the damned packing,” he muttered, heading back for the door to begin taking down his paintings. “Or should I say start?”
“You can say whatever you want,” Wade called after him. “When I tried to start, you seemed otherwise engaged with your guest.”
Caleb didn’t take the bait. It would take more to rile him than mention of Claire Poplar. Even if she could kiss impressively enough to make a man forget that she was… Well, who she was. The almost-friendship they’d enjoyed at first meeting had proven short-lived. They’d always butted heads, of course. Caleb, however, had been almost able to completely forget the way she’d all but ordered him, with an arrogant smile, to look at her work. As if it was her due. No, when she’d less than subtly inquired about his relationship with her sister-in-law… that had been a line too far.