He turns his head, and I recognize him. Peter Clay. My mind lights up with the memory of Daphne’s face as she described his work. A flat expression. Narrowed eyes. She doesn’t like him. Doesn’t want to be near him.
But he’s leaning in, one hand on her waist, and as I approach them, he pulls her closer to his body.
And she—
Resists.
It’s as subtle as I would have expected. A stiffness in her shoulders. A slight turn of her face away from his. Her dark eyes blank. Distant. It makes my blood roar in my ears. My hatred for this unbelievable fuck is spilling out of the canvas, breaking free. It’s only countered by an intense awareness of how many other people are in the room. It’s impossible to know what they’ll do if I react the way I want to, which is to kill him.
Too many people in the space. Too many witnesses. And Daphne. Calculations sprint through my mind. They lay themselves over the fury simmering in my blood. They try to hold it back. Hold it down. I want to hurt Peter Clay. I won’t do it where Daphne can see. I won’t do it where anyone else can see her and draw their own conclusions. About my little painter. About me. Fifteen feet away. Ten feet. Five. His hand is still at her waist.
My skin is on fire with the need to touch her. I take his hand instead. Wrench it away from her body and into mine.
“Peter Clay.” I turn my grip into a crushing handshake and push him away from her. Anger flashes in his eyes, but then they widen with surprise. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Mr. Leblanc.” He twists his hand out of mine and manages not to rub at it. “You’re the famous one. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” It’s been five seconds, and he’s already forgotten about Daphne. His dull gray eyes glint with opportunity. Greed. “Did you happen to see the pieces in the gallery? I was hoping to get your opinion on mine.”
It was garbage, I bite back. I can’t stand in this crowd for ten minutes without everyone watching. It’s a fine line, now. Too much longer and they’ll assume I give a fuck about him. They’ll all assume his paintings are worth something. “I’ve seen them. But now isn’t the place to discuss work like that. Where is your studio?”
He sticks his hands in his pockets and feigns nonchalance. “I have a space above Worth-Kelley in Chelsea. I’m there most weekdays, if you—”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I announce. “I only attend private showings.”
Peter Clay’s eyebrows go up. This is more than he ever could have hoped for. “I’m sure we can accommodate that.”
We. As if he owns the gallery. He doesn’t. “Tell them I’ll be there at two.”
“Of course.” His eyes dart back behind me. “Of course I’ll do that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leblanc.”
“Don’t let me take any more of your time.”
Peter Clay has the good sense to edge away for several feet before he turns and rushes into the crowd. And I turn back to the only person worth anything.
Daphne stands with her back straight and her hands clasped in front of her, as gorgeous as I’ve ever seen her in a dark blue gown that matches the color scheme of her painting. Delicate tendrils of her hair frame her face. The rest has been swept back in an elegant twist and dotted with pearls. For a person who’s standing so still, she’s breathing fast, her shoulders rising and falling above the gown’s neckline. Her makeup is dark and rich, making her look older than she is. I can see through it. I can see how young, and innocent, and fucking pure she is, and how dare he touch her.
How dare he.
Red lips part. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I had a piece to bid on.”
“Mine?”
“Who else’s?”
The corner of her mouth curves up ruefully. “Peter’s, maybe. Everyone else is very excited about it.”
Daphne’s smile fades away too soon. Her makeup is beautiful. Professional. But it doesn’t hide everything about her skin. She looks pale. Is it from that motherfucker, or whatever happened to inspire her painting?
I step closer and bend to speak into her ear. “I don’t give a fuck about his painting. I give a fuck that he had his hands on you.”
She gives a nervous laugh. “That’s how he is. He’s over the top and pushy. He would have let go eventually.”
He’ll never touch her again. That’s how this will play out. But I don’t say this to Daphne. There’s something far more pressing to talk about.
“I saw your painting,” I murmur into the shell of her ear. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Her voice quavers. She’s close enough that I can feel the rest of her shaking along with it. The air around her trembles.
“Do you need to leave?” I’ll take her in my arms and carry her out now, if she says the word. Let these people speculate.
“I can’t,” she breathes. “I have to give a speech. And my security will be looking for me. I can’t leave with you.”
She can’t stay here. There are tears in her voice. I won’t have her breaking down in front of all these people. “When is the speech?”
“In an hour.”
“And do they follow you into the ladies’ room?”
“No.” She blushes. “Of course not.”
“Then take a walk with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Inside.” Daphne hesitates. “I know a place with no prying eyes, little painter. You’ll be safe there. Walk with me.”
More hesitation. My heart twists itself up. I want her out of this goddamn room. I want her in my arms. Patience is excruciating. Daphne tips her head up to look into my eyes. “I have to be back for the speech,” she says softly.
“I won’t steal you away,” I promise.
I won’t steal her yet.
“Okay.” Daphne threads her arm through mine. “Yes. Please. Let’s go somewhere else.”
Chapter Nineteen
Daphne
I know I shouldn’t go with him. It’s one of the most basic rules of staying alive. You don’t follow a man down a dark hallway without telling other people. My heart beats fast, up near my throat. Leo sent his favorite driver, Thomas, with me tonight. I made him stay at the edge of the ballroom. I didn’t want to be watched. I didn’t want someone hovering while I shook hands and tried to do art-world networking.
I regretted that the instant Peter Clay leaned in to proposition me.
I’m not sure I regret it now.
“I haven’t painted you yet, Daphne,” Peter cooed into my ear. “People would go crazy for that piece. I’d make you look incredible.”
There’s no way on the planet I’ll ever get naked and cry for Peter Clay. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to slap him for putting his hand on my waist like he had any right. But old instincts kicked in and I did nothing. It’s safer to do nothing. To be nothing. But it feels like shit.
I’m not paying attention to where Emerson is taking me. Through the main room of this renovation. A door. Hallway. I check over my shoulder to make sure Thomas isn’t following. Another door. He makes a turn into a corner that’s pure shadow and dark and opens yet another door. Ushers me through. I come back to myself when the door closes behind me with a firm click.