“That’s why it works. Art, for me, is about magic,” he said.
“You sound very knowledgeable. And I’m a little obsessed.”
“Obsession is passion, and where there’s passion, there’s potency.”
A shiver of warmth touched my soul. “That’s so true.”
“I’ll text you the address, then.” His deep voice roused me from the dream of hearing him speak. It was a form of verbal foreplay.
As a storm of desire raged through me, I had this feeling that I might never be the same again.
* * *
THE SKIRT HUGGED MY hips more than I would have liked. I kept tugging at the clingy fabric. At least I’d chosen a knee-length version and not the mini that Sheldon had suggested.
Shopping was an exhausting process of elimination. In the end, I opted for a tight-fitting skirt with a tulip-shaped flounce and a silk shirt that I couldn’t stop stroking. The whole outfit cost me more than my monthly allowance. But I couldn’t meet with a man like Blake Sinclair in my Oxfam hand-me-downs. Despite priding myself on my secondhand chic, a date with Blake was hardly the time to show off my individuality at bargain-basement prices.
I looked at myself for the umpteenth time in the reflection of a window I passed. The green shirt suited my dark hair as Sheldon had enthusiastically declared, and the black skirt, although fitted, made my ass look smaller—a feat in itself, given my size 14 ass.
Crossing my arms, I shivered. Although it was summer, the early evening air had a bite. I felt my nipples spike against the back of my hand—one of the problems with wearing silk, I’d discovered—and rubbed them discreetly, crossing my arms to hide them. Even my sexy lace bra was new. That purchase came after Sheldon dragged me into a lingerie store. The way he gushed over the skimpy ensembles made me laugh. He loved the female form from an artist’s perspective, and unlike me, he regarded my curves with envy. I’d always wanted to look like Lilly—blond, blue-eyed, and slim.
I finally arrived at the lane where the bar was situated. Victorian lamps painted a subdued warm ambience over the cobbled paths. Each of the intimate bars that lined the alleyway was lamplit, making for a discreet meeting place.
Taking a deep breath, I stood at the doorway. Being ten minutes early, I lingered indecisively, wondering whether I should go for a walk, when I saw him through the window. Even with his back to me, I knew it was him. I almost chickened out. Fear had taken its grip. Or is that anticipation? Butterflies had invaded my belly the moment I heard his voice on the phone.
Blake Sinclair must have sensed me at the door, because he turned and his eyes found mine. My heart raced. I could barely walk to his table. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background. I recognized it because one of my lecturers often played it.
His eyes spellbound me. I attempted a quivery smile and crossed my arms to hide my hardened nipples, which seemed to have a mind of their own.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m a little early.”
“As am I. I always like to arrive early or at least on time.” His eyes lingered, waiting for a response, as though he’d given me an insight into a habit he didn’t normally share.
Before I had a chance to stop him, he rose from his chair and held out a chair for me.
Dressed in a white linen shirt over loose-fitting beige slacks, his casual look was effortlessly sophisticated.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“A G&T, I suppose.”
He beckoned a waitress, and she was by our side in a flash. Something told me that Blake Sinclair could make anyone jump to action.
After he ordered, his attention returned to me. “I trust you found it okay?”
“Yes. I took the tube.”
“From college or from home?”
I gulped. And now for the gritty details of my life. “I was in Soho.”
“That’s where you live?”
I nodded. I had to extract my eyes from his hypnotic stare. I looked down at my hands and then slowly looked up at him again. He was so handsome that each time I visited his face I learned something new about it. With that tanned, smooth skin, he looked around thirty, but his vibe seemed like that of someone older, adding to his sex appeal. I’d always had a thing for older men.
“You seem to have a lot going on in your head, if you don’t mind me saying,” he said.
“How would you know that?” I asked, feeling naked all of a sudden.
“I’m not sure why. But you seem very familiar to me, Penelope.”
“Please call me Penny.”
“Penelope suits you. May I call you that?”
I had to admit my name sounded sensual issuing from those fleshy lips.
“Do you live alone in Soho?” he asked, running his finger along the rim of his glass.
“Um… no. It’s Sheldon’s house. He’s been kind enough to let me live there. I also use his studio, which is up the road.”
“Sheldon Sprite. I know his family.”
“Oh, you’ve met them?” My voice was unintentionally high-pitched.
“Just at a few gatherings. I don’t know them well. I’m familiar with Sheldon’s work.”
“He’s an amazing artist.”
“As are you, Penelope.”
The waitress arrived with my drink, and not too soon either. My hand trembled as I lifted it. I wished I could be cool, calm, and collected, fluttering my hand about, just like the other women in the bar.
I gulped down my G&T like it was water.
“We ended on a bad note the other night.” He studied me. “I’m not the big bad wolf you might think I am. I didn’t remain at the Cherry Orchard. I’d like you to know that.”
“I believe you.” I took another big sip.
Blake must have noticed my hand trembling. “Am I making you nervous?”
I nodded. “I’m not very confident around men I don’t know well. Especially men like you.”
“Men like me? There are others?” he asked with a subtle grin, which he wore well.
“No. You just give off an air of sophistication that makes me feel inferior.”
His eyebrows drew in. “You see me as arrogant?”
“Not exactly.” I played with my glass. “Although, I suppose you could come across as that to some.”
“You’re not the first to accuse me of that.” He cast a tight smile. “I don’t suffer fools, and I’m choosy when it comes to company. I’m probably more like you than you think.”
I jerked my head back. “How would you know that?”
“Your art. There’s something in it that speaks to my soul.”
I caught a glint of softness in his eyes, making me wonder if in fact he was sensitive and wore that air of superiority as a shield.
“You’re moving in the realms of mysticism, Mr. Sinclair.”
“I like those realms, Ms. Green,” he retorted, with a flicker of a smile that weakened my knees.
“If you didn’t resemble a male model, I’d say you possess creative spirit.”
“Can’t I be both?” His lips moved up at one side, revealing a dimple.
“Beautiful people can be a little vain.” Thanks to the gin, I’d finally relaxed.