With a reassuring smile, I nodded.
“Oh, and on the other side of the courtyard is a ballroom. I hope you’re ready to dance later.”
My thoughts went to my high heels. “Thanks, Alex. It was great to meet you.”
As she walked away, I turned back to the painting before me, wondering if there was a hidden message.
“Are you interested in neo-Expressionism?” a deep voice asked from behind me.
A quick crane of my neck and a whiff of spicy cologne let me know my mystery man from across the room was now close enough to touch.
“It’s growing on me,” I replied, offering him a smile.
8
“I’m fascinated by his life,” the man said, his deep voice sending vibrations, electrifying my skin.
“His?” I read the name on the plate attached to the frame. “Jean-Michel Basquiat.”
“A modern-day genius. He’s not only a talented artist, but also a musician. Did you know that he could read and write by four years of age and dropped out of school in the tenth grade?”
“Like Einstein.”
“Einstein’s problem was more with interpersonal relationships.”
The heat from this man’s body brought warmth soaring through my circulation. It was all I could do to concentrate on his words or the artwork.
“His teachers,” the man went on, “felt Einstein was disrespectful because he questioned. In reality, even at a young age he was smarter than they and most simply wanted explanation, unwilling to take information at face value.”
I stared up at the art. “I would imagine that Jean-Michel’s intelligence also made remedial school boring.”
“Sometimes you have to push on,” he scoffed. “And sometimes you need encouragement.”
“Did you have encouragement when you were young?”
“My grandmother would have tanned my backside if I quit school.” He gently touched my shoulder, turning me his direction. “You?”
I gasped.
“Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for my arm.
“I-I am.” I was. It was his eyes, dark brown, yet like the painting, filled with colors, drawing me in like no stare I’d seen before. “I guess” —I shifted on the tall heels trying to recall what we were talking about— “too much champagne and not enough food.”
“We can’t have that.” His large hand brought heat and stability to the small of my back, and just as quickly, it disappeared. “Can I...may I help?”
“Yes.” Touch me. I want you to touch me. I stopped myself before more than yes escaped my lips.
With a man as tall as he was, his touch was both steady and feather light. It was as if he wanted to help me but didn’t want me to break. Together, we walked to a small bench outside the gallery, the other direction from the party. As I sat, I stared at a lake surrounded by trees. More lights twinkled, creating a make-believe world where anything was possible.
“What can I get you?” he asked, still standing.
I pushed the dress’s skirt aside, making room on the bench. “Maybe we could just sit a moment.”
A sigh came from his lips as his knees bent slowly to sit beside me. “I’d like that. This” —he gestured behind us— “isn’t my scene.”
“Mine either,” I admitted. “Why are you here?”
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I didn’t have much of a choice. You could say I’m here because of work, but mostly, I’m helping a friend. You?”
“No work for me.” I looked down at my hands as I noticed the sparkles in the dress. “More make-believe.” I grinned. “I can’t believe I’m here...and I’m also helping a friend.”
“Whoever your friend is, they should be ashamed for leaving you alone.”
“He warned me.”
As the man grinned, flakes of gold and yellow danced in his dark orbs, like the twinkling lights around the dark, glassy lake.
“So you are accompanied?” he asked.
“Yes and no.”
His brow furrowed in question.
“My date isn’t really a date. Like you said, helping a friend.”
He reached out and took one of my hands in his. Even more so than when he touched my back, the contact was electric—a kinetic link, exhilarating my senses.
I stared at the sheer beauty in our contrast. His hand was dark and large enough to swallow mine. Mine pale yet strong.
Have fun with it—Alex Demetri’s advice returned.
Taking a deep breath, I reached out with my other hand, surrounding his one. Our fingers instinctively curled around each other’s. When I looked up, his stare was on me, seeing me, studying me. With nothing more than his gaze, my breathing shallowed, my nipples hardened, and my flesh warmed.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice was deep and breathy.
Letting go of his hand with one of mine, I lifted my palm to his cheek—smooth and warm. My stare went to his full lips, imagining what they would feel like upon my own. “So are you.”
“Tell me your name.”
I loved the way his mouth moved as he spoke and the way he demanded while also asking.
“Why?”
“Because I want to kiss you, and this isn’t like me. But” —he leaned closer, the fullness of his body dwarfing mine— “I don’t want you to stop me.”
My cheeks rose as I again stared into his eyes. “How will my name stop that?”
“Because with your name, I’ll be able to properly inquire, like the gentleman my granny tried to raise.” Before I could reply, he continued, each word bringing our lips closer. “You don’t want her to be disappointed in me, do you?”
The long earrings dangled against my neck as I shook my head. “Lorna.”
“Lorna, may I kiss you?”
Something within my stomach twisted, a rippling of anticipation such as I’d only read about. As heat flooded the area between my legs, I pressed my thighs closer. “Yes.”
I fluttered my eyelids shut as his large hand snaked around my waist, pulling me toward him. In that awkward moment, we moved our faces from side to side. Taking one finger, he tilted my chin until finally our lips connected. Such as the striking of a match, a spark ignited, not into a flame but the promise of a blaze capable of incinerating this mansion and all of Bishop’s Landing.
Sitting taller, I pressed myself against him. Within the confines of the corset, my breasts flattened against his hard chest. His touch roamed, claiming more than my lips. Upward he roved, to my neck, the sensitive skin behind my ear, and twining my long red ringlets around his fingers.
When we pulled away, we were left gasping for air, staring at one another.
Quickly, I stood, wobbling on my heels and filling my lungs.
The mystery man reached out and steadied me, our fingers again intertwining. “I’m sorry, Lorna.”
My head shook. “No, for what?”
Slowly, he stood. Even in the tall heels, I felt tiny in his presence. Our contrast was like that of magnets, the undeniable attraction of two opposite poles.
Who was he?
Mason said there were fires on all levels of his metaphoric chessboard.