With her last bit of strength, Charley shoved hard against his chest, finally breaking the kiss.
She gasped and sucked in air, her heart ready to explode.
Dorian pulled his hands away and stumbled backward, staring at her like he had no idea what the fuck had just happened. He glared at her mouth, his own streaked with her blood, his gaze drunk and delirious.
He was so far gone she wasn’t sure he even recognized her.
Crazed laughter bubbled up through her lips, and Charley pressed a hand to her chest, panting.
“Wow. Gave me quite the scare, Mr. Redthorne.” Not to mention the hottest five minutes of my life. “Okay, then. Still breathing. Good sign.”
“I’m… sorry.” He shook his head, muttering to himself. When he looked at her again, the haze had cleared from his eyes, replaced with something that looked a lot like guilt. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away. It… It won’t happen again.”
He turned on his heel, about to walk away.
Charley was more than ready to let him go, desperate for a literal and figurative breather from his unwavering intensity, but then she remembered the statue.
“Dorian, wait! Aren’t you going to tell me about Hermes?”
He stopped and let out a deep sigh. “That’s what’s on your mind?”
Heat burned in her cheeks, but she couldn’t stop now. “I need to know. It’s important.”
“Fine. I’ve got another deal for you, then.” Dorian glanced toward the upper floor, where the din of revelry still floated above them—laughter and clinking glasses, classical violins, footsteps echoing on marble. “As soon as I clear these wretched people from my home, I’ll fix us a nightcap, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know about Hermes, as well as anything else in my collection.”
Charley did some quick calculations, hoping she had enough time before Travis came sniffing around. With a little more of that luck she’d been banking on all night, she could get the scoop on Hermes, finagle a tour of the upstairs, and sneak in some questions about the LaPorte painting too.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Redthorne.”
“You haven’t heard the rest of the terms, Ms. D’Amico.” He finally turned to face her, running his thumb across his mouth and wiping her blood from his lips. His eyes held a dangerous spark.
Suddenly, Charley felt like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a predator. “Terms?”
“Think of it as a confessional. I’ll tell you about the art. And you, my little prowler…” He gripped her chin and lowered his gaze to her own still-bloodied mouth, the deep tenor of his voice buzzing across her skin. “You’ll tell me why you’re casing my home like a common thief.”
Chapter Thirty
What. The fuck. Was that?
Charley could barely get her legs to work as she stumbled out of the manor, sucking in the cool night air like her life depended on it.
They hadn’t even had sex. Yet somehow, every encounter with Dorian Redthorne made her feel like she was drowning.
And Charley was really, really developing a taste for drowning.
“You’re out of your damn mind, girl.”
Taking another steadying breath, she walked along the cobblestone path behind the manor, past the spot where Dorian had ambushed her earlier, past the guest house, past the brambles and bushes and trees until the imposing Elizabethan giant was no more than a blur of stone and warm yellow light behind her.
With every step, her mind cleared a bit more, refocusing on the stolen artwork she’d discovered, unleashing a dozen new impossible scenarios in her mind.
She was so wrapped up in her art-world conspiracy theories, she didn’t even see the man on the path until she’d crashed right into him.
“Whoa, easy.” He reached out to steady her just before she fell and twisted an ankle, cold hands gripping her elbows.
“I’m so sorry!” Charley plastered on a smile, slipping the socialite mask back in place as she found her footing.
But when she glanced up and met his gaze, all bets were off.
Her blood went cold. Even a fine tux couldn’t hide the asshole inside.
What the hell is he doing here?
“Mr. Duchanes,” she ground out, taking a step backward and shoving a hand into her purse. Beyoncé 2 awaited her command, and this time, Charley wouldn’t drop her.
Duchanes bowed slightly, clasping his hands behind his back and giving her wide berth, as if he wanted to appear as meek and non-threatening as possible. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. And watch your step.”
Without another word, he scooted past her and disappeared up the path toward the house, clear out of sight.
Charley released her grip on the stun gun and blew out a breath.
Two events in a row with that creep. God, sometimes she really hated the art crowd. At least he hadn’t tried anything this time; Dorian’s implicit warnings at the auction must’ve really gotten to him.
Rattled but undeterred, she continued along the path in search of a quiet place to rest her bones and figure out what she was going to tell Dorian about her “prowling” tonight. Clearly, he’d spotted her snooping around upstairs, and despite the intense moments they shared in the basement, he had to be wondering why she’d gone down there in the first place. She didn’t want to complicate things with more lies, but it’s not like she could spill her guts and beg for mercy, either.
God, what a fucking mess.
A soft snick caught her attention, and she glanced up to see another man leaning against a sycamore tree several paces off the path, half hidden in shadow.
Gabriel.
Perfect. There was no way she could pass by the tree without him noticing, and she didn’t want yet another Redthorne brother to accuse her of sneaking around.
Locking her smile back in place, she said, “Looks like I’m not the only one looking to escape the crowd tonight.”
He turned to her slowly, his movements as liquid and graceful as his older brother’s. When he met her gaze, his eyes held the same coldness she’d spotted earlier.
But it wasn’t his cruel gaze that pinned her in place.
The sudden, unexpected flash of the blade in his hands paralyzed her, unlocking a flood of memories Charley had dammed up years ago.
Where you off to, little girl?
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch…
Instinctively she pressed a hand to her abdomen, just above her left hipbone, where the ropey, silver scar burned fresh.
“Yet here you are,” Gabriel said with a sneer, “crowding.” His tone dripped with impatience, but he didn’t move toward her—just pressed the knife to a round, red object in his hands.
An apple. Just a damn apple.
Charley let out a breath as a long curl of apple peel fell to the ground. Gabriel carved off a slice and brought it to his mouth, eating it right off the blade.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
“Then don’t.” Glaring at her with that unnervingly cold gaze, he carved off another slice, then turned back toward the view of the rolling hills and the Hudson River beyond, dismissing her.
She didn’t need to be told twice.