“What is art, if not beauty? Art stirs our deepest passions, regardless of its origins. Is knowledge of its history a prerequisite to our pleasure?”
“Of course not, but that definition is too broad. Bordain’s Garden of the Divine is art, but then, so are the flowers that inspired it. Is a building art? A sunset? A child’s painting?”
“The curve of a lover’s mouth?” he asked.
She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on the glass. “Depends on the lover, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed, it does.”
Charley finally met his gaze, electricity crackling between them. A lock of her hair slipped from its knot, falling over her cheek, and he reached up to brush it aside. Despite their flirting, the gesture felt shockingly intimate, sending a hot rush of desire between her thighs.
She’d never had such a strong, visceral reaction to a man before, and the idea left her both terrified and excited.
“We’re talking about what makes a serious collector,” she continued, forcing herself to stay in character. Besides, this was the easy part. Charley adored art. If she’d been born to a different family, a different life, she might’ve been a real collector, or an art history professor, or any one of the roles she played for Rudy. It was the one bright spot her career afforded—a chance to indulge in her true passion.
Maybe that made her a fraud, but it was the truth.
“Collectors know the history because they care enough to find out.” Charley turned to face him fully, her bare knees brushing against his thigh. “How much more pleasurable is a painting when you know what inspired it? When you know what kind of struggles or pain served as the artist’s muse?”
“Pain as a muse?” He lifted his eyebrows. “And here I thought you were the rainbows-and-sunshine type.”
Charley touched his knee, her manicured fingertips resting lightly against the cool fabric of his suit pants. “Precisely what happens when you judge without knowing what lies beneath.”
She kept her hand there, unable—or maybe just unwilling—to remove it. It was a dangerous tease, and one she couldn’t indulge in for long.
But damn, it was fun.
“To pain, then.” He touched his glass to hers again. “And beauty.”
“And the wisdom to know the difference,” she added confidently.
He frowned in mock disappointment.
“Too far?” she asked.
“Sorry, love. Now you sound like a motivational speaker. A bad one, at that.”
Charley laughed, relishing in his warm gaze, in the way he called her “love.” By the time he signaled the bartender for another round, she was feeling so good, so carefree, she almost forgot she was on the clock.
Almost.
Chapter Four
Dorian had come to the Salvatore to acquire one new possession—the Hans Whitfield painting.
Now, he wanted a second.
Needed it, actually. The siren call of her scent stirred him to a frenzy that muted all else—his father’s death, the unfortunate incident in the alley with Chernikov’s demons, the convergence of his estranged brothers on his home.
Not to mention Renault fucking Duchanes, doubtlessly angling for a way to parlay his father’s death into a power grab. The bastard had been trying to break into the Redthorne family for a century; Dorian guessed he’d shown up here tonight hoping for a meeting.
How and why he’d tangled with the woman, Dorian could only guess. But that was over now. Dorian was the new king, and he’d all but claimed her; further harassment from Duchanes could only be treated as an act of aggression, responded to in kind.
That was a war not even a bloodthirsty, power-hungry vamp like Duchanes would bring upon his house.
So for now, Dorian set aside the politics of his father’s demise and focused his attention on his fiery, auburn-haired beauty, determined to end the evening on a better note than how it’d begun.
The hosts called for everyone to take a seat in the main room, and Dorian held out his arm. With a soft smile, she reached for him, but then hesitated, a silent war waging in her eyes.
“It’s all right, love,” he teased. “I don’t bite—not until the second date.”
Whatever her reservations, they vanished in an instant. She flashed him a look so fierce and wanton, it left no doubt about their common interests.
“In that case, we’re counting drinks as our first.” She wrapped her hand around his arm and leaned in close. “Let’s hope you’re a man of your word.”
With her firm breasts pressed against him, it was all Dorian could do to keep his cock in check.
If I didn’t want that painting so badly, I’d drag her into the nearest coat closet, tie her up, and—
“Come on,” she asked, leading him into the auction room without another word.
Leading him. Dorian Redthorne. Like a damn puppy.
Bloody hell, how had she managed to turn the tables so quickly? In her captivating presence, Dorian was powerless to resist—a state that agitated him greatly. The last time he allowed a woman to get the upper hand, he’d lost complete control, and a hundred and forty-nine people died in the aftermath—a bloodbath Dorian was still paying for and not keen to repeat.
Despite the warning echoes of the past, there was something about her—a physical magnetism he couldn’t ignore. She’d intrigued him from the moment she stepped into the lobby downstairs, and every moment he spent in her presence drew him in deeper.
Entranced. It was the only word for it.
Stupid was another one, perhaps, but he pushed that thought aside.
As they settled into adjacent seats, he rested his arm around the back of her chair, inhaling another breath of her intoxicating scent, wondering at her strange contradictions. Despite her passion for art, her intelligence, the way her eyes danced with laughter, the darkness he’d noticed downstairs was still lurking, roiling beneath the surface like a tempest she could barely contain.
What secrets are you harboring, love?
If she felt his intense gaze, she didn’t show it. The woman kept her eyes on the artwork at the front of the room, her jaw set, looking determined as hell.
He wondered what piece she was after today. Hopefully not the Whitfield. If Dorian was going to do battle with her, he’d much rather have it unfold in his bedroom.
The very thought of her creamy flesh against his dark silk sheets made his cock stir, and he pulled his jacket closed to hide the evidence, affixing a polite smile to his face as the rest of the guests filed in.
Duchanes strolled in dead last, taking a seat directly in front of them, acknowledging them both with a curt nod.
His woman stiffened, and Dorian moved closer, protective instincts kicking into overdrive. Despite her bravery, the relief in her eyes when he’d barged into that bedroom… It was a look Dorian wouldn’t soon forget.
Duchanes wasn’t the only vampire in attendance tonight, either. Two women from House Connelly sat a few rows away, and he’d noticed a man from House Pritchard at the bar earlier. He also counted two wolf shifters in the crowd, along with a witch from Darkmoon coven whose services he’d occasionally employed.
The presence of supernaturals at private human auctions wasn’t unheard of, but it was unusual. Mostly, his kind preferred to avoid the company of humans in large groups—less chance of violence, less chance of discovery. To see this many gathered at the same auction—so soon after his father’s death, no less—left him uneasy at best.