But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. And after a series of bungled sittings yielded a crop of pissed off models swearing they wouldn’t work with him until he got his shit together, he’d been forced to face facts. He had feelings for Marion Hertz which went far beyond artistic interest. In short, he was fucked.
His subsequent calls and texts had gone unanswered, leaving him no choice. There was unfinished business between him and Marion, and he needed it settled.
Nonna’s words of wisdom echoed in his head. “Trying to get around life’s hard parts is a waste of time and energy. Best to just go through them.” Taking a deep breath, Blake climbed the steps to the entry and pulled open the massive door.
The cool, quiet came as a relief. Turning between the nearest stacks, he stalked along their length and then skirted the wall to the far side of the room. A forest of paperback stands provided cover while giving him a view of the circulation desk. Marion happened to be behind the counter, methodically scanning in the books from a large cardboard box. She was as unassumingly sexy as he’d remembered, her strawberry blonde hair held out of her face with a barrette clipped at the crown of her head, long locks cascading over her shoulders. The black, light-weight knit top she wore did nothing to minimize the wonder of those glorious breasts, despite a demure neckline and prudent three-quarter sleeves. There was simply no hiding nature’s perfection.
A familiar graphic materialized in his peripheral vision, snaring his attention. The display he’d taken cover behind overflowed with romance novels, and, as fate would have it, A Matter of Discipline happened to repose in a spot just slightly to the side of his temple. Smiling, he pulled the book from its slot and stepped out from obscurity.
His steps hushed by the low pile carpeting, he strode up to the desk. She startled when he put the book on the counter in front of her, one delicate hand flattening over her chest, her fingers rounding the base of her throat. Her unsteady, but welcoming, smile became tight as soon as she realized who stood across from her.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.” She lowered her hand, the tops of her fingers turning white as she gripped the edge of the counter. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Right.” He nodded. “I’d like to take this out.” He angled his head toward the novel.
“Of course. Just a moment.” She looked at the computer screen, reaching for the nearby mouse. After a couple of clicks, she glanced at him briefly and then picked up the book. “All right.” Without looking at the front cover, she opened it, passing the trade paperback beneath the scanner. The computer beeped and she handed the book to him. “Your library card?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh. That’s not a problem.” She turned to the computer, again. “It only takes a minute. Name?”
“Marion…”
The keys clicked beneath her fingers.
“Last name?”
“Marion.”
“Marion Marion? That’s unusual.” She shrugged and continued to type.
“Marion! I don’t want a goddamn library card.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t take out a book without a library card.”
“Look at the book,” he demanded, sliding it toward her.
She looked down the length of her nose at the cover. Her blush didn’t surprise him, but the ashen aftermath did.
“How dare you?” she accused between clenched teeth, her gaze making a quick circuit of the room before boring into him. “This is where I work. You have no right…”
Ashamed, Blake found it difficult to hold her blazing stare.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I…Marion, please…”
He pressed his lips tight against the pressing urge to beg.
“Look, Blake.” She sighed. “You made yourself perfectly clear. And I understand. You don’t owe me anything.”
“But I do.” The distrust in the quick tick of her eyes wounded Blake in ways he chose to ignore. “Your painting.”
“I’d almost forgotten.” She shut her eyes as if it hurt to think about it. Then she fixed him in her cool green gaze. “I don’t want it.”
“But you haven’t even seen it.”
“I don’t want it,” she repeated.
“So you want me to keep it?”
“No. Yes.” Tears made her eyes bright before she hid from him behind half-lowered lids. “No! I want you to destroy it.”
“Marion.” He swallowed the bile rising from his gut. “If that’s really what you want, I’ll do it.”
“It is.”
“You have to see it, first.” Her eyes snapped to his face, flashing with outrage. Hastily he explained, “If you still want it destroyed, I’ll do it right then, while you’re watching. Then you’ll be sure I’ve done it. Come to my house tonight.”
She closed her eyes, her lips moved faintly, as if she were talking to herself. His heart sank as she slowly shook her head from side to side, but he saw determination in her gaze when she looked at him.
“What time should I be there?”
Chapter 17
Marion didn’t know how she was going to manage to eat with the nervous tension churning in her belly. But the smells wafting over her as Blake escorted her into the dining room coaxed a growl from her tummy. She snapped her gaze to his face, but he gave no indication he’d heard. Still, her traitorous stomach did nothing to improve her mood.
When she’d looked up to find him standing on the other side of the circulation desk, a smug grin on his face, her first thought had been her fascination with kink had taken a morbid turn. Categorical rejection hadn’t been enough. He planned to humiliate her as well. In a cold wash of clarity, she’d understood exactly how much power she’d given Blake Vince.
But he hadn’t behaved like a man with the upper hand. The complete opposite, in fact, using the book to approach her and losing his cool when she’d pretended not to know his name. His surprise, and then shame, when she’d expressed outrage at being ambushed at work. He’d been unsure, conciliatory; she’d been the one in charge.
Apparently, his concern had been getting her to come to dinner. Because when he turned to her in the entryway of the spacious room more suited to family dinners than a party of two, palm up and expectant, he positively exuded confidence. She rested her fingers in his, reveling in the feel of his warm hand beneath hers as he guided her to stand in front of one of the dozen high-backed chairs surrounding the imposing dark wood table. Too soon, he stepped away, moving behind her to gently nudge the backs of her knees with the cushioned edge of the chair. Steadying herself by placing her fingertips on the table, she lowered into her seat.
The rare roast beef, roasted potatoes, and finely chopped salad artfully arranged on the tasteful china plate in front of her couldn’t hold her attention as Blake moved to the head of the table. He reminded her of a prowling panther, each measured motion essential. Just like the caresses he meted out so judiciously, or the controlled thrust of his body driving her to the edge of sanity.
Frustration stiffened her spine, and she shook the image from her mind. She’d sworn she would not waste her energy pining for the man. A man who’d made it painfully clear he had no further use for her. She’d told him she would look at the painting, so she would. And then it will be over. You’ll never have to see him again. The thought didn’t give her quite the satisfaction she’d hoped.
He settled into his seat, placing his napkin in his lap and picking up his silverware, and then looked at her expectantly.
“Please. Eat.” When she continued to stare, he raised an amused eyebrow. “I know you’re hungry.”
His crude reference to her stomach’s indiscretion jolted her out of her reverie. Resisting the urge to stab him in the eye, she picked up her fork and speared a potato instead. Seasoned and crisped to perfection, it practically melted on her tongue and made her hungry for more. Wit
h renewed purpose, she drew her unfolded napkin across her thighs and picked up her knife. Before she knew it, Marion had cleared her plate.
She picked up her glass and leaned back in her seat. A comforting hand resting over her firm and satiated tummy, she looked up to find Blake staring at her.
“You really were hungry.”
“I was,” she confessed, sipping her wine before adding, “And it was delicious.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Did you make it?” She couldn’t help the note of surprise in her voice.
He laughed. “No. The credit belongs to Mrs. Kincaid. She comes in a few times a week to keep the place tidy and make sure I have a square meal once in a while.”
“Well, it was amazing.”
“I’ll tell her you liked it. She’ll be pleased.”
“I hope you will.”
He held her gaze, the silence stretching between them.
“Is the painting in the studio?”
“No.” He gave her a puzzled look, angling the point of his steak knife toward an easel set up across the table from Marion. “It’s right there.”
She straightened in disbelief, placing her wine glass on the table. It had been in front of her the whole time? A simple black cloth hid it in plain sight. She never would have managed to eat if she’d known.
“I didn’t realize…” She gave a nervous laugh. “Can I see it, now?”
“Would you mind if I finished my dinner, first?”
“No, of course not.”
“Thank you.” He dropped his gaze, concentrating on cutting into his prime rib. “So, how have you been?”
“Fine.”
“Work is good?” he asked around the bite in his mouth.
“Yes.”
“And Ilene? Still keeping an eye on you?”
She arched her eyebrow skeptically, her mouth twisting in a lopsided grin.
“What?” he asked.
“You really want to do this?”
“Do what?”
“Make small talk.”
“Not if you’re not interested.”
She shrugged.
The insidious quiet returned, demanding it be filled or suffer the consequences. But before she could come up with a harmless topic, Blake spoke.
“I am curious about something…” The casual indifference of his tone seemed forced. She considered him warily as he lifted his fork, the meat spiked on its tines dripping blood onto his plate. “Do you think you’ll pursue the matter?”
“Pursue what matter?”
“The matter of your fondness for being tied up.”
“My fondness for being…” She bristled before setting her jaw.
Blake brought the fork to his mouth, the chunk of rare roast beef disappearing behind his lips. As he chewed thoughtfully, waiting for her to continue, the very picture of patience, she realized he’d done it on purpose. He’d injected the bit of profanity into their polite conversation to unsettle her. Gathering her thoughts, she pinned him with an icy stare.
“So that’s why I’m here…to satisfy your curiosity? You want to know what kind of kinky monster you’ve made? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dr. Frankenstein, but as you made it so very clear the other morning, we’re done. What I choose to do, or not do, in the future is none of your goddamn business.”
Marion jumped as silverware clattered against china. Blake pushed at his plate with his thumb. It knocked into his wine glass, making the crystal sway slightly before righting itself. Slumping in his seat, he braced an elbow on the arm of his chair and propped his head on his fist, putting her in mind of a frustrated toddler—one too dark and dangerous to even consider comforting.
In pointed opposition to his behavior, she carefully placed her fork and knife, perfectly parallel, on the edge of her plate. Taking the napkin from her lap, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth before laying it on the table beside her plate.
“I refuse to argue with you. If you’re finished, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me see the painting so I can go.”
“Fine,” he growled.
Bracing his hands on the table, he stood, chair legs grating over hardwood. He stalked to the easel and, without preamble, pulled off the silk draping, letting it fall to the floor.
Subdued shades of copper and gold gave way to tawny browns and creamy whites, invoking the reverential state bondage had helped her discover. Long sensual lines conveyed more than shape and posture. Modesty nudged the knees toward one another. The tuck of a cheek behind the underside of an arm held captive by rope and rigging told of vulnerability and surrender. Shocks of cherry reds and salmon pinks demanded attention, drawing the gaze from lips to breasts to clit. The last glimpsed at the tip of a dark cleft which disappeared into the juncture of the thighs, the minute detail wildly erotic and evocative of her hesitant dalliance at the fringe of sexual experience.
Breathless, she rose to her feet, her trembling fingers pressing flat onto the table as she leaned forward to peer closer.
Blake had bared her far beyond the stripping of her clothes. He’d even captured her grief, illustrating it in the crystalline greens of the eyes. Yet Marion knew no one would ever suspect she had been the model. The painting reflected not her image, but her soul.
“Blake,” she whispered. “Is that really how you see me?”
He cocked his head at her, shoulders hunched. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted.
“Sorry for what?”
“How I reacted our last morning,” she began tentatively.
“Marion…”
“No. Let me say this. I admit I was hurt, but I’ve had some time to think and, now that I’ve seen this…” She rounded the table, moving to stand in front of him. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand why, but something about me caught your imagination, and the artist in you needed to explore it. You never promised me anything more than that. And, now…” She turned toward the painting, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I know you never meant to hurt me.”
“Never.” His emphatic echo touched her.
“I know.” She tipped her head up to him, wanting him to see her sincerity. “It’s beautiful, Blake. Thank you…” Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed her cheek to his chest. “…for everything.”
He went rigid at her touch. She prepared for his rebuff. Instead, she heard a quiet sigh, his muscles melting beneath her embrace. She closed her eyes as he skimmed a hand down the fall of her hair.
“So you don’t want to throw it on the funeral pyre I built out back?”
“No.” She laughed, looking up into the fathomless depths of his dark gaze. “Definitely not.”
“Thank fuck for that.” His uneasy chuckle revealed his anxiety. “It would have killed me to do it.”
“But you would have?”
He cupped her face in his hands. “Absolutely.”
“But why?” Tears stung her eyes at the imagined loss.
“Because I promised you.”
“Even if I was being a vindictive bitch?”
“I’d decided it would have been just desserts.”
“For what?”
“For lying to you.”
“Lying to me? When?”
“When I said I wished I’d never met you.” He slid his hands down her body, grabbing her ass and bringing her up on her toes. The unmistakable imprint of his hard length channeled the soft round of her belly. “When I said we were done.”
His mouth came down with a ferocious passion, her lips forced wide. His tongue, a slick and coarse invader, tangled with hers in a primal claiming. When he finally lifted his head, Marion looked up at him, dazed by his intensity.
“I don’t know that I’ll ever be done with you, Marion Hertz. I want more time. I need it.” He cupped her face and stared long and hard into her eyes. “I know I have no right to ask, but I have to…Will you give it to me? Will you give us more time?”
She curbed the foolish g
rin of eagerness twitching at the corners of her mouth and managed to return his earnest gaze.
“Of course I will…if you’re sure it’s really what you want.”
“It is,” he confirmed before closing his eyes and touching his forehead to hers. “Thank you.”
Marion savored the powerful moment before being overtaken by a wicked impulse.
“So, you want to do another painting?” she asked innocently.
“No!” He jerked his head back and looked down at her with concern. “That’s not what…” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Are you having fun at my expense, Ms. Hertz?”
“Perhaps.”
“I see.” He kissed her hard and then spun her around, purring in her ear as he shuffled her to the table’s edge, “If it’s fun you want—” His hand at the nape of her neck, he pressed her down onto the gleaming surface. “Hitch that skirt up over your ass and my cock and I will be more than happy to deliver.”
“Blake!” she objected even as she tugged at the material between them.
“There I go again.” He grabbed her wrists and bent over her, his weight pinning her in place. “Damn my filthy mouth.” He drew her arms overhead and kissed her temple. “Now, be still.”
The familiar command sent a chill of anticipation down her spine. Clever hands hot on her skin, he made short work of smoothing her skirt up her legs to bunch around her waist.
“And before I forget…” His deep vibrato tickled her ear. “For the rest of the evening, you’ll need to call me Mr. Vince.”
The End
Publisher’s Note
Please help this author's career by posting an honest review wherever you purchased this book.
About DawnMarie Richards
DawnMarie Richards’ grandmother introduced her to the romance novel, providing an endless, ever-changing supply of dog-eared Harlequins from a stash kept in a paper grocery bag. As a romance author, DawnMarie writes what she most enjoys reading—passionate love stories spiked with sensual heat in all the right places. She delights in doing that very thing from her home in southern Arizona, which she shares with her husband and their crazy dog, Rand. Want more? Visit www.dawnmarierichards.com.
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