by AJ Nuest
No one had made love to her. And no one ever would.
No one, but him.
He lowered the bottle to the table. Dammit, he was so screwed. She had him. By the scruff of the neck, she had him. Funny thing was, there didn’t seem to be anything in the whole damn world that could’ve made him happier than knowing he would be the only man to have her in his bed…other than the trip to convincing her that’s where she belonged.
A glance in her direction and his shoulders fell at the barely contained rage stretched across her face. Shit, now what?
“Well, far be it for me to present you such a troublesome complication.” She marched toward the elevator, fists swinging at her sides. “You have my most vehement regrets.”
Yeah, except that sounded more like, “Go fuck yourself, buddy.”
He stifled a chuckle and shackled her wrist in his fingers as she stormed past, swinging an arm under her legs to lift those wicked boots off the floor. Kicking her feet and batting his shoulders, she struggled to be set down, but he wasn’t about to let her leave. Not for a second.
“Baby, stop.” He sat on one of the wooden chairs, propping her sideways on his lap, and clamped her hands to her thighs even though she continued to wriggle. “Stop before I change my damn mind. You misunderstood me.”
She jerked her hands out from under his and smacked his chest…and then smacked him again.
Okay, he probably deserved that for serving up the old bait and switch. “Feel better?”
“No.” She buried her face in her hands and he tugged her forward, easing her head in under his chin. “My patience has thinned, Rhys McEleod. You have befuddled me, sound and true.”
He chuckled at the funny way she talked. But God, where did he even start? Nate always said honesty was the best policy when it came to women. Sound advice from a guy happily married six years. “I know where I stand, Faedrah, but I’m worried about you.”
She leaned away from him, frowning. A moment later, suspicion narrowed her eyes, exactly the same as when she’d sized up that woman at the gallery. And he didn’t like it. The distrust brewing in her gaze made him want to punch the wall. “Speak plainly, sir. Why would your worry be for me?”
His brow twitched. Hell, why wouldn’t it be for her? She was keeping secrets from him. Secrets that scared her, based on the critical way she’d analyzed his client and her tight-lipped responses when it came to selling her pictures. Good news was, this confirmed he’d made the right decision in holding off on taking their…whatever this was…to the next level. Until she trusted him enough to tell him the truth, she’d never be ready to trust him in bed. Not with all the ways he planned to coax a climax from her non-stop, take-her-against-the-wall body.
He shook off that mouth-watering visual and trailed a finger around the curve of her cheek. “I’ve been seeing you since I was eight years old. Did you know that? For two decades, I’ve been visualizing every line and angle of your face, working hard to make sure I drew them just right.” Her breath caught as he traced the bridge of her nose, over her luscious mouth, down the center of her chin to her throat. “You met me yesterday. That’s a twenty year difference, princess. You need some time to catch up, that’s all.”
And he’d give her as much as she needed. Just as long as she played by his rule that no one—no one—besides him ever touched her.
“Twenty years…” Her eyes darted back and forth as if she were lost in thought, and she grasped his hand as he reached the little dip between her collar bones. The one he wanted to fill with his tongue. “That is the exact extent of my age.”
He snapped his chin up. Holy shit, she was right. He’d been so distracted by his mind-numbing attraction to her, he’d never made the connection.
“I would see these renderings from your childhood.” She chewed her thumbnail and then wagged a finger in the air. “And begin my inquiry there.”
Being right sucked. Or so said the persistent stiffy rocking his crotch for the elusive Faedrah Austiere. Getting a concrete answer from her was like trying to pin down a cloud.
“And this one?”
The scratch of his charcoal paused mid-stroke as he glanced up from his sketch pad to the bed. The angel he was drawing lay on her stomach, knees bent and ankles crossed, stocking feet swaying leisurely in the air. The extensive drafts of her he’d filed away over the years were spread like a patchwork quilt over his blankets, depicting the various stages of his life. Though, in all of them she was the same, just as she was now—young, vibrant and holy hell gorgeous.
Dropping his heels from the edge of the mattress to the floor, he leaned forward in the chair and plucked the sheet from her fingers. “This one I drew eight years ago, during my second semester at art school.” He remembered it well. The picture was the first time he’d shown her wielding a set of swords and, as a business art major, Nate had taken an interest in the piece.
Their friendship was the one good thing that had come from that Still Life 101 class. “After I turned it in, the instructor tossed me out on my ass.”
He handed the portrait back to her and resumed his work in progress, but couldn’t help smiling when she frowned down at the image of her posed in a crouch, the determined squint on her face a testament to all things kicking ass and taking names. “Whatever for? I think it’s quite brilliant. Exceptionally fierce.”
“The assignment was to draw a bowl of fruit.”
“Ah.” She nodded, though the delicate skin between her brows remained creased as she studied the page. He sketched a few quick lines on the side of his pad, capturing her concentration for later use.
“Eight cycles of the seasons ago, I began my training with the Roy—” She bit her lip; cleared her throat. “Vaighn gifted me a set of similar weapons in celebration of my twelfth season.”
Rhys blew a frustrated huff through his nose, dropped the charcoal in his lap and flexed his fingers before he accidently snapped it in two. By his count, that little slip made a dozen times she’d stumbled over her words since they’d finished dinner. As if she kept forgetting she wasn’t supposed to spill the beans about certain things or there’d be hell to pay. The constant backpedaling drove him nuts.
“Who’s Vaighn?” And what kind of negligent jackass gave a twelve-year-old girl a set of swords for her birthday?
“My cousin by blood, though most in the kingdom consider us siblings.” She set the picture aside and selected one of his earliest drawings—a colored-pencil rendering he’d done as a kid. “His present was my most favored that year.”
Kingdom, huh? He left off smudging the thick tumble of her hair to capture the wistful smile curling her lips, the happiness shining in her beautiful brown eyes. Interesting…but he bit his tongue against pushing for more. If he did, she was liable to clam up, just like earlier when he’d apologized for the transitional state of his living conditions and she’d brushed off his apology, saying she was quite comfortable. That his place reminded her of Fandorn’s laboratory.
The way she’d pronounced the word cracked him up—la-bor-a-tory—like they were extras in a Bela Lugosi film. He’d casually asked after the guy and she’d muttered something noncommittal about her father’s many “advisors” before changing the subject. Didn’t matter. By that time, he’d already received the message loud and clear.
Pick up what she was laying down and don’t mess with the stress. Follow up questions were a no go for launch.
To break up the quiet while she’d checked the plumbing and surveyed the contents of his fridge, he docked his phone in the player and tuned in some music. Her reaction to the pulsing beat was one of childlike wonder, and she sat in front of the speakers for a full hour, dialing in various songs. Turns out they had the same taste in music. Rock, very hard and very loud.
Same with her reaction to the beer and pizza he’d ordered for dinner, which was downright bizarre, and conveyed the extent of just how sheltered her life had been. Especially when she patiently waited for him to take th
e first bite, and then wolfed down four pieces as if she’d never tasted anything so good.
If that wasn’t enough, those few tense moments after a rumble from the rail yard shook the warehouse confirmed she was from out of town. Like, far, far outside of town. She’d nearly come unglued and he’d spent the next ten minutes trying to talk her down from whatever neurotic ledge the shaking had initiated, explaining how close he lived to the box car switch and she didn’t have to worry about the roof caving in. He’d had the structural integrity of the building checked and rechecked.
In the end, the only thing that calmed her down was a secretive call to her uncles. A few tense whispers, and she’d finally relaxed…and then it was all smiles and sunshine, like nothing had ever happened.
Yes, indeedy, a day with her and what little investigative skills he’d acquired had been put to the test. At some points she came across as relaxed, confident and even ribbed him with her sarcastic wit. Other times she seemed sketchy and unsure, as if she didn’t understand how to answer his questions.
If he wasn’t convinced the secrets hidden behind her soulful brown eyes had her scared shitless, he may have suggested she have her meds checked.
But his angel wasn’t crazy. He believed that down to the soles of his worn, black leather boots. Nope, in reality, the truth was a lot less disturbing.
Faedrah Austiere simply stunk at telling a lie.
“I adore this one. Truly.”
He glanced up from where he’d been working the folds of her red, over-sized sweater, the way the slouching collar had slipped off one of her bare shoulders, and smiled at the picture she held. His lack of technique showed in the mismatched shading, which meant the depth perception was all screwy, but the angle of the stable door was pretty good. The head of the black horse he’d added was to scale, as was the subtle layering of Faedrah’s hair, tangled with the horse’s mane as it nuzzled her cheek.
Still, his ability with a set of Crayola colored pencils really wasn’t what the picture was about. At least, not according to Sister Mary Ignatius at Georgetown Prep. She’d said the drawing “exemplified love.”
Faedrah tapped the paper, indicating the horse. “Excelsior.”
“Oh, baby, say it ain’t so.” He grimaced. “That’s a terrible name for a horse.”
She whipped the drawing against his leg in response to his teasing and he chuckled, exchanging the black charcoal for gold. His body went on lock-down as he traced the chain hanging around her neck, disappearing inside the cleavage peeking just over the edge of her sweater.
So…a kingdom, a horse, sword training, and she’d never been kissed. Maybe she lived in a monastery? One of those weird convents in the Himalayan Mountains that trained girls to be virgin ninja warriors?
He shook off the idea. That couldn’t be right. She’d mentioned family, let little things slip about her mom and dad. Hell, maybe that’s where he needed to start. “What’s your father do for a living, princess?”
She added the drawing to a special pile she’d started—most likely her favorites—and selected another from the disheveled mish-mash on her right. “Since you insist on using my proper title, it should not surprise you he’s the king.”
Her imperial tone made his lips twitch against a smile, and he studied her from under his brows. Oh, so that’s the game they were playing? As if the nickname he’d given her was literal? Okay fine, he’d bite. “The king of…?”
“The Austiere Kingdom, of course.”
Right. Dumb question. “And that would make your mother the queen?”
Her jaw firmed, and he got the distinct impression he’d just stepped onto thin ice. Tricky, tricky. Too bad his little minx didn’t realize her faith in him was directly tied to his—and her—sexual gratification. And when it came to earning that tender prize, he’d keep on keeping on until she folded.
“The white queen is the most revered of all subjects in the realm.” She flipped a drawing to the side and chose another. “Beautiful, compassionate, brilliant and without equal in the eyes of the king.”
Jesus Christ. No pressure there. Then again, he was fully in touch with her pain. Not that his father had ever given two shits his son dropped out of art school, or the outcome of any other success-to-failure ratio in Rhys’ life. Nope, the yardstick by which he ticked off his value in comparison to dear old dad had always been carried solely by him. “Those are some pretty high standards to measure yourself against, princess. Trust me when I tell you that battle is a lose-lose.”
He scrawled his initials on the bottom corner of the sketch and turned it to face her. “Besides, I’m proof positive the woman in this picture isn’t giving herself enough credit. She’s perfect, and I’ve got a check for a cool eight thousand in my pocket which says so.”
She grinned. “ʼTis an unfortunate circumstance you are not the slightest bit biased.”
A push onto her knees, and she reached for the sketch pad, but he jerked it over his shoulder, outside her reach. “Hands off. I’m planning to sell this masterpiece and buy myself some furniture.”
“Whatever for?” One of her brows rose as she opened her hands to her sides. “When you already own such a comfortable place to rest your head?” She fell forward onto her arms, the key tumbling from the top of her sweater as she crawled to the edge of the bed. “In fact, I daresay you’ve not entirely thought this through. Perchance if you gift the picture to me, I shall compensate your good efforts in ways you can only imagine.”
Holy shit. Every muscle in his body hardened. Just the thought of all the ways she could thank him with that luscious mouth made him ache.
He leapt from the chair and tackled her to the mattress, and she laughed and beat at his back as he buried his face in her neck. “Stop! You have not yet held up your part of the bargain.”
Shit. He rolled off of her and rescued the sketch pad from the floor, set it in her hands and returned to the one spot he belonged—his legs tangled with hers, arms locked around her waist, the bare skin of her shoulder available to his lips and tongue.
Her palm met the back of his head and her nails combed his scalp as he explored the curves of her body with his hands. Unfortunately, she seemed too preoccupied by the drawing to notice.
“Set that damn thing down and kiss me.” He brushed his lips over the shell of her ear, tugged on her earlobe with his teeth.
“A moment.” She shoved at his shoulder and sat up, and he was suddenly holding nothing but air. What the hell?
He rose to his elbows as she shuffled the papers around, comparing a few here and there to the sketch in her hands. “No rush. I’ll just wait until whenever you’re ready.”
“None of these earlier drawings contain the key.” She whirled to face him and he frowned at the dismay in her eyes. “Why do they not contain the key? When did you initially detect its presence?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” He sat up and tossed a hand in the air, trying to remember the first time he’d gotten a visual of the necklace. “I’ve been seeing it forever, but I only added it to this last round I did for Nate. Seemed right, I guess.” She stood from the bed and he squinted at her back as she crossed to her portrait on the wall. Based on the tense set of her shoulders, this little side trip of hers was headed in a bad direction. But it wasn’t like this latest piece of news was some big shocker. They’d spent the past fifteen hours discovering the events she experienced in her life ultimately showed up in his. “Faedrah, get back here.”
Her arms dropped to her sides, and the sketch pad fell to the floor with a stinging clap. The picture wafted to a stop at her feet. “Why can I not see the answer? What detail eludes me?”
Hell, she wasn’t making any sense. Then again, if she’d spent last night lying awake in bed like him, she was probably exhausted. Not thinking straight.
“I have risked the entirety of my kingdom only to discover…nothing.” She slowly turned to face him and his chest constricted at the tears welling in her eyes. “Why am I here?�
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Well, shit, there could be any number of reasons, but only one came to mind. “You’re here because I wished for you.”
Her shoulders fell, and the gentle smile on her face said she was happy to let him indulge in his little fantasy. A second later, she sighed and broke their stare to search the night through the dirt-streaked windows.
God dammit, no. He pushed to his feet and stood at the end of his bed, arms crossed. She was shutting down again, retreating inside her head. “You don’t believe me?”
“That is not it. I…” She dropped her focus to the floor. “There simply must be another explanation.”
Wrong. That was the only explanation. And if convincing her she was here because she belonged with him was gonna take another twenty years, then they’d damned well better get started.
He strode forward and scooped her into his arms, carried her back to the bed and reclined against the pillows so she could rest her cheek on his chest. This time he’d be the one to fix everything. No more private calls to her uncles. No more feeding him a line of bullshit neither of them believed.
She snuggled against him, twisting his shirt in her fingers like he was her last lifeline in a storm. Dammit, how the hell was he ever going to get her to trust him? He closed his eyes and palmed the back of her head, hoping she would understand he was there for her…and always would be…no matter what disappointments she faced.
But he wouldn’t ask her any more tonight. Not with her tired and upset. No, tonight he would just hold her, keep her warm and watch over her to make sure she slept. Then, tomorrow, after they’d both gotten some rest, he would insist she tell him the truth—the whole truth—and find a way to make her realize she’d wished for him just as hard in return.
Chapter 7
A languid stretch of her arms and legs, and Faedrah smiled as a large, warm hand slid around her belly, tugging her back against the firm wall of Rhys McEleod’s chest.
