by Fae Mallory
“I’m quite attached to that painting. I don’t wish to be parted from it.” His explanation was simple, but Violet sensed there was something more that he wasn’t telling her.
The other four paintings were exquisite in their own right, but knowing that she couldn’t have Geminids only made her want it more. “Is there any way I could change your mind?” she asked, shocked by the sultry note in her voice. Ian was certain to think she was offering her sexual services in exchange for the painting, and in truth, Violet wasn’t sure that she wasn’t. He was an attractive man with impeccable manners and an appreciation for art that might even exceed her own. It would hardly be a hardship.
What was she thinking? Even before she swore off risk-taking, Violet had considered herself practical about such matters. She’d never taken a lover without at least three months of dating and a lengthy discussion about sexual histories and birth control. Was she really considering jumping into bed with a man she’d known for less than two hours?
“No, Miss Fabre.” Ian’s forbidding tone was a splash of cold water. Even if she was inclined to sleep with him, he was hardly going to find her rolls and ripples alluring.
“Right,” she muttered, looking down at her bare feet. Since he’d already decided that she was beneath his notice, there was no point in stopping now. It wasn’t like he could get less attracted to her, and even if he could, what did it matter?
Reaching behind her, Violet unhooked her bra and slid the straps down her arms. Her nipples pebbled at the cool air in the room, and she flushed, hoping he wouldn’t attribute her reaction to arousal. It would be humiliating if he knew how much he’d gotten to her.
Fighting the urge to cover herself with her arms, Violet held her ground and met his gaze. Ian was sitting very still, every line of his body tense even though he maintained his relaxed position. Not sure what to make of that reaction, Violet reached for her panties, her full breasts swinging forward as she bent to ease the fabric down her legs.
With a final kick, she was free, standing bare in the middle of the gallery as Ian examined her as though she were a sculpture he was considering buying. “Turn around,” he commanded, his voice low.
Violet turned, conscious of every bulge and dimple as she exhibited herself. When she was a freshman in college, she’d served as a muse for a few classmates, but that was eight years and thirty pounds ago. Back then, her body had been something to be proud of, but none of her classmates had ever given her as much scrutiny as Ian was.
It seemed to last for hours as Ian looked at her, occasionally asking her to turn so he could see her from every possible angle. Finally, he nodded. “Thank you, Miss Fabre. Choose your paintings. Once you’re finished, Xavier will help you make arrangements for the loan.”
Hopefully, Ian would let her put her clothes back on before calling in his assistant. Violet’s face flamed at the thought as she padded over to the first of her final two paintings. By now, being naked in front of Ian felt almost natural, but adding another person into the mix made her want to wrap herself in the thickest blanket she could find.
The sound of a door closing made her jerk around, covering her breasts with one arm, her nether curls with her other hand, but such modesty was unnecessary. She was alone in the gallery.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath. Ian had watched her strip, and now that she was done, he’d taken off without even saying good-bye. While she should probably be grateful that it was over, Violet was irrationally offended by the anti-climactic resolution.
In a huff, she stalked over to her abandoned pile of clothes and started yanking things back on. The stockings and garter belt she dismissed as too much trouble, stuffing them into her purse. It wasn’t until she went to the door to find the butler waiting attentively that she belatedly wondered if he’d notice her missing articles of clothing. Did he know what had happened in this room? Or—worse—would he reach his own conclusions about her disheveled state?
“I have the paperwork for you, Miss Fabre,” he said with impeccable formality. If he had suspicions, none of them showed on his face.
“Thank you, Mr. Xavier,” she replied, flipping through the clipboard he offered her and seeing a detailed contract covering every aspect of the forthcoming loan. Ian would pay for the paintings’ transport and insure them as long as the museum’s security met with his approval, a detail that she was grateful for.
Everything was in perfect order. All that was left to do was to record the names of the paintings that were being loaned, and it took Xavier only minutes to copy down the titles from her collection of tags. Exactly two hours after her arrival, Violet was back in her car with a signed contract on the seat beside her guaranteeing the Owensport Museum the right to exhibit seventeen Hunter Madden paintings.
All in all, it had gone as well as possible. None of Ian’s words nor actions had been inappropriate. On the contrary, he’d been a complete gentleman save for the fact that he was asking her to undress in exchange for paintings. Violet still wasn’t sure what had motivated him to ask for such a ridiculous thing, but she had to admit that he’d done his best to make it painless for her. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t attracted to her.
As she started the car, Violet resisted the urge to look up at the house in hopes of catching one last glimpse of him. He’d made it clear that whatever his interest in her body, it definitely wasn’t sexual, and it was pointless to daydream that he might change his mind. He’d seen what she had to offer and decided he wasn’t interested. No doubt, he was already well on his way to forgetting that she existed. For the sake of her own sanity, Violet needed to take a page from his playbook.
She’d taken her clothes off for Ian Carlisle in exchange for seventeen Madden paintings. It was a business transaction, nothing more. Now, she needed to put Ian out of her head and concentrate on the exhibit that would revitalize the museum. It was just business.
* * * *
Ian collapsed into his desk chair, burying his face in his hands as he breathed hard, trying to regain control. Even as he tried to think of other things, the image of Violet standing naked in front of him, her blue eyes defiant, refused to be banished. He’d had to sneak out of the gallery like a thief in the night while her back was turned—even now the thought of her exquisite dimpled bottom made his mouth go dry—so she wouldn’t notice the erection straining against the front of his jeans. Without coming within six feet of him, Violet had aroused him more than any other woman he could remember.
When he made his outrageous offer, the last thing in the world he’d expected was for her to agree.
Although Owensport society held little interest for him, Ian made a point of knowing who was who. When the museum gained a new assistant curator, one with some local fame as a painter, he’d done his research. What he found was a mystery.
He’d found a total of three of Violet’s paintings on her college’s website, just enough to whet his appetite for more. Although she was clearly still an emerging artist, her work had an energy to it that assured him that she had the potential for greatness. Beyond those three paintings, there was nothing. She’d done no shows and contributed to no exhibits. The woman didn’t even have a website to showcase her work.
In the four years that she’d lived in Owensport, he’d caught a few glimpses of her around town, her appearance adding to his confusion. She was a beautiful young woman who dressed in colorless tents designed for a woman three times her age. She kept her tumble of curls pinned back in a harsh bun and her head down, scurrying through life like a frightened mouse.
From his contacts at the museum, he knew that she was efficient, but beyond her duties as assistant—and later, head curator—there seemed to be nothing else to know about Violet Fabre. If she painted, she wasn’t telling anyone about it. No one had ever even seen her buying art supplies.
That, of course, only made him more interested in her work. More than that, he was interested in her. What would make a promising painte
r put down her brushes? Ian wanted to know what made her tick. When she took over for Murray as curator, he knew it was only a matter of time before she’d call about his Madden collection. By now, it was a tradition. When she did, he planned to request something ridiculous and see how she responded. Depending on her reaction—which would probably be laughter, rage, or stony silence—he’d gain an insight into her character.
Instead she’d agreed to strip for him, completely throwing off his plan.
From childhood, when people had courted his friendship because of his family’s wealth, Ian had preferred to keep everyone at a distance. He’d been burned enough times by people who were more interested in his money than in him to convince him of the wisdom of that decision. It hadn’t been much of a loss. In his experience, people were dull and predictable, wanting to talk only about their own small lives. New York City, for all its myriad opportunities, was as oppressive to him as Violet claimed it was to her. Wherever he went, he was surrounded by strangers who all seemed to know his name and want something from him.
His only escape had been found in museums and art galleries. People spoke about themselves, but art said so much more. In art, there was a vast world of ideas and emotions that transcended the mundane human existence, and he’d been immediately hooked. When he was surrounded by art, he no longer felt so alone.
Ian had longed to join that world, but no amount of art classes were enough to give him any talent himself. Instead, he’d dedicated himself to the next best thing—collecting. Geminids was the first piece he’d ever acquired, and every time he looked at it, he remembered that initial thrill at possessing something so exquisite. His art collection was his escape from the bustle of New York where everyone wanted a piece of him. Only with his collection did he escape the burden of being groomed to be his father’s successor as CEO of his massive biopharmaceutical company, a job his father had inherited from his own father and was determined to pass down to his son despite Ian’s complete lack of interest in the role.
When his father died of a massive coronary at age fifty-five, two days before Ian’s thirtieth birthday, he assumed his position as CEO of Carlisle Enterprises and promptly delegated as many of his responsibilities to his subordinates as possible. His father was no doubt watching in horror from the Great Beyond, but Ian had no intentions of repeating his patriarch’s mistakes. His father’s work had consumed him and sent him to an early grave. Ian preferred to enjoy his life. For his mother’s part, as long as the money for her designer clothes kept coming in, she didn’t care who was working to earn it. She’d remarried within the year to a man she met in Monte Carlo, and Ian couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken with her. If she missed him, she gave no sign.
After ensuring that the company would continue to thrive without his constant presence, Ian set to work creating a peaceful life for himself as far from the bustle of the big city as possible. He’d chosen Owensport as his home base because the small town’s laid-back pace was the polar opposite of New York’s electric atmosphere, and more practically, because it was an easy flight away on those occasions where his duties as CEO couldn’t be handled over the phone. Although he traveled for business and, more pleasurably, for gallery openings, Ian was quite content with his solitary life in Owensport. His collection was all the company he needed.
It hadn’t always been that way. When he first started taking an interest in art, he’d hoped his passion would be infectious. He’d envisioned having a companion who would share his enthusiasm—someone who would spend hours poring over paintings with him and call his attention to details he’d missed. They could argue about which artists were overrated and debate critical analyses, jetting off at a moment’s notice to take in a show.
Instead the women he took with him to galleries and museums tended to develop a glazed look in their eyes after only a few minutes. Giving up on his own social circle, he tried to befriend the artists themselves, only to discover that they saw him as a meal ticket instead of a friend. Finally, Ian gave up. People were a nuisance.
People didn’t interest him. Art did.
Art and Violet Fabre, he admitted to himself.
Based on his observations, Ian had expected Violet to be quiet and shy. Instead, she’d not only accepted his outrageous deal, but she’d also challenged him every step of the way, refusing to give any ground in her quest to obtain as many of his paintings as possible. The memory of her garter belt made him chuckle even as his cock twitched at the memory of how she’d looked in it.
Violet Fabre was full of surprises. Like everyone else, she wanted something from him, but Violet didn’t want his paintings for her own personal gain. Instead, she was trying to save her museum, and she was willing to do whatever it took—including taking off her clothes for a stranger—to make that happen. There was a nobility in that. Even more, she understood. Like him, she rejected the flashiness of New York in favor of Owensport’s authenticity. Like him, she knew that art was far more than just paint on canvas. Watching her choose paintings had been as exciting as watching her bare her body. Ian wanted to know what motivated her selections. He wanted to see his collection through her eyes. Watching her examine Sea Glass at Dawn had thrilled him with the desire to know what she was thinking as she inspected the brush strokes.
Violet hadn’t just caught his eye. She’d caught his interest, a far more difficult feat. The last thing Ian wanted was to risk his idyllic life in Owensport with a romantic entanglement, but there was something special about Violet that made him want to show her every piece of art he owned to see her reactions. He wanted to learn about her favorite artists and hear her praise his. He wanted to see her paintings.
He wanted her.
His cock throbbed, strangled by the tight denim of his jeans, and Ian groaned under his breath as he reached down to unzip and take himself out. Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to the memory of Violet standing in front of him, every curve on display. So many women tended to be bony and angular in pursuit of the current standard of beauty that Violet’s plush body was like something out of time. She was a Rubens painting come to life, a work of art that he longed to add to his collection. Her generous hips and dimpled bottom begged for a man’s hands, and Ian would do far more than simply loan a few paintings to her museum for the right to pillow his head against her ample breasts.
With a grunt, he wrapped his hand around himself, stroking roughly as he imagined tumbling her onto one of the long benches in the gallery, the black leather setting off her pale skin to perfection. She’d cup her breasts, offering them up for his approval as she teased her nipples, nibbling on her lower lip in the way he’d noticed was habitual for her.
Ian hissed as he imagined Violet sinking her teeth into his lip, her soft body yielding to him as he pushed her down and sheathed himself within her, losing himself within her welcoming depths. Her strong legs would wrap around his hips, holding him against her as he plundered her mouth, learning the taste of her as well as he’d already learned the sight. The muscles in his forearm bunched as he pumped himself faster, his cock begging to plunge into Violet.
She had so much more spirit than he’d dreamed when he first saw her. Any woman who would accept his offer just to save her museum had a fire inside of her, and he longed to coax those simmering embers into a full blaze. Violet was far from the shy mouse she appeared to be. She just needed the right touch to let her passion loose—his touch.
Using his other hand, Ian fondled the head of his cock, letting it rub against his palm as he imagined Violet beneath him, screaming in pleasure as he pounded into her, her nails cutting into his shoulders. She’d be a tigress. He was certain of it. He wondered if she knew.
With a deep groan, Ian went rigid, his seed spurting over his fingers as he imagined what Violet’s face would look like as she climaxed. Her pale skin would flush, her eyes glittering at him in challenge as she arched beneath him, letting him claim her for his own.
Breathing hard, he grabbed a
handful of tissues to clean himself up, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t just want a woman—he wanted this woman. He wanted Violet Fabre, and Ian Carlisle was accustomed to getting what he wanted. This afternoon was only the first step. Their contract stipulated that he had final approval over the exhibit, and he planned to be very hands-on indeed.
Violet Fabre would be his. She was the companion he’d hoped for all his life, the perfect addition to his collection.
Chapter 2
“Well? What do you think?”
As Violet left her desk in the museum’s lobby, she tripped over her own feet in her eagerness to see the large room being prepared to house the Madden exhibit. Leroy, the museum’s custodian, general handyman, and sole other employee, had just finished painting, and the burly man was standing in the middle of the space with his arms folded, waiting for her verdict.
“You did a beautiful job, Leroy.” The cream colored paint had been expertly applied, providing a neutral background for the Madden paintings.
“It better look good. It took forever,” he grumbled at her praise.
Now that the room was finished, Violet was left to second-guess her choice of color. Any undertones in the paint would affect how the viewer saw the color in the paintings, and if she made a mistake now, the entire exhibit would suffer.
Closing her eyes, she tried to picture Ian’s gallery. He’d displayed these very paintings to perfection, and Violet’s approach was to match his choices as much as she could. This was her first major exhibit as curator, and she didn’t feel prepared to trust her own judgement. The museum’s future was in her hands, and she needed everything to be perfect.
For someone who’d vowed to banish Ian Carlisle from her mind, Violet found herself thinking about him constantly. Even the simple act of undressing to get ready for bed had taken on new connotations. Every time she pulled a dress off over her head, she could feel his eyes upon her, leaving her looking guiltily over her shoulder, half-expecting him to simply appear in her shabby apartment.
