Raising Hell

by Julie Kenner

  “Not at all,” Nick said. He understood the need to fulfill a wild urge. To let passion rule over intellect. “Was that what you had planned tonight? To go a little crazy?”

  “Hardly.” She grinned, clearly amused by the thought. “Maybe that’s my problem. Even when I want to go wild, I don’t quite know how.”

  Nick shook his head, not understanding.

  “I volunteer at an arts center,” she said. “They have painting, writing, pottery, all sorts of classes. But they also teach basic literacy. Hardly going wild in the big, bad city.” She shrugged.

  “But you chose a little wildness tonight,” he said. “You chose me.”

  Her eyes widened, and she nodded, just a little. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  “But I still don’t understand the sketch,” he said. “Why do you want me to sketch you? And why now?”

  “This may sound silly, but I’d pretty much convinced myself today that I’d lost the chance to experience being a model. I figured I gave it my best shot, but got nowhere. So maybe it was time to face facts. Start applying for schools. Quit thinking about modeling.” She drew a breath. “But now I’m thinking that if you sketched me, I’d know what it feels like. And if it’s anything like what I’ve imagined, then I’ll keep at it. At least for a little longer.”

  He watched her, for the first time wondering if he could take her soul. The women he’d painted before had been beautiful but careless with their soul, with their essence. Women who would willingly trade their bodies to get what they wanted. Women, in other words, who would have given him exactly what he’d taken merely for the promise of a brief moment of fame.

  The stealing of a soul was a complex process, and he’d never much analyzed it; he simply did. But the one thing he knew was that it always started with the loosening of inhibitions. And with those previous women, that step had essentially already been accomplished. It had been nothing to steal a hint of their soul and the women had hardly missed it at all.

  With Delilah, the task would not be so easy. Certainly he wouldn’t even bother trying with a mere table sketch. But perhaps the sketch would entice her.

  And entice her he needed to do. Whereas his previous models’ ambition stemmed from vanity, Delilah’s stemmed from a sense of self. Internal rather than external. A trickier proposition, to be sure. And for the first time, he doubted his ability to satisfy his father’s quest.

  No. He could do this. He had to do this. The woman might be more of a challenge, but certainly the task was not impossible. All that was needed was more finesse. More creativity. And a little bit of time.

  Certainly, it would be necessary to get close to the woman. Close enough to earn her trust. Close enough to unravel some restraints. And, more important, close enough to steal.

  Lila fidgeted on her stool, unnerved by how much she’d revealed to this man. He probably thought she was an idiot, the way she’d blathered on and on. There was something about him, though. Something that drew her in and, apparently, affected her as potently as a few strong drinks.

  Lord knew, he loosened her tongue. Not to mention that his mere proximity left her feeling warm and decadent. Itchy, even, but in a wholly sensual way. Like she might die if he didn’t scratch the itch… and she might melt if he did.

  “So will you?” she asked, shaking off the languor in her bones. “Will you sketch me now?”

  He leaned back, his silver-gray eyes examining her with an almost feral intensity as he looked her up, then down. She tried to sit still, but couldn’t quite manage. The heat of his gaze was so intense it might have been a caress, and her nipples peaked under his scrutiny, raising hard nubs under the soft Lycra of her top. Instinctively, she started to cross her arms over her chest, but fought the urge, keeping them at her sides, and feeling more exposed—and more turned on—than she ever had in her life.

  His inspection finished, he met her eyes, the corner of his mouth curving up into a silent smile. He turned away, saying nothing, then took a quick sip of his scotch. He reached for two cocktail napkins, pulled them close, then patted his mouth with one.

  Honestly, she wanted to scream. “Well?” she demanded, forcing her voice to remain calm and steady.

  “Of course I’ll sketch you,” he said. He met her eyes, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “In fact, at the moment I can think of only one thing I’d like to do more.”

  “Oh.” She knew she shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “What’s that?”

  One beat, then another. Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm so intense she was certain everyone in the bar could hear it.

  And then, just when she was certain he wasn’t going to answer, he traced the curve of her cheekbone with his thumb, then leaned close. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her hair, and his voice was a whisper against her ear, sending shivers trilling down her spine. “The only thing I want more than to sketch you,” he murmured, “is to paint you.”

  Lila exhaled, her eyes still closed, her body burning from the remnants of his breath caressing her skin. That hadn’t been the response she’d expected. But somehow his words were all the more erotic, holding a promise of things more decadent and revealing than mere sex.

  “Shall I?” he asked.

  And then, opening her eyes to look at him, she nodded.

  He grinned and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to produce a stick of charcoal.

  She lifted an eyebrow and he shrugged. “Accountants carry calculators,” he said. “It’s not that surprising.”

  “Do you have a pad in there, too?”

  He drew the napkin closer. “No need. Now sit quietly,” he directed. “And watch me.”

  He cupped her face, tilting her head just slightly, then urged her hand up until she found herself resting her chin on her fist, watching him from this posed position. And watching the image of herself come to life on the tiny cocktail napkin.

  He started with a sweep of the charcoal. One line that seemed to have no connection to her at all. No connection, that is, except for the smoldering way that he looked at her. A smoky gaze that seemed reflected in the smudged charcoal image emerging on the paper.

  The curve of her jaw. Then the line of her neck. A flick of his wrist and the tendrils of her hair seemed to materialize from so many lines on the paper. And then, most miraculously of all, he caught the expression in her eyes. And, seeing that, she knew that he could never doubt that she’d agree to be painted. Because her expression was rapturous. And she knew the truth of what he’d sketched. Because with every piercing look—with every sure stroke of the charcoal—Lila realized that she couldn’t walk away without letting him paint her. His scrutiny made her feel both alive and unique. And even if she never did another bit of modeling, the portrait he’d create would fulfill her fantasies. More, Nicholas Velnias would be giving her the chance at immortality. And, really, what girl could say no to that?

  ‡

  Chapter Five

  Nick leaned against the door frame and peered into the only fully enclosed room in his entire loft. In front of him, Delilah frowned at her duffel bag, then withdrew a crumpled dress and tried to shake out a few wrinkles. As far as he could tell, she didn’t realize he was there, and for a few moments longer, he wanted to simply watch her.

  They’d left the bar for her apartment, where they’d gathered a few of her things before coming back to his place. He’d led her through the loft, trying to see it with her eyes. The wide-open space, filled with the scent of turpentine and oils, of fresh canvas and sawdust. Canvases and bits of wood for frames leaned haphazardly against the walls. Tubes of paint, mason jars with soaking paint brushes, and dozens of pages ripped from magazines littered the floor and covered the five utilitarian worktables that ringed the room and constituted the only furniture in the loft other than a luxurious bed, a small dining table, two spindly chairs, and an armoire for Nick’s clothes. Nick had never before focused on the spartan quarters, but now he had to wonder what
she must think of him. Devoted to his art, he presumed, and that was the truth. Once he’d found the loft—once he’d installed rows of windows to let in the light—all he’d cared about was painting. Food and sleep were afterthoughts. Even sex, though the rush that came from watching an image come forth on a canvas was often more than enough to make him hard. Fortunately, his previous models had always been understanding and flattered, if not downright demanding.

  He’d built the guest room about a year ago after he’d been frustrated one too many times by the inability to get in touch with his current model when he woke up at 3 a.m. with the urge to paint.

  Now he watched Delilah, and while his fingers itched to paint her in the moonlight, he also wanted simply to touch her. The urge was so overpowering that he almost took a step forward. He reined it in, though. Time enough for that after he’d begun the task of capturing her image on the canvas.

  She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. “You’re staring.”

  “Yes. I am,” he said. “Studying the way you move, the flow of your body. The way your clothing hugs your curves as you go back and forth from the bed to the closet.”

  “Oh.” She pulled a T-shirt out, scowled at the wrinkles, but didn’t bother shaking it. She put it in a bureau drawer, then started to fold up the now-empty duffel. She stayed focused on the job, her face turned away from him. Even so, he could see the way her lips curved in pleasure, as if the thought of him watching her gave her a secret little trill of delight.

  Interesting.

  “But you’re not going to be painting me moving,” she said.

  “Perhaps I just like watching you.”

  “Yeah?” Another shy look. “I guess that’s a good thing since you’ll be looking at me for a while.”

  “A very good thing,” he said.

  “So, um, am I kicking you out of your bedroom? Because I can just sleep on a couch or something.” A little crease formed over her nose. “Not that I saw a couch…”

  “Decorating hasn’t been a huge priority.”

  “Men,” she said, grinning.

  “I stand accused. And no, you’re not kicking me out of my bedroom. I sleep out there.” As he spoke, she’d come toward him, and now he led her into the room even as he pointed toward the massive bed, complete with black silk sheets and a blood-red comforter.

  “Right,” she said, then let out a nervous cough as she stared at the bed. “So, um, where do you want me?”

  A loaded question. “Where would you be most comfortable?” he asked. He was playing a game, pretending to be the polite, considerate host, when in reality he wanted nothing more than to pull her to him, ply her body with his hands and mouth, and then leave her sated in the bed, her soft, glowing body ready to be immortalized in pigment and oil.

  “Oh. I … I don’t know. I mean, I—”

  He held up a hand, amused by her befuddled expression. “Honestly, it’s not a fair question. The truth is that I could paint you anywhere and create a work of stunning beauty. The real question is what composition is worthy of the creation of a masterpiece.”

  Her eyes flashed with gratitude, and he found himself charmed by her innocence. How quaint. And how interesting.

  “I guess that’s your department,” she said. “I’ll just do what you say.”

  He fought to keep his expression bland, afraid that if he commented on the more lascivious possibilities that her words suggested she’d blush so brightly she’d ignite the turpentine. Those lascivious possibilities, however, intrigued him more than he’d anticipated.

  She had that effect on him. He supposed he’d always known that she would. Should he ever find the woman he’d for so long imagined capturing on the canvas, how could he not want to possess her fully, both body and soul? How could he not be drawn to her? Want to consume her? Want to lose himself in her?

  And yet, despite everything he’d known before he’d met her, Delilah Burnett was still a surprise. He’d expected the physical craving. What he hadn’t anticipated was the … what? Curiosity, perhaps. Or anticipation. Maybe even joy. An unfamiliar and not entirely unwelcome emotion that coursed through him.

  He hadn’t truly required her to move into the loft. There was a convenience to having his models near, of course. But he could have made do. Still, having her nearby made practical sense. After all, he had his father’s work to do, and the sooner he satisfied that, the sooner he’d obtain his prize.

  But that was all bullshit. He hadn’t brought her to his loft because of his father; he’d brought her because he wanted her near. Wanted her.

  Nick didn’t fear much in this world. But the course of desire that heated his veins when he looked at her had him trembling.

  “Nick?”

  “Follow me,” he said, his voice gruffer than he would have liked. He took her to the bed, waited while she crawled on. Then he stepped back until he was right beside that one canvas he’d had for so long. The canvas that had been waiting for her.

  As he sketched a few preliminary lines with a pencil, she knelt on the bed, her hands awkwardly placed on her knees. “Should I just sit here?”

  He shook his head, his mind now only on the canvas and the image of the woman he was trying to coax from the lead. “Something different. Lay down,” he said. “On your side, and look at me. Good. Good.”

  He stroked the canvas again, the faint gray line hinting at the outline of the portrait to come. Just a single gray line marring the clean, crisp canvas. But that was enough. It wasn’t right. In his mind, Nick could see how every stroke would fill the canvas, like a chess player planning the game through to the end. And at the end of his game, there was no masterpiece. Not yet, anyway.

  “No,” he said, stalking away from the canvas. He tossed more pillows onto the bed, then took her by the elbow, tugging her back gently among them. She wore a white button-down shirt, a single button at the collar unfastened. His fingers moved to the next button, this one modestly tight. As he started to undo the button, she slapped him away, her fingers closing over her chest.

  “If you’d like a wardrobe alteration, just tell me.”

  “Sorry,” he said, coming back to himself. “I get caught up.”

  “But you aren’t happy with it,” she said. “Not yet.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Not yet.”

  “Is it me?”

  Such an innocence filled her voice that he was compelled to kneel on the bed beside her. He stroked her face, wishing he could somehow make her understand the perfection that he saw in her. But there really weren’t words. The best he could do was render her beauty on canvas and hope that the portrait proved her worth.

  “It’s not you,” he said simply.

  She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything. For giving me this opportunity. And, I guess, for wanting me here. For wanting to paint me.”

  Nick nodded, but found himself not quite able to meet her eyes. Foolish emotion. He did want to paint her. And she wanted what he could give her. True, she probably didn’t want to lose what he intended to take, but this wasn’t about what the girl wanted. It was about proving himself to his father. And to do that, Nick had to see this through. Best to forget about the larger issue and simply focus on creating his masterpiece.

  “Like this,” he said, his fingers moving down to cup the still-fastened button. “The purity of a plain white shirt coupled with the invitation of several open buttons.”

  He started to work the buttons free, but her hands closed over his. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t fight him on this. He needed her open and vulnerable. He needed inside this woman because he couldn’t take what he couldn’t see.

  His fears, though, were unfounded. She closed her fingers over his, and the heat of her touch shot through him with a feeling of coming home. Her lips parted, and he had to force himself to wait for her words when all he wanted to do was lean in and capture her in a
kiss. “I’ll do it,” she said, then undid the next two buttons.

  The crisp white cotton parted, revealing the swell of her breasts, trapped in a pale pink bra that fastened with a simple clasp in front.

  Nick couldn’t help himself. He reached out and traced his finger down between her breasts, noting with interest the way her nipples hardened against the lace. He stroked his thumb over her nipple, his breath catching in his throat, mesmerized by the way she closed her eyes and arched her head back.

  Her movements were slow and subtle, but she tilted her breasts up in a silent invitation. Greedily, he cupped her breasts, feeling them swell against his palms.

  Glorious Hades! How he wanted this woman. A woman like none he’d ever had before, with a purity that seemed to reach out, begging for him to take and make his own.

  “Delilah,” he whispered.

  That, though, was a mistake. Her eyes flicked open, and she reached for the lapels of her shirt, tugging it modestly closed even as she slid to the far side of the bed. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not,” he said, hoping for a smile but receiving nothing in return.

  She stopped by the window, then reached her hand up to stroke her fingers along the glass. Outside, the setting sun burned orange in the sky, painting her body with an ethereal glow and setting her hair on fire.

  Her shirt, though more modest now, was still unbuttoned, revealing only a hint of her bra.

  Magic seemed to wash over her, as if the firmaments had both consumed and released her, leaving her trapped between Heaven and Hell, earth and sky.

  This, Nick realized, was the image he’d been waiting for.

  She started to turn toward him, but he held out a hand and cried, “No! Don’t move.”

  She froze, one eyebrow lifting. “Nick?”

  “Say nothing,” he said. “Just stay stay there. Stay, and let me capture this moment.”

  Lila stood completely still, her palm pressed against the window, the cool of the glass a counterpoint to the heat that filled her body. So intense, actually, that it was a wonder steam didn’t rise from beneath her fingers.