Play My Game: A 100 Series Standalone Romance Page 10

  It’s getting worse over time.

  The tremors that started out as a faint and fleeting lack of dexterity a few years ago are almost a daily annoyance now. I’ve been able to conceal it so far, but I know it can’t last. It won’t last. The whisky helps. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I pour an oversized shot into my glass and throw it back in a single swallow.

  The forty-year-old single malt cuts a warm, familiar path into my body. I gulp another large shot, then pour some more into the glass to take with me to the studio. By the time I make my way to the other end of the house, the whisky has worked enough of its magic that my hands feel loose and nimble again. The worst of the unsteadiness has passed.

  My surly attitude is less persuaded by the alcohol, especially when I walk back to the studio and find Melanie standing there unclothed and waiting for me, just as I’d instructed her. At the sight of her nudity, my molars clamp down hard behind the flat line of my mouth. The erection I’d been sporting when I left her a few minutes ago comes raging back to life again, arousal twisting through me in molten coils.

  Christ, she’s beautiful.

  Exquisite.

  Having already seen her undressed once before, it’s not like I’m unprepared for it now. But even if I’d seen her naked a thousand times, I doubt I’d ever be anything close to immune.

  I stop just inside the studio and soak her in with a hungry glance. Long, graceful limbs. Lush curves. Creamy smooth skin that makes my mouth water with the urge to run my tongue along every lovely inch of her.

  When our eyes clash, she lifts her chin a notch, defiance in her schooled expression. She doesn’t try to hide herself from me, instead standing tall with her delicate shoulders squared and her arms loose at her sides.

  The straightness of her spine only accentuates the thrust of her perfect breasts. The dusky nipples darken with each second my eyes linger on them, tightening into ripe little berries I’d like to take between my teeth. Below the hourglass curves of her abdomen, her sex draws my gaze like a magnetic force.

  I have to give her credit. I know she’s well out of her depth with a man like me, yet her poise is unshakable, even under the blaze of my lingering stare. At least until she notices the glass I’m holding. I see the flicker of disapproval move over her pretty face, and for some reason her reaction pricks a shame in me the way nothing else can.

  Pushing the feeling aside, I give her an unrepentant smirk. “Pardon my lack of manners. Would you care for something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Her reply is clipped and cool.

  “Suit yourself.” Deliberately, I lift my hand and take a slow drink while I regard her over the rim of the glass.

  Her gaze hardens on me. “Do you intend to be drunk every time we’re together like this?”

  “I’m nowhere close to drunk, darlin’.” I walk over to my work area and take a seat on the stool near my empty easel. The table next to it holds assorted paints and containers of cleaned brushes, along with dozens of sketching tools.

  It’s been months since I’ve touched any of them. Months since I’ve even wanted to try. But she’s changed all of that.

  Not because of the contract we’ve signed. Not even because of Daniel Hathaway, either. I look at Melanie Laurent and I see a goodness I haven’t known in a long time. I see a rare strength. Most of my paintings explore the fissures and frailties of human existence, the darkness, even depravity. With this woman, it’s her light that draws me. It’s what drew me to her that night at Muse, even more than the fact that she belonged to Daniel Hathaway.

  I see a ferocity and a tenaciousness that makes me want to protect her. From struggle and pain, from Hathaway. From anything and anyone who might hurt her or do her harm.

  If I were a better man, I’d want to keep her safe from me as well. Unfortunately for both of us, that’s where my honor ends.

  Because she refuses to look away from me as I get settled at my easel, I take another unhurried swallow of whisky, draining the glass before setting it down on the table next to me. There’s only the slightest tremble in my fingers as I reach for one of the large sketch pads situated nearby. Thank fuck for that. I flip open the pad and prop the blank canvas on the easel, then pick up one of the charcoal pencils from the table.

  I didn’t expect to feel so eager to begin, but my hands move almost on their own, as if driven to capture every nuance of what my eyes are seeing. Christ, it’s been so long since I’ve had this feeling, I’ve practically forgotten what it’s like. And never has my impulse to create been as intense as it is when I’m looking at this woman.

  I sense her uncertain gaze on me as I sweep the first few experimental lines across the paper.

  “Um . . . what do you want me to do? Should I sit somewhere or is it better if I stand still?”

  “Do whatever feels natural. I’m just warming up before we get started.”

  That’s not entirely true. I’m only sketching rudimentary lines and arcs for now, trying to make sure the tremors are gone. As for warming up, I’m well beyond that. My hand moves with a speed and fluidity I can hardly control. Strokes of charcoal rasp swiftly against the paper, bringing pieces of her to life on the page. The shape of her body. The soft fall of her auburn hair around her shoulders. The elegance of her limbs. The enticing curve of her hip.

  “Is it all right if I look around, then?”

  I grunt a nonverbal reply, too absorbed to bother with words. I tear off the top sheet and let it fall to the floor as I begin a second sketch, my eyes flicking in rapid fire from the canvas to her and back again as she begins a casual tour of my studio.

  I’m riveted to her movements, to the measured grace she exudes in spite of the fact that I haven’t exactly made this whole thing easy for her. If she is self-conscious about being nude in front of me, she seems determined not to show it. With her hands loosely clasped at the small of her back, she slowly investigates the art supplies and half-finished canvases that have collected in nearly every corner of the room.

  She pauses in front of a crate of my paintings that I brought back last year from various gallery loans and exhibits in the city. Her hands are careful, respectful, as she combs through the half-dozen or so works. I hear her breath catch when she spots one of my more personal pieces, an unsigned portrait called Beauty.

  It depicts a regal, yet weathered, brunette whose aging face and deflated nude body hints at the illness that almost destroyed her. But instead of sorrow or defeat in her intense stare, her expression while she brings herself to climax with one thin hand between her parted legs is one of pleasure. It is carnal. Uninhibited. Defiant.

  Just like the woman who posed for me.

  “I know this painting,” Melanie says. “I saw it hanging in Dominion up in Midtown.” With the faintest blush riding her cheeks, she casts a questioning look at me over her shoulder. “It’s one of yours?”

  I nod gruffly, my hands sketching feverishly as I try to capture the symmetry of her body and the way her hair seems to float like fiery, silken waves over her shoulder. From this angle, the way she’s rotated slightly toward me, I can just see the hint of the brutal scar that runs along her side. I sketch that, too, because I’ve never allowed any lies on my canvas.

  Except for the ones I tell myself.

  “I’ve spent a fair amount of time in and out of that gallery,” I murmur, glancing up from my sketch if only to look at her for a longer moment. “I’m surprised we didn’t run into each other there.”

  If we had, she would already be mine and everything about this conversation, this moment, would be different. Everything except my unfinished business with the man who’s had the undeserved privilege of her trust and affection these past several months.

  She shrugs, folding her arms in front of her and obscuring the pretty side view of her breast I’d been enjoying. “I’ve only been to Dominion once, about a year ago now. My best friend Evelyn’s brother gave her tickets to a private reception. Some kind of fundraise
r Baine International was hosting at the gallery.”

  I’m aware of her friendship with the African-American former runway model, having seen the women together that first night at my club. “Evelyn’s brother is Andrew Beckham,” I clarify. “He’s Dominic Baine’s personal attorney.”

  “That’s right,” she says, tilting her head. “Do you know Andrew?”

  “I know both men. Beck’s a decent guy and a damn fine lawyer. As for Nick Baine, he and I go way back. He’s a good friend, one of the best anyone could ever want.”

  It hadn’t always been a smooth road for the two of us, but what I didn’t understand then was that the tormented artist-turned-billionaire-corporate-titan had been fighting demons that rivaled—possibly even surpassed—my own. Nick’s amazing fiancée, Avery Ross, helped slay those demons with him. If anyone deserves a happy future, it’s the both of them.

  As for our fucked-up pasts, it’s not an understatement to say that Nick and I both owe our lives to the woman in the painting that’s caught Melanie’s attention.

  She turns back to look at the portrait, studying it in silence while I start on a third sketch of her. She’s just as gorgeous from behind, so fucking sexy it’s all I can do not to snap my pencil in two as I follow the lean muscles of her legs and spine and the luscious curves of her ass. She leans forward for a closer look at the painting and my brain nearly explodes with the sudden urge to get up from my stool and bend her farther over so I can feast on her until she comes on my tongue.

  “This one’s so different compared to your other work,” she says.

  As if sensing the dark weight of my thoughts, she abruptly glances back at me. My animalistic-sounding grunt is pure caveman, but it must seem like disgruntled insult to her. I’m sure my scowl doesn’t help.

  She hurries to explain. “I mean, it’s impossible to mistake your style for anyone else’s. Dark, edgy, erotic. A little unsettling. Unflinchingly raw. But there’s something about this portrait that seems . . . I don’t know. It’s tender,” she says, her gaze soft and curious, piercing me like an arrow from across the room. “That’s what I thought when I saw this painting in Dominion. I thought whoever painted this woman, this resilient ‘Beauty,’ must have cared for her very much. He must have loved her.”

  It’s a question as much as a keen observation, one I’m under no inclination to answer. I’ve already warned Melanie that she can forget any ideas about peering under the hood of my personal life. That goes double for my past.

  So, I’m not sure why the words gather in my throat as she levels that inquisitive look on me. My hand moves over the sketch paper, recreating the doe-eyed softness of her stare and the tempting sweetness of her slightly parted lips.

  “Her name was Kathryn,” I mutter as I focus on my canvas. “We were . . . friends.”

  “Friends.” She glances at the profanely intimate painting, then back to me. “Were you in love with her?”

  I shrug, considering. “For a while, I suppose, off and on. She’d been a part of my life longer than anyone else.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Nineteen years, give or take. She took me in when I first came to New York.” I say it as if the date is of no consequence, despite that it’s seared into me as indelible as a brand. Nineteen years ago in April, the day after my mother’s funeral, with both of my parents dead by then, I left the only home I’d ever known and boarded a bus bound for New York City.

  “You couldn’t have been more than a teenager then,” Melanie says, a note of concern in her voice.

  “I was sixteen.”

  “Just a boy.”

  I scoff under my breath. “Hardly that.”

  “And she was older?”

  “Much,” I say around a low chuckle that holds no malice whatsoever. “Kathryn Tremont was a friend, lover, savior, and mentor to a lot of young men over the years. She only took what was freely given, and her kindness knew no bounds. Neither did her generosity.”

  “Kathryn Tremont?” Melanie gapes. “The Manhattan socialite and philanthropist? That Kathryn Tremont? Her name is on the art building at the university I attend.”

  “One and the same,” I confirm with a smirk. “Kathryn lived out loud, no question about that. She was still keeping a handful of new companions at her side when she died of cancer last year.”

  “I saw her obituary in the Times. They dedicated an entire page to her and her countless charitable works. I’m truly sorry for your loss, Jared.”

  “She was a good person,” I admit, unable to diminish Kathryn’s importance in my life, even if only to reject Melanie’s compassion. “I made that painting of her after she beat cancer the first time. I gave it to her unsigned, thinking it was so revealing she’d want to keep it private. Not Kathryn. She hung it in the main salon of her Fifth Avenue mansion for several years before lending it out to her favorite galleries for the public to enjoy.”

  “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

  “Yeah. She was.”

  Melanie nods, then looks away from me. Continuing her exploration of my studio, she walks over to a paint-spattered table and plucks one of my old paintbrushes from a cup full of them. I watch her tap the soft, fan-edged bristles against her lips. My cock surges in response, going hard with hungered want.

  “Where was home for you before you came to the city?”

  “Kentucky.” The word sounds strangled, little more than a growl. “I grew up on a horse farm in Lexington.”

  I shouldn’t tell her even that much. It cuts too close to the beginning of everything for me. The beginning of the end. She doesn’t know how much the words cost me, and right now, I’ll be damned if I let her know.

  She turns a curious glance on me as she places the brush back in its container. “Now I understand why that smoky accent of yours makes me think of green, rolling hills and mist-covered mountain ranges.” A small smile plays at the edge of her mouth. “Were you a little cowboy as a kid, Mr. Rush?”

  I give a gruff shake of my head. “No. We raised thoroughbreds. The farm had been in my mother’s family for five generations.”

  Christ, why am I still talking? I have no desire to crack open my past right now, least of all with her. Impatient to be done with this entire conversation and the arousal that’s making my vision swim, I continue sketching at an even more feverish pace, hoping my lengthening silence will prove uncomfortable enough to close the subject.

  Of course, it doesn’t work on this woman.

  She only peers more intently at me now. When she speaks again, there is a note of caution in her quiet voice. “You said it had been in your family for generations. Past tense. What happened to it?”

  “We lost it.” The words come out clipped and angry. “My father made a terrible mistake.”

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “He trusted the wrong man with all his investments. Turns out it was a Ponzi scheme. The bastard sold him and several other investors phony stocks while he pocketed all his clients’ money. When the scheme was exposed, there was nothing to be done. We lost everything, practically overnight.”

  “Oh, my God. That must have been awful for you,” she says, her tone soft, compassionate. “I’m so sorry.”

  Her sympathy over this loss feels like a rake chewing up unhealed wounds. “Why should you be sorry? It’s not like you had anything to do with it.”

  It’s a dick thing to say, but too late to call it back. I’m not sure what to call the churning fire gnawing in my veins. Is it leftover fury at my father and his recklessness that carried such a steep price? Or does the heat raging within me have more to do with this innocent woman I’ve now dragged into the center of everything that’s wrong and corrupted in my life?

  On a snarl, I decide it’s both.

  I toss my charcoal onto the table and reach for the glass of whisky, forgetting I’ve already drained it. Anger spikes as I stare at the empty glass. But it’s not the anger that drags a growl up the back of my throat. Wh
at truly sets me off are the faint tremors vibrating through my fingers, making the crystal tremble in my grasp.

  Slamming the glass back down, I vault up from the stool. “Goddamn it.”

  Melanie flinches. No, it’s something more than that. She jolts in response to my churlish outburst, most of the color draining from her cheeks in less than an instant. It’s terror I see in her eyes, instinctive, visceral terror.

  I’ve pushed and provoked her ruthlessly every time she’s been in front of me, but this is the only time I’ve seen her composure slip. She shrinks back, staring at me like she’s facing a wild animal.

  Hell, maybe she is.

  Her fearful gaze shreds me. I turn away from it, and three furious strides carry me out the door of the studio. I head back to the kitchen to retrieve the rest of the Macallan.

  Fuck the need for a glass.

  I mean to kill the whole damn bottle.

  15

  JARED

  I don’t even hear Melanie following me until I wheel around with the whisky in one hand and find her standing right behind me.

  She’s dressed now, albeit hastily. She didn’t bother with her lacy little white bra or the panties that she’d folded neatly on a chair in the studio. Her light cotton dress is wrapped around her like armor, her arms crossed in front of her like a shield.

  She’s wary of me, and with good cause. Even so, she holds my glare as she tilts her head up to look me in the eye. “What just happened back there? What’s wrong with you?”

  A cold laugh bursts out of me. Christ, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  Now that I’m squared off against her with only inches to separate us, the trace of palsy in my fingers seems the least of my concerns. I want her. Our agreement prohibits me from touching her, but I’m not thinking about contracts or legalities. I’m not thinking about Hathaway or how satisfying it would be to seduce his woman right out of his arms.

  All I’m thinking about is her.

  How breathtakingly beautiful she is. How bold and aggravatingly tenacious she is, even when she’s afraid.