Page 15 of Art of Sin

7confusion

When Gideon’sfront door opens at 9:00 a.m. on the dot Sunday morning, I blink in surprise. The stranger smirks, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. He’s attractive but rough-looking, with colorful tattoos down the length of both arms and one peeking up from the collar of a faded black T-shirt. Shaggy brown hair, low-slung jeans, and bare feet complete the image of No Fucks Given.

“What are you supposed to be, her bodyguard?” he asks me.

I glance at Maggie, who looks equally puzzled. “What? We’re here to see Gideon.”

“Oh, I know.” Crystal blue eyes shift from me to Maggie and give her a lazy perusal. “He definitely has a type, doesn’t he?”

Maggie is beautiful, slim, and Asian. I put two and two together and come up with a mental image of Lucy Linn, Gideon’s ex-wife.

It bothers me. More than it should.

From the corner of her mouth, Maggie whispers, “Um, what the heck is going on?”

I take a purposeful step forward, blocking Maggie from view and standing toe-to-toe with the man. He smells better than I expected, woodsy and fresh, and up close his face is achingly handsome. The kind of handsome that shows up on billboards and runways.

“I’m Deirdre Moss. Who the hell are you?”

Surprise opens his eyes wide. “No shit? You’reDeirdre? Color me shocked. You are definitely not his type.”

Maggie snaps, “Then he’s an idiot. Let us in, Idiot 2.0.”

The man smiles, eyes glittering on mine. “I didn’t say she wasn’t my type.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter.

He laughs and sticks out a hand. “I’m Finn, a friend of Gideon’s.”

I shake his hand and release it quickly. “What are you doing here?”

His brows lift. “Damn, you’re a ballbuster, aren’t you? I’m here to photograph you. Gideon is shit with a Nikon.”

Copper teases my eye and I look past Finn to see Gideon walking toward the front door. Bastard.

“This wasn’t a part of the agreement,” I say when he’s within earshot.

He steps up beside Finn. They trade a meaningful glance before Gideon fixes his gaze on me.

“You never asked who’d be photographing you. Hello, Maggie. Nice to see you again.”

“Y-you, too.”

I don’t blame her for stuttering; it isn’t every day you learn you’re the preferred meat of a dangerous carnivore.

“Come on in,” Gideon says, opening the door farther. “Finn, is everything set up in the studio?”

“Yep.”

Maggie and I follow the duo down an airy hallway. Overhead skylights brighten the space, calling attention to the paintings hung at intervals. They’re abstract, lacking subjects, but from my online research I easily recognize Gideon’s style.

Bright. Bold. Provocative.

We turn a corner and Gideon glances at me. “Do you need to use the restroom?”

I shake my head instead of answering, unsure of my voice. I’m so tense I doubt I could pee even if I wanted to. Gideon nods, his demeanor all business, and gestures for me to follow Finn.

He leads us into a huge, blindingly white box. The only color is to my right, where an array of canvases occupy easels or lean against the wall. Paint-spattered drop cloths line the floor beneath the area. Directly ahead of me, floor-to-ceiling windows let in an obscene amount of light.

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