Page 32 of Art of Sin

The words slip out. Horrified, I cover my mouth with my hands. Gideon, however, is amused. Shocking. Shaking his head, he finishes collecting the pieces of lamp and rises with the waste bin.

Passing me, he glances down at my frozen face. “Come on, Snowflake. I’ve got just the thing to help you sleep.”

“I’m not—”

“Relax, I’m not offering a fuck, just a joint.”

He disappears into the hallway.

I stare at a wall until my vision blurs. “Fuck it,” I tell the world and follow him.

* * *

I’ve already liedto three people this morning, citing car trouble as the cause of my lateness. The real cause is almost inconceivable—the best seven hours of sleep I’ve had in years. All thanks to Gideon Masters and his stash of high-quality marijuana.

“You should put on some clothes.”

His brows twitch in amusement, but he makes no move to acquiesce. Lounging in the same place on the couch that I last remember him in, the only differences are the miles of skin on display and the thick joint between his fingers.

He releases a cloud of smoke. “The way I see it, you’re the one overdressed. Want to borrow a shirt?”

“No, thank you,” I say, despite how uncomfortable I am in my bra and work clothes. “Are you going to pass that or what?”

Glittering, half-mast eyes find mine. He passes the joint. As I bring it to my lips, he drops back, arms folded behind his head, and grins as I inhale.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve met a woman who doesn’t give a shit who I am? Who doesn’t kowtow or angle for my bed?”

Given that I’m holding my breath, I roll my eyes.

He chuckles. “It’s rather nice. If I didn’t want to paint you so badly, I might convince you to marry me.”

I choke on smoke, coughing until my eyes water.

Gideon laughs and grabs the joint, his warm fingers grazing mine. Lingering a moment too long. Not nearly long enough.

Sitting back on the couch, I close my eyes and surrender to the darkness. Warm and safe in my tree-root cocoon.

Maggie’s voice yanks me into the present. “…and your dress for the gala will be delivered Thursday. Did you get the email from Phillips? You have a lunch date with Valerie Fischer tomorrow. She’s the—”

“Head curator of The Voigt Museum of Contemporary Art, where Gideon has a hugely anticipated showing in two months,” I finish. “According to Phillips, she’s also the person I want to know in the art community, so I’d better make a good impression.”

Maggie nods, brushing bangs from her eyes. “Okay, good. You sound a little hoarse. Are you feeling okay? Need some tea?”

“I’m fine. Anything else?” I ask, my gaze on my computer screen.

“I think that’s—”

She’s interrupted by a knock on the door. Trent walks inside, followed by my secretary, Joan. The diminutive woman approaches my desk, wringing her hands at her waist.

“Joan, what’s going on?” I ask carefully.

“Yes, I’m so sorry, Ms. Moss, but there’s a woman in the lobby who insists on seeing you. She won’t take no for an answer, even though I’ve told her several times that you’re not taking new clients. I know not to bother you when you’re in a meeting, but—”

“It’s okay, we were just wrapping up.” I glance a question at Trent, who clearly insisted she deliver the message.

He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not going to believe who it is. Lucy Linn.”

“Gideon’s ex-wife?” gasps Maggie.

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