Page 36 of Art of Sin

16degradation

“Given your job title,Snowflake, I’m surprised you look so sour. Don’t you know there are cameras watching? Father does love fogging the lens. Click, click, happy family.”

Strong hands guide my body around a dance floor stuffed with diamonds and tuxedos. Gideon holds me too close for a proper waltz—we’re being stared at. Given his nature, I have to wonder if it’s all an act. What is he trying to project? Why does he want us here for his father to see?

So much of him is a mystery. A formidable castle of identity built with lies as mortar. Perhaps that explains our odd, doomed chemistry. We are the same, just like he said.

Wild animals.

The lapels of his jacket continually graze my chest. My nipples ache, hypersensitized. Warm, minty breath puffs against the side of my face, and the copper-blond stubble he couldn’t be bothered to shave tickles my ear. He smells like dark forest nights, like indulgence and impulse and bad decisions. The most aggravating and stimulating detail of all? He’s not wearing any underwear, a fact repeatedly made known as we move across the dance floor and our hips brush.

“Tut tut. Loosen up, mon bijou.”

Grinning down at me, he gives my body a playful shake. Like he owns it. Like it’s a plaything for his amusement.

I should be angry. Should storm away or set some boundaries or slap him. The me of just days ago would have. Or… I’d like to think she would have.

But now? I’m shamefully, helplessly aroused. On a heated, primal level, I enjoy it when he calls me his treasure in French. And I’m equally affected when he calls me Snowflake, like I’m something he wants to melt. Delicate and complex. Transitory.

The pet names, the familiarity in how he treats me—like we’re old lovers not near strangers—I love it.

Bullshit, all of it, but damn, it’s intoxicating.

And humiliating. Degrading. A middle finger to the years I’ve spent fighting for respect in a male-dominated industry. My hard work, my discipline, my pride and success… I don’t know how to reconcile the woman I created with the woman who feels this growing infatuation with a narcissistic, morally-suspect hedonist.

Gideon’s fingers apply a burst of pressure on my back. I blink at him, processing the amusement—and wariness—in his eyes.

“What are you thinking about with that dreadful look on your face?”

I swallow. “I was thinking about your weird interest in me, and how it’s like the curiosity of a sociopathic child holding a magnifying glass in bright daylight over a trail of ants.”

His smile spreads, slow and vulpine. “Hmm. That’s some theory. Have you considered the possibility I merely find you interesting in a world in which very little interests me?”

“Maybe you also find ants interesting when they catch fire.”

He grimaces. “Lovely.”

I shrug, unapologetic. “You asked.”

“You really think I’m a sociopath?” Gideon chuckles, no offense in his tone.

I sigh. “Not really. A freak of nature? Yes.”

His chuckle gains volume, rolling warmly down my spine. And God,the sound is astonishing. Unencumbered. Authentic. I wonder what it cost him to claim that laugh. To be so secure in himself that he truly doesn’t care what anyone says.

Or maybe it’s all fake. He can’t be real.

The long night hits me with a sudden undertow. All at once, my feet throb, my back aches, and my eyelids become sandpaper. Since we walked into the gala four hours ago, it’s been nonstop handshaking, air-kissing, and superficial chitchat. Cocktails. Hors d’oeuvres. Dinner. Dessert. Auction and after-dinner drinks. Oh, how the rich love their extended evenings, energized by their own significance.

Everyone and their mother wanted to talk to Gideon Masters. Golden boy of art, prodigal son of the evening’s host. During the cocktail hour, he turned down over a million dollars’ worth of commissions.

With my help, he also dodged questions from several rabid entertainment journalists looking for something juicy. In the end my efforts fell short, and those weasels got their copy and back page photos anyway. Thanks to Gideon. When he dragged me onto the dance floor forty minutes ago, I went half-blind from the flashes. Sealing our fate as a tabloid sacrifice is the fact every time someone—male or female—has tried to cut in, Gideon has turned them away. Like we’re only interested in each other’s company.

What is his game?

“You haven’t been sleeping again,” he murmurs.

I ignore both the words and the worry in them. “Your wife visited my office on Wednesday.” Despite effort, my voice wavers.

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