Page 37 of Art of Sin

Gideon laughs silently, breath puffing against my ear. “Ex-wife.” A pause. “Let me guess. She was pissed about me painting you.”

“Bingo.” I glance up, barely meeting his gaze before looking away. “Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t what?”

“Paint her?”

A broad, warm hand slides across my lower back, anchoring me like he’s afraid I’ll bolt. I wouldn’t—won’t. I can’t even hear the music anymore. He’s the only reason I’m upright.

“I don’t paint what I love,” he says.

My lungs squeeze, shooting pain signals down my arms. I force a laugh, hating myself for the biological reaction. Hating that my heart somehow survived my childhood.

“Of course,” I snap. “Because that makes sense.”

“You don’t understand.”

His grip on my hand tightens, his other pressing hard to my back. We’re not dancing anymore. Couples glide around us, circling planets around the black hole we create.

“Look at me, Deirdre.”

I do, because I’m powerless. Weak. The realization is devastating, even though I already knew it for truth.

Gideon’s eyes simmer with feeling. Not love or even lust. Something more dangerous and damning than either.

“Snowflake—”

I cut him off, my words trembling with the vestiges of survival instinct. “You’re right, Gideon. I don’t understand. If jobs weren’t hanging in the balance, I wouldn’t be here. You and I—we’re not friends. I don’t trust you. I hate being near you. You’re… annoying. Self-serving and pompous. A brute. You mistakenly believe there’s some sick intimacy between us. Some… attraction? Devotion? Fuck that. You’re nuts.”

I try to pull away. His hold tightens further. Laughter brims in his eyes. Like he knows as well as I do that every word I spoke was a lie.

Just as abruptly, his gaze sobers. “You’ve never felt safe, have you?”

The words are a shock of cold. “Let me go,” I hiss.

He does.

For an instant, I regret it.

Then I stumble back, turn away. Push through startled couples, weave around tables littered with drinks and empty bread baskets and soiled napkins. Professionalism—my reputation, my career—is the furthest thing from my mind as I rush out of the ballroom, collect my coat from the lobby, and step outside.

Idling limos line the curb. One of them houses our driver. My purse and car keys. They all look the same.

“Dammit,” I mutter.

A shoe scuffs concrete behind me. I turn, unsurprised when I see Gideon. On his walk from the ballroom to the street, he loosened his bow tie and dragged hands through his ridiculous hair.

He sighs, gaze roaming but avoiding my face. We’re alone on the sidewalk, caught in a lull of exiting guests. I wonder if he said goodbye to his father.

“I don’t know,” he says at length.

I frown. “What?”

He finally looks at me, mahogany eyes glinting strangely. “I don’t know why I never painted her. Sometimes, I don’t know why I even married her.”

I take a step back, shaking my head. Words like that… I can’t afford to believe them.

“Stop right there, Gideon. I’m not going down this road with you. Boundaries, okay? Didn’t you hear me? We’re not friends. I’m your publicist. You’re—”

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