Page 39 of Art of Sin

17compulsion

“My mother didn’t diein a car accident.”

The murmured words clash with the soft hum of the road. I stare across the back seat at him, unable to escape the abrupt unlocking of one of his secrets. Even as I tell myself I don’t want to know—don’t want the intimacy it will engender—my senses are poised to absorb his offering.

“She killed herself in the bathtub while my father was away for business. In case the bottle of pills didn’t do the trick, she followed it up with a razor to both wrists. I found her in the morning before school. I was twelve.”

My skin flashes cold. “Christ,” I gasp. “Gideon, I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Not necessary, but thank you.”

Whereas moments ago his focus was intent on me, now he stares into the past. I recognize the blankness of his expression. I’ve seen it often in my mirror. Streetlights strobe over his face, alternating stripes of lightning and fire.

“A white-knight complex, they call it,” he says on a sigh. “The pattern developed early on, my habit of trying to save people who can’t be saved. When I met Lucy, she was everything my psyche wanted—mentally fragile, emotionally volatile, spiritually adrift.”

I have no idea what to say, so I keep my mouth shut. The silence is thick, not with discomfort but with premonition. Something is changing between us. I honestly don’t know if I’m falling in love with him or if he’s becoming my best friend. Both options terrify me.

His soft, sardonic chuckle lifts goose bumps on my bare arms.

“Naturally, I thought I was saving her. She let me get her sober, put her life on track, introduce her to the right people in the fashion industry.”

Gaze on the passing cars, Gideon shifts in his seat. An innocuous flex of hips to free the tails of his tuxedo jacket. But I feel that movement like it was under me. Above me. Inside me. Against my lips.

Flushing, I jab the button to roll my window down.

“You think less of me now.”

“Not sure that’s possible.” My voice is sharp, my words acidic. I want to take them back but don’t.

Gideon doesn’t react or speak for long minutes. This time, the silence vibrates with tension. Not until the limo pulls up outside his house does he swivel to face me.

“Deirdre.”

Call me snowflake.

I grab my purse and discarded shawl. “Yes?”

“I know where your head went with all that, but I’m not trying to save you. That’s not what this is about.”

I freeze. Lift my head slowly. Feel our eye contact like a punch to my heart.

He’s telling the truth.

“What is it, then?”

He rubs hands over his face, shoulders bunched tight. Exhausted. Confused. I can relate.

“Do me a favor, Snowflake.”

Anything.

“What?”

“Keep me company while I paint. Just for an hour or so. I’ll make you coffee this time.”

He grins. Wiggles his eyebrows.

My face cracks a smile.

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