Page 40 of Art of Sin

My heart cracks, too.

* * *

Steaming,oversized mug of coffee in my hands, I follow a newly dressed-down Gideon into his studio and hover near the door as he readies the space. He moves with easy grace, strong and limber, humming as he works. Adjusting lighting. Putting flame to half a dozen candles. Rummaging through drawers in one of those massive, freestanding industrial tool chests that’s been repurposed for paints and supplies.

Rapt, I watch him toss tubes of paint in a bucket along with rags, a rectangular wooden paint palette that has seen better days, and other implements I can’t name. Much more care is taken with brushes, a selection of which he tucks heads-up in the back pocket of his paint-splattered jeans.

Still humming, he approaches a haphazard stack of blank canvases propped against the wall. He flips through different sizes and finally grabs one, lifting it free and transporting it to an easel.

Bare toes tapping a rhythm only he can hear, he squirts and mixes paint on a tray with dexterity born of familiarity. When he’s satisfied, he stretches his arms over his head and bends his torso left and right. Muscles ripple under his threadbare gray T-shirt.

I could watch this all night.

My gaze lingering on his firm backside, I wonder how many women he’s allowed to witness this private ritual.

“Are you sure you don’t want to change?”

My head snaps up, cheeks heating when his smirk confirms he caught me ogling his ass.

Although I’d love nothing more than to cozy up in some of his clothes, I know better. I’m already slipping and sliding in a direction that will lead to nothing good.

Eventually I’ll throw myself at him, and I’m not sure I can handle the rejection. Let alone having to continue this farce of a working relationship for another five-plus months.

So I stay in my black satin and lace dress, designed to hide my scars. My falsely blond hair in an elegant updo. My makeup perfect. Diamonds glinting in my ears.

My armor.

Realizing Gideon is still waiting for an answer, I clear my throat. “I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself.” He gestures to a dingy plastic chair set up near the easel. “But stop lurking and sit. Talk to me. Tell me a story.”

I toe my heels off—my one concession to comfort—and pad across the floor, sinking into the chair with a rustle of fabric. I’ll probably stand up with paint dust all over me, but can’t bring myself to care.

Gideon tinkers with brushes. I watch his graceful fingers until he pauses, looking at me expectantly.

“Waiting on a story over here.”

I blink in surprise. “You were serious? Just put on some music or something.”

He points a brush at me, eyes dancing. “Your voice, mon bijou, is the only music I need.”

My laughter startles me. The sound of it, authentic. Unencumbered. For a moment, I feel the promise of a freedom I’ve never known.

His smile softens, becoming private. His eyes darken. “There you are.”

I roll my eyes to disguise my true feeling. My vulnerability.

“The only stories I know are sad ones,” I say, hoping he’ll dismiss the idea.

His gaze sharpens. “Any of them true?”

I nod, my skin tight. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff as it begins to crumble, with no memory of getting here. But I do know who brought me. I might hate him for it.

I might love him.

“Then happy or sad, it will be beautiful. Tell me a true story, Deirdre, and I’ll make art for you.”

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