Page 5 of Grift

“What did you say this painting is called again?” she asks in a very soft voice, turning my way and the palest gray eyes I’ve ever seen widen as our gazes lock. A jolt hits me. Her hand flies up, schooled to touch her chest before quickly dropping and her face shifting from cock-hardening open-lipped surprise into a polite neutral expression. But it doesn’t cover up the way her pupils dilate.

“I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else,” her voice falters. Even her hesitation is light and feminine.

Something like the ghost of recognition passes between us, shooting lightning through my body.

“I’m Patrick,” I say, extending a hand. Her skin is warm on mine, a different sensation than I expect from her cool detachment. Soft fingers curl around mine for just an instant, before she draws back her hand. She felt it too, then.

“Jessica,” she says. Her voice is very quiet and every syllable perfectly annunciated, in a way that tells me everything I need to know about how she is educated and raised.

The elegant, refined daughter of some rich family. Not unlike my own sisters. Yet the way she’s looking at me with intelligent eyes, and the passion that blooms across her face when she turns back to the painting tells me they didn’t manage to school away everything that makes this woman interesting.

“What is it?”

It’s in my fucking casino. I should know, but the truth is I don’t think I’ve even noticed the artwork on the walls. Except for the garish parts and the one painting of my father that we like to mock.

I give an exaggerated look at the attached brass tag. Jesus, someone needs to talk to the art director. It has the ominous title ‘Sand and Gravel Pit,” which explains the shifting dark colors.

“It’s mafia art at its finest from the title,” I offer.

It’s a bad joke and I’m outclassed. But she gives a surprised laugh that hits me with “a woman thinks you’re funny” hard-on that instantly makes it hard to think.

“So you’re an art expert or more of a mafia expert?” When my eyes snap up to hers, she’s looking at my knuckles with open curiosity. No judgment, though, which is enticing.

I should have found a way to clean them up better, or be more discrete about busting them up in the first place. But then, I didn’t plan on meeting anyone interesting tonight.

I flash her my best smile, the one I haven’t bothered to use in a long time. Big grin, full dimples, leaning forward so a bit of dark hair brushes my forehead just so. Christ. A woman once told me it was irresistible, and I’d worked it to death for a year after in college. But it’s been a hell of a long time since I’ve been interested enough in a woman to try it. Yet it seems to be working, because her cheeks darken to a pink that has me thinking about what it would be like to make that beautiful woman flush for other, more intimate reasons.

“And yourself? Mafia princess or the identity behind some well-known guerilla artist destroying properties for social causes?”

Thank god I’d been stuck on conference calls, absently reading the news earlier today. I sound like the kind of man who follows culture and current events, the kind of man who has a reason to talk with a woman like Jessica. Not the kneecap breaking thug I really am.

Before she can answer, one of the staff approaches. “Good evening, sir, miss. May I bring you anything to drink?”

She’s waiting, letting me size her up and take the lead. There’s something about that tangible shift in power and how she watches it with interest that spikes my attraction to her.

Polarity, I’ve heard it called.

“I’ll take a whiskey, neat,” I say, naming the most expensive brand my father carries. Then I crack a grin at this exquisitely upper-class woman that’s holding my attention. “And for the lady, a glass of your best chilled white wine.”

It’s a seriously bad social move to chill white wine, apparently, although it’s the only way I can drink it. Part of me wants to tease her with the ridiculousness of it. Part of me wants to see if she’ll just acquiesce. But angelic Jessica gives a gracious, but definitive shake of the head.

“Make that two whiskeys, if you would. I’ll take mine on the rocks with a twist of lemon,” her smile is satisfied.

A group of people passes behind us, one of the women pausing to swipe a champagne flute off one of the passing trays.

“Did you hear about Kensington? Apparently, Papa Kensington’s planning to step aside and double down on the family business,” she slurs.

Jessica’s back instantly straightens, and she stares straight ahead.

“Oh please. I heard he’d be practically bankrupt, what with the mismanagement of his businesses and the endless glad-handing, if it wasn’t for the rich wife. The younger son’s a real shit, but the older one might actually have a chance to make good on Daddy’s dream. The old senator’s going to need to double down on the fundraising though. Presidential campaigns are not cheap,” one of the men she’s with says conspiratorially.

“Garbage, all of them,” the woman hisses as they move away. “We’d be better off if they stay in DC.”

Interesting. I can’t say I keep up much with the Kensingtons. I’ve met the Senator and his wife, and the oldest son Camden, on maybe two occasions. But they’re in politics, which don’t interest me in the least. Other than that, I’ve never stopped to think much about them.

The beautiful woman next to me has gone stone still.

I lean in. “You were about to tell me more about yourself.” I want to get lost in those wide eyes and sophisticated appreciation of art. And fantastic taste in whiskey. Something about her says innocence and purity, but another layer hints at depths I’d love to explore.

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