Page 20 of A Touch of Dark
Before I can voice a comeback, he reaches for me. Two quick fingers capture the rose behind my ear and yank it free.
“Stop!” My trembling fingers swipe at nothing.
He’s too quick. His free hand crushes the bloom, molesting the petals. In pale clumps, they litter the floor, finally followed by the discarded stem.
“Roses are not your flower,” he declares.
“Oh? And oleander is?” The bravery I hope my voice carries falls flat. My gaze won’t leave Simon’s mutilated flower. My reminder. Coherent thoughts scatter like those broken petals. I’m clenching my fingers, aching to shove the remains together and somehow make it whole again. “I’m leaving—”
“Do you want to know why I paint my subjects nude?” he wonders suddenly.
“Considering that you supposedly ‘see’ through touch, I can imagine why.”
Rich laughter echoes in the wake of my irritation. He deploys the reaction the same way someone else might a narrowed gaze or terse expression: as a warning.
“People hide behind layers,” he explains. “The more you remove, the more of the real person is revealed underneath. For instance, the loss of a single rose can strip a woman bare in ways she doesn’t realize.”
“Is that so?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Frankly, Mr. Villa, this conversation is becoming inappropriate—”
“You want me to paint you,” he says over me. “And yet,frankly,Ms. Thorne, there is nothing about you worth painting. I capture people. Not their masks, and you have crafted a rather elaborate one if I may say.”
“E-excuse me?” No one talks to me like this. I can’t remember the last time a man even raised his voice to me other than the recent voicemails. It’s a benefit of living in a cage of glass, steel, and concrete. Money creates an imaginary world with padded edges and gossamer chains.
The rules are simple: ignore and pretend.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I say, turning on my heel. “You can have your damn paintingandthe doll. Have a good day, Mr. Villa—”
“Strip.” The command comes so softly that I had to have imagined it. A cruel joke played by a twisted mind?
But no.
The air feels heavier and my cheeks are on fire. Wounded pride won’t let me move without first choking out a question. “What did you say?”
“I told you to strip,” he replies, his voice eerily calm. Almost taunting. “Unless you’re afraid of the person you’re hiding beneath that priceless designer frock.”
“Afraid?” I force my own bit of carefree laughter, but the notes ring hollow. “So you’re a sexual deviant as well as a hack—”
“I’ll say this once,” he interjects. “You can insult me all you want, but never my art.”
My spine stiffens at the subtle shift in his tone. A shout wouldn’t carry the same level of malice. No. He’s honed intimidation into an art form.
“Now, I’d like for you to leave.Adiós.”
My heels rock against the floor, but I don’t budge. Instead, I watch myself from the window’s surface. Proud, perfect Juliana.
He’s a liar. If only he weren’t a better one than I am.
My fingers sweep along my hip, gathering my skirt between them. I move slowly, registering the cold air with every inch of fabric I wind up my torso. When the material clears my head, I let it fall with a resounding thud. At the same time, my gaze goes to Damien. I want him to blush. Or leer in the chilling revelation that he isn’t blind. Anything but sigh.
With the aid of his cane, he returns to the table and sits. He snatches another sheath of paper from the drawer while his free hand beckons sharply. “Come here.”
“W-why?” Anxiety surges beneath my skin, whipping my nerves into a frenzy. What the hell am I doing? Standing half-naked before a stranger, for one. Of all the things to consume my attention, it shouldn’t be his disinterest.
“I’ll ask you one more time to come here.” He sounds like he’s scolding a naughty child and considering withholding a toy.
“What are you going to do?” Regardless of my unease, I come to the opposite end of the table, and he nods to the expansive surface before him.
“Lie down.”
