Page 10 of Wicked God
But God, what a face.
“I haven’t seen you around before, Alex. Are you new to Empire Heights, or have you just been hiding?”
His smile is crooked, boyish in a way that doesn’t match the sophisticated man wearing the expensive tuxedo. “A little of both. I’ve been traveling for business the past few years, but I’m back now. My friend dragged me here tonight. Said I needed to get out more.”
“Smart friend.” I let my gaze drift to the paintings on the walls, using them as cover. “I’m here on business, too.”
He arches a brow. “Business, at a gala?”
“I own an art gallery.” I gesture toward the paintings adorning the walls. “Networking is part of the job. Even when you’d rather be home with a glass of wine and a good book.”
“Ah, a kindred spirit.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, and something inside me flutters, unwelcome and sharp. “I was just thinking the same thing. Though the company has improved considerably since I met you.”
It’s a line, but it doesn’t feel like one. There’s a warmth in his voice that seeps into my bones, makes me smile despite myself. Alex is nothing like the string of bland men I’ve met this week. He’s charming, yes, but not oily. Confident, but not arrogant. And those eyes—they’re on me, like I’m the only important person in the room.
“You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys idle small talk.”
“You’re right,” he says, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “Small talk is torture. I’d much rather know what makes someone tick. For instance, what draws you to contemporary art? Most people at these events prefer their culture safely dead for at least a century or two.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
He shrugs, moving closer, and I catch the ghost of his cologne: expensive, masculine, addictive. “Unfortunately, yes. I’ve sat through more conversations about the ‘investment potential’ ofRenaissance masters than I care to count. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I love art that challenges people,” I say. “Pieces that make you uncomfortable, that force you to see the world differently. There’s something powerful about an artist brave enough to create something that might not be universally loved.”
His gaze is relentless. “Brave enough to risk everything for something they believe in.”
“Exactly.” I tilt my head. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not being dragged to charity dinners?”
He grins. “Guess.”
I take in the way he stands: balanced, in control, hands well-kept but not soft. “Finance,” I say. “Or consulting. Something that requires you to read people fast and make big decisions.”
His smile widens, and I can tell I’m close. “Not bad. I studied corporate law, but now I’m in operations and development.”
I arch a brow. “That’s vague. Are you being mysterious, or is your job actually that boring?”
“Neither, I hope. I help companies expand and restructure when needed. It’s more interesting than it sounds, though I suspect art curation is far more creative.”
“It has its moments.” I’m relaxing despite myself. Alex is dangerous. He makes me forget I’m supposed to be searching for a rich husband, not flirting with a perfect stranger. “But the business side can be just as cutthroat as corporate restructuring. You’d be surprised how vicious art collectors can get.”
“I bet you can handle yourself. In fact, I’d wager you’re more formidable than most of the collectors you deal with.”
I’m caught off guard, warmth rising in my cheeks. “Formidable? That’s not how most people describe me.”
“Then they’re not paying attention.” His voice is low, intimate. “There’s something about you, Olivia. You don’t seem like the type to pretend.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Alex studies me. “I don’t think I would. You carry yourself like someone who’s used to being in control. But there’s something in your eyes. Like you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“You’re very observant for someone who claims to hate these events,” I say, reaching for my champagne to buy a second of space.
He shrugs, smile crooked. “Occupational hazard. You learn to read between the lines when your livelihood depends on figuring out what people want versus what they’re willing to admit.”
A waiter appears with fresh champagne. Alex takes two glasses, offering one to me.
“To honest conversations at dishonest events,” he says, raising his glass.
