Page 67 of Seductive Reprise
He swaggered in, clad only in a loosely belted silk dressing gown and a self-satisfied look.
“A spectacular collection, if I may say so.”
He rounded her, sliding one hand up her arm as his lips found the space just below her ear. The tension eased as he kissed her, melting away into warmth once more. Rose sighed, leaning back into him.
“This looks frightfully better on you,” he murmured, tugging aside the banyan’s collar so he might access her nape.
“But… all my work? How?” She felt assured that there was no malicious intent, but still, when considering the scope of it all, it baffled her. She shivered as he trailed along her shoulder,nipping gently at her. “I’m serious, please,” she moaned, then shoved him off, unwilling to succumb to his distractions, delicious as they may be.
“As am I,” he sighed, then ran a hand through his hair.
“Why? Why… hoard my work like this?”
“Hoard?” He raised an eyebrow, and his demeanor shifted as he became an icy lordling once more. Rose could almost swear the air chilled. Except that wasn’t him. Not anymore, not to her. He was no longer Joseph Palgrave, the snooty, avaricious son of a duke—he was Yusef. Full of warmth and passion and an openness to the world and its people. He’d finally allowed her in, finally bared his heart and all its secrets to her.
Or so she’d thought. Disquiet arose in her.
“Yes,hoard.” Rose crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve kept all my work from…” She swallowed, trying to ignore how beautiful he was, with his strong jaw, firm lips, rakish hair, and muscled chest, which she could see peeking through the loose opening of his dressing gown. Rose pushed past him and into the small hall, not wanting to stare at her own work anymore. She heard him follow behind her.
“You’ve kept it from everyone!” She spun again, walking backward as she flung the accusation. “You’ve… sabotaged me!”
“Sabotaged?” He laughed, a sharp, humorless noise.
“You wanted to prove your point, didn’t you? To show that money can make or unmake an artist,” she said, slowing her backward wandering. Suddenly she realized she could smell freshly brewed coffee, laced with a sweet, yeasty scent that indicated pastries were nearby. Her stomach rumbled, but she refused to look away from him.
He fell silent, staring at her. A muscle in his jaw flexed, and she almost felt remorse for rehashing their years-old quarrel once more.
“Rose,” he murmured, “regarding what I told you about your parentage, I am sorry, so sorry. I never should have said those things.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I loathe myself for doing what I did. It was not my secret to tell. And I’ve regretted doing so every single day of my life.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “But this,” he threw an arm backward, gesturing to his study. “Those paintings. All of them. I did it for you. Tomakeyou a success!”
“A success?” Her heart raced. She kept vigilant, watching him as she stumbled back, only breaking her gaze when she bumped into a fainting couch. She caught herself upon it as she fell to sitting, her breath coming heavily now. The banyan she wore slid open at the waist, exposing her, but she didn’t care.
“Yes,” he growled, advancing on her. “So you might have some semblance of an income.”
“How am I supposed to make a name for myself when you snap up all of my paintings and hide them in a place where no one will ever see them? How is that supposed to translate into success?” She threw her arms out violently as she spoke, positively livid. “And besides, Ihadan income as a draperies painter! Untilanotherfoolish man ruined that for me as well!” She grasped for fury wherever she could find it, smacking the upholstery next to her to accentuate her words.
“Ah yes, Mr. Gall, the pompous idiot. He’s a terrible painter, by the way. Nowhere near your class. You’re well rid of him.” He loomed over her, his words dark even as he remained calm, his hands tucked into the dressing gown’s pockets.
“That’s…” she sputtered, a heat passing over her as she considered his words. “Do you mean…” She couldn’t get her own words out.
“Don’t be ridiculous; of course I mean it. You’re worth a thousand of him,” he said, leaning over her so he might cover her hands with his. “You’ve an exceptional eye. A rare talent.”
Shifting his weight to one hand, he tipped her chin up with the other. His breath felt warm on her face, smelling slightly of coffee. He kissed her, taking possession of her lips with such vigor that she forgot her rumbling stomach, her decades-old fury.
“Besides,” he said against her mouth, “have you considered that perhaps I actuallywantedthem?”
She closed her eyes, losing herself in a haze of conflicting emotions. “Whatever for?”
“For my enjoyment.” He gave her another sensual kiss, before his lips trailed languidly to her neck. He breathed deeply. “Just as I so enjoy you smelling of roses.”
He pulled back to stroke her cheek, his face unreadable. Rose released a sigh.
“Am I absolved now,” he murmured, “darling?”
She’d never dreamed things could go back to something like before, when she couldn’t have imagined a finer man to be had. Before he’d relieved her of that notion, and of their acquaintance. Before he, in his pompous arrogance, had decided it was his place to determine what was best for her. And from afar, no less.
Her righteous indignation roared back to life.
“No.” She placed a hand on his chest, atop the wiry hair. She pushed back, and he retreated, his face darkening.
