Page 11 of White Lies

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By the time I email the photos to Josh, I have only an hour to shower and dress. By the time I fret over underwear and thigh highs as if Tiger might show up and rip them off of me, then move on to change from the blue dress to the black dress twice, I’m running late. Finally, though, I return to the blue dress, then rush through fussing with my makeup and curling my hair, which I usually leave straight. Even choosing shoes becomes an ordeal, but I settle on strappy black heels, along with a small black purse with a little sparkle that is also Chanel, purchased by someone I’d rather not think about.

I’m in the car, starting the engine, ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet Josh, and it’s a thirty-minute drive. He calls me at fifteen: “Where are you?”

“The traffic was bad.”

“There is no traffic. Faith—”

“I sent you photos of the work I have done.” All except one particular portrait.

“Did you now?” he asks. “I’ll take a look now and you’re forgiven.”

“You don’t have time now. I know that.”

“I’ll make time. Meet me at the gallery instead of the hotel. Go to the back door. Expect security.” He hangs up.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He’s looking at them now. I suck another breath in. What if he hates them? What if dabbling at my craft has made me forget what my craft is all about? “What was I thinking?” I pull up to a stoplight, and I know exactly how to make myself feel good about this decision again. I grab my phone, tab to my voicemail, and hit the button to play all messages. One after another, harsh messages play from the bank or a vendor that is past due. Each a brutal reminder of why I chose to send those photos to my agent. I have to get everyone caught up, and one by one, I’ve been working to do just that.

It’s right at seven when I turn into the Chateau Cellar Winery that is home to the gallery. It’s literally a stone castle, covered in ivy with a dungeon-style front door. Just the sight of it has my nerves jolting into action, fluttering in my chest and belly, and not just because I’m late. I’ve never been featured in a show this high profile. And while I tell myself this night is one last hurrah, as I turn into the parking lot, I see every space is filled, and all I can think is that this is my dream. This is still my dream. I pull on around to the back of the building and find the lot equally full, those nerves expanding, but I dare to allow myself some excitement as well. How amazing would it be if my dream saved my father’s?

I park, and I’ve just killed the engine when there is a knock on my window. I roll it down to find Josh in view, his dark hair trimmed neatly as always, his handsome face clean-shaven. “They’re waiting on you to make announcements.”

“Oh no. Oh God. I shouldn’t have taken the photos tonight.” I click the locks, and he immediately opens the door, offering me his hand. I snag my purse and flatten my palm in his, struck by how good-looking he is in his tuxedo and how unaffected I am by his touch, even before I’m standing and under the full impact of his dark brown eyes giving me a once-over.

“You are stunning, Faith Winter.” He releases me and waves a hand in the air. “I see it now. You in a bathtub on the cover of a magazine with a headline: sexy, successful, and talented.” He doesn’t give me time to reply. He shuts my car door and snags my arm. “Let’s go.”

I double step to keep up. “I’m never going to be naked on a magazine.”

“Not if you keep smashing grapes instead of painting.”

My heart sinks. “You hated the photos. You think I lost my touch.”

He stops walking and settles his hands on my arms. “They’re magnificent, like you are. Go in there and be a painter, because I don’t represent winemakers.”

The door opens, and a woman steps outside. “Josh. Now.”

“Let’s do this,” Josh says, taking my hand and leading me into chaos. There are greetings and handshakes, and before I know it, I’m sitting in a chair on a spotlighted stage with two other artists I don’t know but admire on either side of me, the gallery around us in darkness, the crowd standing around us.

“Welcome all,” the announcer says from the podium in front of us. “As you know, we have three new artists to introduce you to tonight, but because I know you are all anxious to see the Chris Merit release, I want to explain how this works. We’ll unveil the painting in exactly one hour. Highest bidder wins, and all proceeds—one hundred percent—are donated to the Children’s Hospital. In the meantime, we have our three featured artists here tonight. They will be donating twenty percent of all sales tonight to the Children’s Hospital as well. Please visit them in the crowd tonight. Please visit their displays and our many others.” He has each of us stand, and after a few more words the lights come up. I stand and look left to find Josh waiting for me at the steps, but something intense, something familiar, compels me to look right, and I suck in air. Nick Rogers is standing there, looking like dirty, sexy, delicious lust in a tuxedo.

Chapter Six

Tiger

I don’t lie. I meant that when I said it to Faith earlier today.

Shedoesintrigue me, and the reasons are many. For starters, I like a challenge, and she is that, both in character and physical perfection. She doesn’t look like a killer, but rather a beautiful woman, who is somehow delicate and strong at the same time. She doesn’t smell like a killer, but rather like the garden where I’d first touched her. She doesn’t even read like a killer on paper, but then I knew that when I sought her out. And right now, with her standing on the stage, staring at me, stunningly beautiful in a blue dress, I vow to know her body as well as her mind, vowing to feel every curve that dress hugs—of which she has many—next to me before this night is over. Right after I find out if she tastes like the killer and enemy I still, regretfully, suspect her to be.

I watch now as she recovers from the surprise of my appearance, the shell-shocked look on her heart-shaped face fading, her composure sliding back into place remarkably fast. She walks toward me, grace in her steps, those long legs of hers peeking out from the slit in her dress, teasing the fuck out of my cock in the process. Legs I want wrapped around my hips, but not before I’ve licked every last inch of them and her. She stops at the edge of the stage, at the top of the stairs while I’m at the bottom, those full, lush lips of hers painted a pale pink, subtle and yet beautiful, the way she uses a brush on a canvas. She’s talented, gifted as few are, and capable of making a living on her own, without involvement in blackmailing or killing my father.

“You look beautiful,” I say, and I allow my desire for this woman to radiate in the deep rasp of my voice. “Youarebeautiful.”

To my surprise, her cheeks flush red, shyness in the lowering of her lashes, as she says, “Thank you,” and once again proves she’s a contradiction, a beautiful, complicated fucking contradiction that I have to understand. But I’m adding another level of complication of my own that Iwantto understand.

I take the bottom step, leaving only two between us, and offer her my hand. She looks at it and then me, and when those green eyes lock on mine, the connection delivers a punch to my chest. I’d revel in how alive this woman makes me feel, in how much I want to fuck her, if I didn’t think there was a 90 percent chance that she’s a blackmailer and a killer, but the facts are clear. Her chin lifts defiantly, but she offers me submission, settling her palm on mine, her eyes flickering with the contact. My cock twitching with the contact. Her hand slides against mine, delicate and small, and I close mine around hers.

“Free will,” I say. “Exactly what I wanted from you.”

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