His Seductive Revenge. Susan Crosby
her breath. Not quite civilized. The thought flashed in her mind, fizzled, then flared again even brighter when he moved a little closer. She watched his mouth as he spoke.
“Don’t you believe we buy art not only for how it makes us feel, but for how our friends will react?” he asked.
“No.” His lips looked soft and firm. She almost touched them. “Art is very personal to me,” she added.
He made the slightest shift in his stance, as if a soldier at attention had been ordered at ease. “Gabriel Marquez,” he said, extending his hand.
“Cristina Chandler.”
“And I’m Jen, the ignored one. I’m here, too. Although you two sure couldn’t tell it the last couple of minutes,” she grumbled. “I’m going to feed my noisy and empty stomach, Cris. Do you want anything?”
Cristina shook her head, taking an unobtrusive step back at the same time. He was crowding her space, and she needed breathing room. “I’m to assume that you have a collection of art you’ve bought merely to shock or pacify your friends?” she asked, then sipped her wine, giving herself a moment to admire him, from his almost black hair, on down his lean, broad-shouldered body. He wore a tuxedo comfortably, not looking as if he wished he were at home in sweats.
“Like you, art is personal to me, Miss Chandler. Although certainly some pieces have shocked my friends.” They wandered to the next painting. “This one, for example. What do you think of it?”
Unlike the other portraits, this piece had an almost photographic feel to it, the sepia tones warm but the image stark. A bridal gown lay jumbled on the floor beside the woman portrayed. Tulle from her veil wound around her feet. Otherwise she was nude, her arms drawn across her body in a classic pose to hide her womanliness, the bouquet she carried startling against her pale abdomen. Her eyes were downcast. A lone tear trailed her cheek.
The untitled painting bothered Cristina in ways she’d have to think about later. Her initial reaction was simple, however, and she offered it to the still, silent man beside her. “I think a bride should look more like the woman in the first portrait. This woman’s not in love.”
“My impression as well. It is De La Hoya’s newest work, I understand.”
“I wonder why he didn’t title it. It seems obvious to me... Sacrifice,” she said.
He angled his head toward her. She felt a heat from his gaze that seared her all the way through.
“Why do you call it that?” he asked.
“There’s something old-worldly about it. About all of De La Hoya’s work. In this one I see a woman of another century, one who didn’t choose her groom, but was chosen.”
“An obedient woman.”
“But only to a degree.” Cristina gestured at the painting with her wineglass. “It’s there, in her posture—that little bit of defiance. She may not have choices, but she still has freedom of thought.”
“And what will that gain her?”
The hushed intensity of his voice made her hesitate. Something about the man hypnotized. Enticed. Lured.
“Self-satisfaction, Mr. Marquez. No one can take her soul.”
“Unless she weakens.”
Cristina didn’t know what to make of him. He was a cool one. And intelligent. And still she sensed he was not quite civilized. Dangerous. Yes, the word suited him. Temptingly dangerous, unlike any other man she’d known.
“What a strange conversation,” she said, forcing a smile. “How did we even start it?”
“Because I watched you—”
Sparks ignited in her body as she waited for him to finish the sentence. Why in the world was a man like him interested in her? She couldn’t fathom why he had picked her out of the crowd.
“I watched the way you studied the work,” he said finally. “You have a critical eye. A discerning one. Your friend, for example, reacted emotionally to the paintings.”
“So did I.”
“Yes. But you study why it affects you. You have an artist’s heart.”
It wasn’t a line. She didn’t know why she knew that, but she was sure of it. Another man might have used the same words, and she would have scoffed at them—and walked away. This wasn’t a man given to idle flattery.
Still, why had he singled her out? She usually attracted the intellectual types, or the needy ones. Not intense, attractive, dangerous men who made her wish she was a different kind of woman altogether. A prettier woman. A sexier woman.
No, men weren’t drawn to her because their hormones jumped when they were around her. They were drawn to her because—
“Look who I found!”
Jen’s cheerful announcement seemed an abomination in the rarefied air of the Galeria Secreto. To make matters worse, Jen had Jason Grimes in tow. Jason, who had become her shadow. Jason, who had suddenly become her father’s favorite topic of conversation. She suspected she knew the reason why, but she intended to ignore it for as long as possible.
“If you’d told me you were coming tonight, Cris, I would have escorted you,” Jason said.
If I’d wanted to be escorted, I would have called you, Cristina thought, too polite to say the words in public. Especially not with him standing there, listening, watching. “I didn’t think you cared much about art,” she said before introducing the men.
“If you will excuse me.” Gabriel Marquez nodded his apologies, then left.
Cristina tried not to watch him go. Genuinely tried. But the pull was magnetic, and she didn’t seem to have any control over it.
“Who was that?” Jason asked.
“I’ve never met him before. We were discussing the portraits.”
Jason looked around. “Some good stuff here. Sexy.”
There was a difference between sexy and sexual, but she knew Jason wouldn’t be interested in discussing nuance and subtlety when all he saw was a nude female body. She looked past him. Mr. Marquez stopped to talk with an elegant middle-aged woman. He held her hand; his thumb brushed her skin. Goose bumps rose on Cristina’s flesh. Warmth spiraled in her hand.
The woman smiled at him, then pouted, then flirted, using her eyes like invitations. Oh, please don’t let me have looked at him like that, Cristina prayed.
Gabe watched her with Jason Grimes. He’d detected no sign of recognition from Grimes at their introduction, had seen nothing in the younger man’s aristocratic features except jealousy, then dismissal. If Grimes happened to mention meeting Gabe to his father, the repercussions could be fascinating, indeed. He almost wished for it to happen.
Sipping a scotch and water, he shifted his gaze to observe the woman, not particularly pleased with her familiarity with Grimes, who angled close to her as they discussed a painting.
She was much different from what he’d anticipated from the photo, which obviously hadn’t been taken recently. For one thing, she’d gained weight. And not just a few pounds. She looked softer, more approachable, less brittle, not the cool, sleek woman of privilege he’d expected. More than that, there was a lushness to her that made him think of rumpled sheets and a morning sun—which made his task not only easier but something he looked forward to.
Her generous curves were clothed in a sapphire blue dress that was simple and elegant, and perfect for her—high-necked and sleeveless, fitted at the waist, hugging her hips. Her hair shimmered like fire, a shade somewhere between gold and red, and had the slightest curl to the thick fullness that fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were blue, as he’d guessed, but flecked with gold and...innocence.
Innocence