Stop thinking of her legs then.
“Why don’t you want me to bring breakfast?”
An almost imperceptible tension claimed her shoulders. “I can feed myself, thank you.”
He’d made her guard go up again. Not what he’d wanted to do at all. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of doing that.”
She looked up at him, green eyes direct. “It wouldn’t be professional.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Nothing about our relationship is professional.”
She scowled and straightened, the roll of sketches in her hand held like a sword between them. “We don’t have a relationship.”
He studied her, his grip on his ankle painful. “What if I want one?”
Whoa. Where the fuck had that question come from?
She let out her own laugh. It played hell with his sanity. “We’ve had this conversation already. You hate me and blame me for your brother’s death. I despise you and everything you stand for and want nothing to do with you.”
“And yet we’ve just spent the last sixty minutes talking like we’re old friends. I’ve never seen you more at ease. Not really the behavior of someone who despises me, wouldn’t you say?”
She shrugged. “It allowed me to sketch you without your normal pompous arrogance.” If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was bored and indifferent to the whole situation. But he did know better. He affected her, as much as she did him. The fluttering pulse in her neck and her shallow breath gave her away.
Still, if he pushed it now, he would lose everything he’d gained today. He wanted her to trust him. So he could…
Destroy her?
The trilling chirp of her mobile phone saved him pondering the unnerving question. She placed the drawings on a nearby bench and hurried to the kitchen area and snatched her phone from the counter. “Hello. Sienna Roberts speaking.”
He shot his watch a quick look. Thick pressure clamped around his temples.
Three o’clock. On the dot. Just as he’d instructed.
He swallowed, keeping his stare on Sienna. She shook her head, her knuckles white on the phone. He didn’t need to imagine what was being said to her. On the other end of the connection, the director of the Sydney Art Gallery was inviting her to the opening of the Monet exhibition on Friday evening. Any artist in Australia would give their eyeteeth to attend the black-tie formal event, considered one of the highlights of the year in the art world, especially one struggling to gain attention in the cliquey Sydney art community like Sienna.
The director owed James a favor, and he’d called it in. Invite Sienna to the event and dangle a promise to discuss her current portfolio. Hint at the possibility of a future exhibition of her work.
It had been easy to arrange and he’d felt no compunction doing so yesterday. So why the hell did his gut churn now?
Because perhaps she’s not at all what Clinton led me to think?
He drew a steadying breath. Perhaps he’d believed what Clinton had said about her for so long because he’d felt guilty about the way their father had treated Clinton? Not once had James ever defended his brother’s life choices. When their father and Lindsey had mocked Clinton, not once had he stepped in to stop them. Maybe, this whole plan for revenge was nothing but a ridiculous attempt to soothe his guilt at not being there for Clinton when he really needed his big brother the most? When his family had rejected him?
A tight fist clenched his heart. A dark tension cut at him, cold and hot at once.
Was his desire to see Sienna suffer a way to deflect his own guilt? And if so, did that mean what he felt for her—the attraction he’d felt from their very first meeting—was something more than just sexual interest?
“Are you serious?”
Her surprised question dragged him from the disconcerting thought.
“I’m not sure,” she said, a split-second before shooting him a glance over her shoulder.
He feigned curiosity.
She turned away again. “Yes, I understand. I’m honored. Thank you, Mr. Theopolis. I shall see you Friday.” Another pause, then, “Yes, I will.”
Pulling in a slow breath, he rose to his feet. “Mr. Theopolis?”