She turned to look at him, her bottom lip caught by her teeth. “You were listening?”
He smiled. “I just heard the name. Theo Theopolis? Director of the Sydney Art Gallery?”
“He’s invited me to the Monet opening on Friday.”
The pressure around James’s temples wrapped tighter. “Ah.” How the hell did he sound so calm? “I’m going to that as well. I’ll pick you up at five.”
Sienna frowned. “What do you mean, pick me up at five? Who said I was going with you?”
He pulled a face. “I know Theo well. He’s a romantic. Never believes in single invites. It’s his Greek heritage. Why? Do you already have someone else in mind?”
Her lips parted, no doubt to tell him to stick his pick you up at five in his ear. The memory of how lush and soft they were against his pummeled him and he clenched his jaw. If he moved but an inch, he would be crushing them again in a kiss far from gentle. Christ, where the hell was his fortitude?
He cocked an eyebrow, giving her a lopsided grin instead. “Well?”
Closing her mouth, she shook her head. “No.”
“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned wider. “I’ll be here at five.”
He strode to the door before she could argue. Without a word, without a backward look.
He’d just wrapped his fingers around the doorknob when she spoke. “James?”
Traitorous pleasure shot through him at the sound of her husky voice calling his name. He turned back to her, affecting a calm expression. “Yes?”
She stood at the kitchen counter, the afternoon sun streaming through the window turning her auburn hair to a blazing mane of copper-red, her eyes shining green with confusion. “Thank you. Maybe it might…maybe we should do some more work, sketches tomorrow? Is that okay?”
His heart thumped harder. “It is very okay. I shall see you then.”
Five minutes into the drive back to the Dyson Media Corp offices, his mobile phone rang.
He hit the phone button on the steering wheel, connecting the call. “Dyson.”
“Change of plans, Mason.” Thomas St. Clair’s American accent filled the Aston Martin’s cabin, the writer’s perpetual good cheer scraping at James’s fraying nerves. “I’m arriving in Sydney Friday afternoon. I couldn’t wait any longer to meet the artist of that painting you sent me. Pick me up at the airport at three.” He laughed, the sound low and depraved. “You gotta take me to meet her straight away. Got it?”
Chapter Eight
Sienna had never been more nervous, more on edge, in her life. Even the day the jury had declared her father guilty and sent him to jail, she’d been less a jumpy wreck. The day Zach had moved in was up there as far as stressful events go, but the hours between pre-dawn and James arriving at her home for her to continue sketching him were the most intense.
She spent those hours pacing. Chewing on her bottom lip. Gnawing on her thumbnail. Changing what she was wearing.
By six thirty a.m., she’d wrapped a Band-Aid around her thumb to save her savaged nail, slicked her bottom lip with some balm she found in the bathroom in an attempt to protect it from her teeth, and finally settled on a pair of the baggiest jeans she owned, the skimpiest black bra she owned, and an oversize tank with an image of the Mona Lisa riding a unicorn on its front.
She didn’t allow herself to ponder why she’d selected the bra she had. It wasn’t like he was going to get more than a glimpse of its straps beneath the tank.
She passed on breakfast. She did, however, drink three cups of coffee before the hour hand passed seven.
If nothing else, she was going to be alert when he arrived.
Which he did promptly at eleven.
She let him in, doing everything she could to stay calm, almost indifferent.
I can’t let him see how much he affects me. Not when he does so very much.
“Ready?” He closed the door behind him.
No. Okay, art-wise she was. But ready to spend the next two hours with him? No.
“Yes.” She made her way into her studio space. “Are you?”
He laughed behind her. The sound was so relaxed, so infectious, she couldn’t help but throw him a smile over her shoulder.