She was in the middle of a simple sketch of his right hand, when it hit her—the pose, the image she wanted to capture him in for the Barton.
Something strikingly simple and yet illuminating a part of his personality she didn’t think the world had seen before. James wearing nothing but an immaculately cut suit jacket, a pair of shorts, and his Chucks, a cup of coffee in one hand, a television remote in the other, his attention fixed on something beyond the painting as he lounged comfortably on an armchair upholstered in the Dyson Media Corp’s corporate logo.
The perfect contradiction.
Raising her focus from her drawing, she studied him where he sat on her studio’s stool, tapping something into his phone with his left hand.
As if aware of her gaze, he grinned up at her and shoved his phone back into his hip pocket. “My sister says you’re having a bad influence on me.”
“What?”
He chuckled. “She said, and I quote, ‘Whoever this mysterious person you’re spending your mornings with is, they are putting you in a good mood for the rest of the day. I don’t like it. I like you better when you’re grumpy James.’”
Sienna frowned. “I’m going to assume that’s a compliment?”
He laughed, shifting on the stool. “Are you ready for this evening?”
“What’s happening this evening?”
It was his turn to frown. “The Monet exhibition opening at the art gallery? I’m picking you up at five, remember?”
She let out a wobbly breath. “Ah, yes.”
His frown deepened. “What does ah, yes mean?”
She’d spent the week convincing herself she didn’t need to go to the exhibition opening. She didn’t need to accept Theo Theopolis’s invitation. She wouldn’t accept it. It wasn’t like he was the last word in art in the country. If she went, she’d be with James outside the safety of her studio, and she didn’t have the strength or willpower to deny her sexual desire for him. One touch of his hand on her skin—her elbow, her shoulder, her wrist—that’s all it would take. One touch and she would be a goner.
Of course, every time she’d looked around her home during those seven days, at her existence, she accepted she had to accept the gallery director’s invitation. She could paint all day every day, she would paint every chance she got regardless of the art gallery director’s recognition—if she didn’t, she’d go crazy—but Theopolis’s recognition would pay the bills and keep the money coming in, something she desperately needed to happen. As if to highlight that very fact, her father’s solicitor had sent a tersely worded reminder his last bill had yet to be paid just that morning.
And since her father had mentioned Pablo Reynard, she kept feeling like she was being followed whenever she was away from her home.
That had to be her creative mind at work, fuelling a paranoia she was less than impressed with. But still, her dad’s gambling debts itched at her. If she could pay them off and soon, it would be one less thing to worry about.
James straightened from his stool. “I’m not taking no for an answer, so don’t even try.”
“I wasn’t—”
He chuckled. “Yes, you were.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to go. Unfortunately, my company can’t run itself. I’ll see you at five.”
“James,” she called after him.
I can’t go with you. I’m too scared about what I’ll do if I do.
He regarded her from the door.
“I’ll be ready,” she said, heart wild.
He nodded, the arrogant action typical of the James Dyson who’d first appeared at her door. “Of course you will.” He closed the door behind him, leaving her alone.
She dragged her hands through her hair. “I am such a masochist.”
Carrie wanted details when Sienna called her, stammering her way through a request to borrow a dress. Details she wasn’t in any way ready to give.
Nor was she when Carrie arrived, dress in hand, an hour later.
She couldn’t. She’d sound like an idiot. She was, after all, going out with the man she’d adamantly told Carrie she hated and wanted nothing to do with.