He held her stare. “No.”
“Linney.” Thomas unfurled from the backseat to stand beside James. “You look fabulous. I wasn’t sure if I sent the message to the correct number, what with the way your brother was hurtling through the streets. Do you know I have three numbers listed under your name?”
Lindsey pursed her lips into a seductive smile. “For you, Thomas, I will answer each one.”
“See, dude.” Thomas slapped James’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “At least there’s one Dyson happy to see me.”
James chuckled. “Careful. She’s on the hunt for another husband.”
Thomas pressed his hand to his chest, just above his heart, and made goo-goo eyes at Lindsey. “Goddess! I would marry you in an instant.”
Something bumped against James’s thighs, and he jerked his gaze down to the door. Fuck. Sienna was trying to open it. How the hell did he explain he was here with the woman responsible for Clinton’s death?
Leaning toward Thomas, James turned his head away from Lindsey. “Do me a favor. Don’t let my sister come near Sienna, okay?”
A world of questions burned in Thomas’s eyes. “What’s in it for me?”
James ground his teeth. “What do you want?”
Thomas showed his teeth in a wicked grin. “I want Sienna to paint me. Nude.”
James didn’t bother to stop the growl rumbling deep in his throat. “She’s off-limits, St. Clair.”
Thomas’s expression grew speculative. James had seen enough men weighing up information garnered to know an opinion was being formed. “Protecting her from Lindsey, protecting her from me. Damn dude, you’ve got it bad.” He gripped James’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You owe me one.”
Before James could correct him—he didn’t have it bad for Sienna—Thomas threw out his arms, Lindsey’s name bursting from him in a joyous, flirtatious shout. The camera flashes detonated, the local paparazzi going crazy at the gold mine moment—world-famous author Thomas St. Clair and media tycoon heiress Lindsey Dyson-Maher smooching on a Sydney sidewalk.
The second Lindsey turned her back on James, snaking her hand around Thomas’s offered arm as he directed her toward the gallery’s entry, James opened the passenger door.
Sienna looked up at him from the seat, her expression closed. Unreadable. “Glad to see you’re happy to be seen with me, Mr. Dyson.” She swung her feet out of the car, her long, long legs sublime in the setting sun’s golden light. “Or am I wrong that you just tried to keep me in the car while your sister was here?”
His gut clenched. “Sienna, it’s not—”
She straightened to her feet, face set, and stumbled sideways as one of her heels slipped on the bitumen.
He reached for her, but she slapped his hands away.
Muttering something beneath her breath, she grabbed at the roof of his car with one hand and, foot kicked backward toward her butt, yanked off her shoe.
He didn’t move. What did he do? Or say?
Without looking at him—and still muttering—she swapped legs and removed the other shoe from her foot before glaring at him. “There. At least I’ll be comfortable while I’m embarrassing you.”
And with that, she slammed the door shut and strode away from him.
Chapter Nine
He didn’t leave her side. Shoeless or not, he didn’t leave her side. He towered over her, his hand lingering on the small of her back, the whole time they were inside the gallery. He introduced her to everyone he spoke to—which seemed to be everyone at the opening—his smile warm whenever his gaze moved to her face. He was jovial, cordial, and so damn wonderful to be with.
Sienna wanted to hit him. If it weren’t for the fact he’d tried to hide her from his sister when they first arrived, she’d almost forget he’d pissed her off.
As it was, she had to keep reminding herself. She was having too good a time.
Damn it.
Taking a sip of the chilled white wine from the glass in her hand, she caught herself smiling up at him. How could he be so incredible and yet so goddamn frustrating?
Currently talking to the editor-in-chief of Art Australia, they were discussing a game of golf that had apparently gone awry after a pair of amorous pelicans chose the ninth hole as the ideal place to get busy. The conversation started with James introducing her as “one of the most amazing artists in Australia.” He then suggested the magazine contact her about featuring her work. When the editor flicked a look at her bare feet, James chuckled. “How many other women here would dare go shoeless, Frank?”