“I wanted to kiss you the very first moment I saw you.”
His whisper stole her breath. “When?” How was she even talking when her heart hammered so much? “In the art gallery? Or on my door just now?”
“Both.”
He kissed her, his lips as dominating and masterful as she’d always fantasied they would be. The way she’d known they would. His arrogant kiss invaded her senses, filled her core with liquid heat. He swept his tongue over hers, confident and determined. The subtle hint of toothpaste teased her, delighted her. His distinct scent joined in. A shiver rippled up her spine.
Idiot. Sucker for punishment.
She stiffened in his arms, her blood roaring in her ears. What was she doing? What was he doing? They hated each other. He’d told her just as much on the steps of the church the day Clinton was buried. So what the hell were they doing now?
She slammed her bare heel down onto the instep of his foot. Hard.
“Hey!” The protest burst from him in a strangled grunt. He dropped his arms from around her body and jerked back a step, his frown furious.
Ignoring the pain screaming in her heel, she retreated her own step, determined to stay out of his reach. She couldn’t let him touch her again. With the ridiculously easy way she’d melted in his arms, it would be suicide. Once upon a time, before life screwed her over, melting in his arms would have been the most natural thing to do. But now? No.
Until she knew what was really going on, what game he was playing, she needed to keep her distance.
Narrowing her eyes, she balled her fists. “What are you doing, Mr. Dyson? What do you want?”
He studied her, his expression once again enigmatic. “As I’ve already explained, I want to get to know Clinton’s muse. I want to know what he craved so much about you.” He paused, eyes unreadable. “What drove him to his death.”
Ice filled her veins. Her heart slammed into her throat “You bastard. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“The brother of the man you manipulated, used, and then rejected.”
Anger sliced through her, stole her breath, but she held her ground. “Clinton was my friend.” She couldn’t crack. She had to keep control of her voice. Inside, her stomach churned.
James snorted with disgust, his lip curling. “Clinton was your target. You manipulated his feelings for you, you exploited his weakness for beautiful women, you teased him into a sexual frenzy until you had him exactly where you wanted him, and then, when he told you our father had disinherited him, you refused his proposal. Cut him loose.” He took a deliberate step toward her, destroying the space she had made between them. “So, Sienna, I’m independently wealthy, Dad can’t touch my money, and I like what I’ve tasted so far. Am I good enough to sleep with?”
She slapped him. Hard. The sound of her palm smacking against his cheek cracked air, bounced around her studio. “Get out. Just get out.”
They stared at each other, the heat from his body radiating against hers, his eyes regarding her with equal fire. Sienna glared back, her ears roaring, her heart pounding. “Leave. Now. I never want to see you again.”
James didn’t stir, his body completely still as a slow smile played with his lips. “Can’t do that.” He shook his head, his voice low but oh so smug. “I know how desperately broke you are at the moment, what with your young half brother to care for and your father’s legal bills piling up. And I also know how important your benefactor, Mason Xavier, is to you. After all, it’s only his financial backing that’s keeping you fed and your art career alive, isn’t it? But what you don’t know is I happen to be very close to Xavier. Close enough, in fact, for him to arrange a rather unique birthday present for me this year. A portrait. Painted by a young, emerging artist he’s discovered.”
A chill swept through her and she stared at James. Had she heard right? Had he said what she thought he said? Disbelief—no, horror—crept over her, cold and clammy at once.
His smile widened, never reaching his eyes. “That rather large commission you accepted two nights ago?” he continued, his voice no longer smug but triumphant. “Xavier’s gift to me. I’ve just become your next subject.”