…
He stared into Sienna’s jade-green eyes, a distant part of him unable to deny the hypnotizing intensity of their depths despite who she was. Regardless of how she’d fooled his brother, Clinton had been right about her eyes. They were the eyes of a temptress. If he wasn’t careful, his well-laid plans could unravel.
He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with her delicate but somehow heady scent.
When he first met her, her scent had filled his head with wild thoughts and even wilder desires, desires he’d been more than eager to act upon as they stood almost touching in front of one of his brother’s more ridiculous paintings.
Right now, in this very moment, it sank straight to his groin, raw and carnal and animalistic.
Lust was not unfamiliar to him, but he had to remember who she was. He had to remember why he was here. He had to forget the playful heat of their flirting a lifetime ago. He had to forget everything he’d discovered about her since.
He had to remember what she’d done to Clinton. What she’d caused his only brother to do.
“When do we begin?” he asked, still staring into her eyes.
“Never.” Her response was exactly what he’d anticipated. Short. Final. Angry.
“And disappoint Xavier?” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.” He took another step forward, his thighs brushing hers. “It’s just a painting.” He paused, letting a lazy grin pull at his lips. “That is, unless you’re afraid of what will happen if we’re alone together?”
She glared at him. “You flatter yourself.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I remember the way we flirted at Clint’s exhibition. The way you looked at me. And I certainly remember the way you melted in my arms just now.”
“And you’ve forgotten the way I stomped on your foot? The way I slapped your face? Or do you call that foreplay?”
Her words were sharp, like barbed wire, and he could almost believe she wanted nothing to do with him. But she hadn’t taken a step back when he’d closed the distance between them. In fact, she remained so close to him her thighs still brushed his, the barest contact sending hot charges through his body.
Yet at the same time, her eyes were wide and nervous, and the pulse point at her neck fluttered like a trapped butterfly. He frowned, puzzled. This was not how he expected the calculating vixen Clinton had so thoroughly described to behave. As much as she wanted him to think otherwise, she appeared confused, almost innocent. And vulnerable.
The dull ache in his foot made him rethink that last one. Perhaps vulnerable wasn’t the right word.
Slight movement drew his eyes, instant sexual hunger roaring through him as she quickly wet her bottom lip with her tongue.
He pulled in his own long breath. Christ, did she know how hot that simple act looked?
A manipulating prick tease. That’s what she is. Remember that. She can’t get under my skin. I won’t let her. I will use her and destroy her. Just like she did Clinton.
“Foreplay, Sienna?” He let his voice become a murmured drawl. “I know other ways to whet the appetite. Far more delicious ways. Whenever you’re ready to begin…”
She leveled a cold stare at him, her jaw bunching. “Take a hike, Mr. Dyson. I want you out of my studio. Out of my home. Now.”
“No, you don’t,” he corrected her. “And I’ll tell you why. Not just because of how well we connect, but because you need money. Your half brother is sucking you dry, your father’s legal bills are still piling up, and you cannot afford to disappoint the only benefactor you have at the moment. And if Mason Xavier is told his favorite little artist refused a commission…” He cocked an eyebrow and left the sentence unfinished.
She stared at him, wide eyed. “How do you know all that?”
“How do I know?” He chuckled, letting his gaze roam over her face. Such a beautiful face for one so calculating. The face of a true femme fatale. “I know everything about my dead brother’s girlfriend. I know everything about the woman who caused his death.”
Anger glinted in her hazel eyes, like chips of ice. “Well, I guess you don’t know everything, James Dyson, because I was never Clinton’s girlfriend. We were good friends. Roommates. He turned to me after his family rejected him for choosing to go to art school instead of following in the footsteps of his older brother.” She tilted her head to the side. “Tell me, Mr. Dyson, how much do you pay the federal government each year for them to turn their back on the fact Dyson Media Corporation has almost complete monopoly of this country’s media?” She lifted her chin. “As for my causing Clinton’s death…I was not the one who forced him to choose between his love of art and his family. That was your dear old dad.”