Her hand trembled even harder as she picked up her brush. “You’re not supposed to flirt with staff.”
“It’ll be our secret,” he said. “You’ve done portrait work before.”
She began to etch his silhouette. “Yes. My mother was my favorite subject.”
“What happened to the canvases? Because there weren’t any in the house when I moved in. I would have seen them.”
Why not tell him? “I burned them.” Watched them smolder to ash.
He frowned, suddenly as serious as a heart attack. “Why?”
“I didn’t like how I felt when I looked at them.”
“I thought your mother was kind to you.”
“She was, but every time I spotted her image, I remembered I never became the woman she expected me to be. I remembered the years I kept her bound to the house, and I just... I guess I decided to finally set her free.”
“You loved her. And she loved you,” he said, his voice weighted with an emotion she guessed was envy.
“Yes. Very much.” Tears welled in her eyes, the lines on the canvas blurring. She paused for a moment, calmed herself with a few deep breaths, and continued. “What about your parents?”
He remained silent. Of course. He could prod into her life, but she had no business poking into his.
“Biological? Foster?” she prompted.
More silence.
“You know,” she said, not trying to hide her irritation, “you insist I tell you all kinds of stuff about me, but you shut down anytime I question you. It’s really not fair. I’m not going to do anything with the information but know you better.”
Another minute passed before he said, “My mom died when I was five. My dad pawned me off on relatives for a while, and after I’d worn out my welcome, good ole Dad relinquished his rights to me.”
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” Wait. I called him baby? The embarrassing slip had come out so naturally it scared her.
Thankfully, Beck hadn’t seemed to notice. He merely hiked up his shoulders and said, “It is what it is.”
“No. I refuse to think that way. What happened clearly hurt you. What was shouldn’t have been.” He’d lost a parent, only to be rejected by the other one. Harlow couldn’t imagine what she would have done if Momma had cast her away as soon as Dad was buried. “You deserved better.”
Beck cleared his throat. “Artists work by inspiration,” he said, steering the conversation in a different direction. “What’s yours?”
She didn’t protest the change, saying, “Pretty much everything.”
“Tsk-tsk. Harlow told her first lie of the evening. I’ll give you that one, but the next one will cost you.”
“I didn’t lie,” she said, earnest. But...what will the next one cost me?
“If everything inspired you, you never would have stopped painting in the first place.”
“I was too poor to buy the supplies.”
“Poor or not, if you’d wanted to paint, you would have found a way.”
He had a point. “Allow me to amend my statement.” She traced her brush over the canvas, beginning to bring him to life with color. “Everything inspires me...when I’m feeling safe.”
“Safe. Interesting word choice, considering you have a shirtless man in your bed.”
As if I need the reminder. “Hmm,” she muttered, unwilling to commit to an actual response. And for a heartbeat, maybe an eternity, she became utterly lost in her art... Lost in Beck. In his beauty and charisma. His carnality. It was there in his eyes, staring at her from the bed as well as the canvas. Soon she was panting as if running a brush through paint were somehow a physical workout. Her skin hot with fever, her limbs not just trembling but buzzing with electricity.
“You okay over there?” he asked. “You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she said, breathless. “Just fine.”
“You lying again?”
“No.”
“My Spidy senses tell me otherwise.”
“You’re Superlover, remember? You have X-ray vision, not overdeveloped senses. But what if I was lying? What would you do then?” The impish side of her had to know.
He shifted, resting at a higher incline, his legs open and bent at the knees, creating the perfect cradle for her. “Let me show you,” he said and wagged a finger at her. “Come here.”
Self-preservation forced her to reply, “No way.”
“Come here,” he insisted. “Please, Harlow.”
Please...
Her limbs acted the traitor, moving without her brain’s permission. She set down her brush and stepped out from behind the easel. When she was halfway across the room, she realized what was happening and stopped.
Suspicious, she asked, “What are you going to do to me?”
He smiled slowly. “Everything I’ve been dying to do.”
Red alert! He clearly planned to give her a night of pleasure...only, true to form, he would end things in the morning.
“If you’d rather keep working, fine,” he said. “Let my body be your canvas and your tongue the brush.”
So blatant. Anger flared, a halogen lamp in the forest of her conflicted emotions. He really does want me. Me! But he will still discard me.
Would he fire her afterward?
Her nails dug into her palms. Was this the routine he used on every woman? Hook her with a little romance, line her up with a slight baring of his soul, then sink her by convincing her to touch him?