Recluse (Wolfes of Manhattan 2)

It was a start.

“Yes. Yes, Roy,” I said, trying to sound confident. “I will pose for you.”

“Thank God. Follow me.” He led me through the living area. A small kitchen sat on the other side, and then a short hallway where two doors stood. One was open. The studio. I inhaled, expecting to smell the piney resin scent of turpentine or mineral spirits.

Hmm. Nothing.

The other door was his bedroom. It had to be.

He raked his gaze over me. “I wish it were daylight. I could capture you so much better in natural light, but this will have to do. You’ll have to change.”

“Change? You wanted to paint me as I am.”

He smiled. “I mean change clothes. That crisp suit is too businesslike. I want to see you as you truly are.”

“You mean…naked?”

“I was going to give you a robe, but if you’re offering…”

“I’m not,” I said quickly, though the thought had merit. If I got naked…

No. This man was an artist. He’d asked me to dinner, but that didn’t mean he wanted to take me to bed.

He opened a closet. This was obviously another bedroom that he used for a studio. “I don’t paint here often. I have a studio a couple buildings over where I have more room to move around.”

“I don’t smell any paint,” I said.

“Contrary to popular belief, oil paints have no odor. You’re probably thinking of turpentine or other solvents. I use a different method to clean my brushes.”

“How?”

“Raw linseed oil.” He smiled. “Doubles as a nutritional supplement too.”

“What?”

“Linseed oil is another term for flaxseed oil.”

“I didn’t know that. My mother takes flaxseed for her cholesterol.”

Roy nodded. “It has a nutty smell, much better than the noxious odor of turpentine or mineral spirits. A little of the oil will remove the color from the brushes and help keep the bristles from becoming dry. That plus a little castile soap and water does the trick.”

“Oh.”

“Plus, it’s summer, so I can have the windows open, which creates a nice cross breeze if the nutty odor bothers you.”

“It doesn’t. I actually don’t smell anything.”

“This is the master suite, but I sleep in the other room. I need the space here for supplies and—” He pulled out a plush white robe and handed it to me. “Here.”

I took it from him, my hands sinking into the silky chenille. “Where should I change?”

“You can use the bedroom.”

I warmed all over. Roy Wolfe’s bedroom. What might it look like? He wasn’t the rugged mountain-man type like Rock, or the sleek businessman type like Reid.

Roy Wolfe was a combination of both, plus something more special.

His bedroom was a mystery to me, one I’d solve as soon as I opened the door and entered.

“All right,” I said finally. “The closed door?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Be right back.”

I walked out, trying not to go too quickly, even though curiosity about Roy’s bedroom was killing me. When I opened the door to the other room, I dropped my mouth open.

It was nothing like I expected. The thickest mattress I’d ever seen sat on a black steel bedframe that could have come from IKEA. The bed was covered in plain white sheets and a chocolate brown comforter. Against the other wall was an antique highboy and chest, made out of walnut was my best guess. IKEA and antiques. Roy’s decorating style was truly eclectic, which was strange, given his artistic talent.

But he showed that in abundance on the other wall facing the window. He’d painted—or I assumed he’d painted—an abstract of the New York City skyline, complete with ghostly images of the Twin Towers that had collapsed years ago. A soft cloud of light swirled above them, seeming to encase them. I sucked in a breath. I had no words. It was truly stunning. Roy wouldn’t display his work in his home where others could see it, but here, in his bedroom—his sanctuary—he’d created a masterpiece.

A small door led to an attached bathroom with a clawed tub and separate shower. The bathroom seemed small, until I remembered that this wasn’t the master suite, which would have a decadent bathroom.

Another door housed what I assumed was a closet. I fought the urge to open it. I was already invading his privacy.

No. Just change, Charlie, and get out of here, back to Roy.

I shed my work clothes but left my bra and panties on. Then I wrapped the luxurious robe around me, my nipples hard against the lace of my bra. I itched to touch myself, to pinch my nipples and feel the ripple of pleasure it would bring.

I closed my eyes and imagined Roy’s firm lips encircling one, his fingers tugging at the other. I squirmed against the tickle between my legs.

He just wants to paint you, Charlie. You’re getting overeager.

Of course, he also asked you to dinner…

I stopped the jabbering in my brain, adjusted the band holding my ponytail—half the hair had come out of it. What must I have looked like when I showed up at his door?—and walked back to the studio. The door was still open, so I walked in casually. At least I hoped I looked casual. Inside, my heart was beating a mile a minute.