Twisted Lies (Twisted 4)

I gritted my teeth. Shut up.

Make me. I could practically see the disembodied voice sticking its tongue out.

Arguing with myself and sounding like a fifth grader. That had to be a new low.

“Forty-two minutes, Stella.” Christian’s eyes flickered with the soft glow of rising danger. “I have a business deal to close, so if you insist on holing yourself up like a scared hermit, tell me now so I can terminate our deal.”

Scared hermit. The words slithered down my spine like a taunt.

Was that how he saw me? Was that who I was? Someone so thrown off by one anonymous note that I let it rule my life?

Where was the girl from the morning after, the one who’d marched out of the house and vowed not to let fear win?

She was as ephemeral as morning rain and dreams of perfection. Always fighting to live and always dying by the blade of my anxiety.

The doorknob slipped against my hand.

“Fine.” The word rushed out before I could change my mind. “I’ll go.”

If only to prove that I wasn’t as weak as the world thought I was.

No smile, but the glow of danger dimmed until mere embers remained. “Good. Forty minutes.”

My lips pressed together. “You are, without doubt, the most insufferable countdown timer that’s ever existed.”

Christian’s laugh followed me into my room, where I flicked through my closet before settling on a silky camisole under a blazer, jeans, and velvet flats.

Apprehension tore at my nerves, but I kept my expression neutral as I reentered the living room.

Cool, calm, collected.

Christian didn’t say a word when he saw me, but his stare pressed against my body in a way that warmed me from the inside out.

We rode to the gallery in silence except for the soft classical music piping from the speakers. I was grateful he didn’t try to make conversation. I needed to gather all my energy for a night out when my body had already been in home relaxation mode.

My nerves intensified when the gallery came into sight.

I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.

I was with Christian, and my stalker wouldn’t attack me in the middle of a public party.

I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine, I repeated.

Luckily, the gallery opening was less crowded than the fundraiser. There were three dozen guests max, encompassing a mix of creative and high society types. They milled about the stark white space, talking quietly over glasses of champagne.

Christian and I circulated the room, making small talk about everything from the weather to cherry blossom season. I pitched in where I could, but unlike at the fundraiser, I let him take the lead.

I was too tired to be witty and charming, though it did feel nice to be in public again for the first time in a week.

I stuck by Christian’s side until Wyatt arrived with his wife.

“You do what you have to do,” I said. “I’m going to check out the rest of the exhibition.”

There was no way I could listen to them talk business without falling asleep.

“Interrupt me if you need me.” Christian leveled me with a dark stare. “I mean it, Stella.”

“I will.” I won’t. The thought of interrupting someone mid-conversation gave me hives. It was awkward and rude and I would rather throw myself into an ice pool in the dead of winter.

While he spoke with Wyatt, I made my way through the exhibit one piece at a time. The artist Morten (first name only) specialized in abstract realism. His paintings were lush, sometimes haunting, and always beautiful. Bold strokes of color depicted the darkest of emotions: rage, envy, guilt, helplessness.

I stopped in front of a canvas half-hidden in the corner. In it, a gorgeous young girl stared off to the side with a wistful expression. Her face was so realistic it could’ve been a photograph had it not been for the streaks of color dripping down her cheeks and onto her abstract torso. The streaks coalesced into a dark pool of water at the bottom of the painting, while her black hair curled away from her face and faded into a rendition of the night sky.

The piece wasn’t as big or flashy as the other paintings, but something about it tugged at my soul. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, like she was dreaming of a paradise she knew she’d never reach. Or maybe it was the melancholy of it all—the sense that despite her beauty, her life was more dark days and lonely nights than it was rainbows and sunshine.

“You like this one.” Christian’s voice startled me from my reverie.

I’d been staring at the painting for so long I hadn’t realized he’d finished his conversation with Wyatt.

I didn’t turn around, but the heat of his body enveloped mine at the same time goosebumps peppered my arms. It was a paradox, much like the man standing behind me.

“The girl. I…” Relate to her. “Think she’s beautiful.”

“She is.” The soft, meaningful dip in his voice had me questioning whether he was talking about the painting or something else.

A seed of awareness blossomed at the prospect, and it only grew when he rested a hand on my hip. It was so light it was a promise more than a touch, but it thrilled me all the same.

I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted a guy’s touch.

“Did you close the deal?” The catch in my voice sounded painfully obvious in this quiet corner where nothing existed except for heat and electricity and anticipation.

The bright lights dimmed, then faded into blackness when my eyes fluttered shut at the slow slide of Christian’s hand up the curve of my hip and onto my waist.

His soft rumble of satisfaction vibrated through my body and settled low in my core.

“Yes.” He grazed the other side of my waist with his hand before that one, too, rested against my side.

I shouldn’t have closed my eyes. In the absence of visual distraction, he consumed me. My world had narrowed to the weight of his hands on my skin, the scent of him in my lungs, and the velvety caress of his words as they worked their way down my neck, over my aching breasts, and to the pulsing need between my thighs.

My earlier annoyance toward him disappeared, replaced with a desire so fierce and unexpected it left me breathless.

“Are you still thinking about the painting, Stella?” Knowing amusement deepened into something darker, more wicked.

The brush of Christian’s mouth against my neck sent another wave of goosebumps scattering across my skin.

A soft moan rose in my throat and burst, unbidden, into the thick, languid air.

Mortification flushed my skin, but that, too, evaporated when he slid his hand from my waist to my stomach. His knuckle rasped down the silk of my top, from just below my breastbone to just above my jeans.

The pulses of desire intensified, so hard and insistent my thighs clenched in an attempt to ease my need.

It only made it worse.

I was seconds away from unraveling, and Christian had barely touched me.

A shiver skated down my spine at the thought of what he could do if he actually tried.

The curve of his lips branded my neck with male satisfaction. “I’ll take that as a no.” He dipped his thumb, ever so briefly, in the tiny gap between my stomach and the waistband of my jeans.

“Open your eyes, Stella. The photographer’s watching.”

My eyes flew open right as I heard the distinctive click of a camera shutter.

The event photographer.