“What?” He bit out.
“The suitable subject matter,” she reiterated, raising a brow, “What was it?”
Tristan grit his teeth and worked his jaw, but said nothing.
“You do not know, do you?” She asked. “You do not know because you did not even look at it! Now, I ask again, and do not lie to me. What ails you! You have been strange all night.”
Youhe wished to shout.You are what’s wrong with me! Taking up my blasted thoughts. Confusing me. I have never wanted and despised someone so much at the same time and it is driving me mad!
“You are exaggerating,” he said instead, his tone flat. “I have no ailment. I am simply busy. You did fine with the first three paintings and I have decided to trust you with the final one. Now are you telling me that is a mistake? Am I to hold your hand and walk you through your work, or are you the artist you claim to be?”
Ophelia glowered at him, but he knew he had struck the only cord left to be played. The one that threatened the idea of herindependence. She bit her bottom lip as her hand went to the silver choker, her fingers tugging at it as she dropped her gaze back to her canvas. For a moment Tristan stilled, suddenly worried that she was about to take the choker off. The very thought made his stomach clench tightly and he grimaced.
As angry at himself as he was for his feelings, he recognized that it meant something to him that she was wearing it. He eased out a breath when her fingers slipped away from the silver piece and she picked up a brush. Instead of looking away, his eyes remained fixed on her as she began to paint again.
He noted the disappointment in her expression. The tense way her shoulders drew up to her ears. The tightness in her jaw as she painted; the clenching no doubt causing pain to ebb through her teeth and down her throat. The urge to soothe all of that rose up greatly in him, and once more, he was fighting an inner battle with himself to stay seated and stay away.
Another tense hour passed between them as the crackling of the fire and the strokes of her paint brush were the only sounds that filled the room. He tried, many times, to focus on his paperwork. On the filings that may possibly contain clues as to who this Perley fellow was. Yet every few seconds, his eyes were drawn back up to Ophelia.
It was while he was taking one particular, long look at the choker wrapped around her throat once again that Ophelia let out a soft sigh, and put down her brush. His eyes sprang back up to her face, and his heart twisted painfully when he saw the despair in her expression.
“What is wrong?” He asked before he could stop himself.
Ophelia shook her head as she stepped away from the painting.
“It is flat. Lifeless. Just as is the energy in this room,” she replied.
Tristan bristled at her words.
“Are you goading me?” He asked.
She looked up, her movement so sudden he had no choice but to lock into her gaze. There was no teasing expression, no spiteful glint. Just pure disappointment.
“No,” she stated. “I am simply speaking the truth.”
She broke away from his gaze, but as she walked toward his desk, he felt his body respond to her all over again.
“What are you doing?” He asked, thinking that she was going to approach him.
Disappointment railed at him when she instead reached for her mask laying atop his desk.
“To seek inspiration,” she replied, placing her mask over her face. “You made it clear you will not provide it. You are not even deigning to speak to me.”
Tristan’s grip tightened on the arms of his chair; feeling trapped.
“Ophelia,” he warned, “I am no mood to fight with you this evening. Nor am I in the mood to chaperone you around the club.Stay. Here.”
“You stay here,” she hissed, turning her back to him. “I have a job to do, and as you stated earlier, I do not need you to hold my hand to accomplish it.”
Tristan shoved out of his chair as Ophelia darted for the door, but before he could even take a step, she was out in the hall. He raced after her, intent on dragging her back inside; but stopped in tracks as he reached the main room; his breath freezing in his lungs as he saw Ophelia being swept into the arms of another masked man.
Something dark and twisted lashed out from the depths of his soul, and with the curling of his fists, he strode toward them with grave intent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“You are new,” the handsome masked man mused.
Behind her mask Ophelia smirked, and let him twirl her into the sultry steps of a dance she did not know.
