I force myself to take a step back instead. She’s still disturbed by whatever dark memories she has associated with financial abuse, and I won’t risk scaring her off by coming on too strong.
“If you don’t want another drink, I’ll walk you home,” I declare, forcing my voice to gentle so I won’t further provoke her.
“You don’t have to do that,” she protests. “Stay here and enjoy your old fashioned.”
I can’t suppress a deep frown. “I came here to see you. I have no intention of staying without your company.”
“All right,” she acquiesces after another tense moment.
We go to the bar, and she doesn’t argue when I pay for our drinks.
One day, Abigail will eagerly accompany me on lavish dates where I provide her with everything she could possibly want—but for now, I’m irritated that I have to be cautious.
It takes considerable effort to keep my charming mask in place when all I can think about is punishing the bastard who inflicted the damage that’s keeping her from me.
13
ABBY
I’m still raw from the masked man’s attack, and Dane’s domineering aura sets off primal, feminine alarm bells at the back of my mind.
Who hurt you, Abigail?
My heart twists. I was right about his protective instincts, but my recent trauma is warping my responses to that fierce protective streak.
I’m sensing danger when I should feel comforted.
I’m not ready for this. As much as I want Dane, I can’t be with any man right now.
My resolve wavers when we step into the elevator. The moment the golden doors close, erotic tension fills the space. He stands beside me, just at the edge of my bubble of personal space. Desire builds between us, making my skin tingle with anticipation of his touch. He hasn’t made physical contact since I pulled away from him on the rooftop, but in this private moment, he might as well be trailing his fingers along my spine.
The elevator comes to a merciful stop, and the doors open. Cool air conditioning floods the desire-heated space, like the shock of an icy shower after a long summer run.
We step out into the gallery space, and I’m so focused on evading his allure that I don’t pause to glance at the art that’s on display.
He has other ideas. With the barest brush of his fingers around my wrist, he gently urges me to turn away from the exit, so that I’m looking at the red abstract piece again.
“What do you like about it?” he asks, his voice dropping to that seductive register.
I can’t resist the calm ring of command.
“I’m an impressionist, but abstract expressionism fascinates me,” I reply.
My focus centers on the painting, but I’m still hyperaware of his hand on my wrist. His thumb slides along my palm, tracing my heartline in a shockingly intimate caress. My senses come alive, and the painting’s varied shades of red become richer, as though someone has turned up the saturation.
He releases a low hum. “Explain it to me. I just see red.”
I blink at him in surprise, and he shoots me a devastatingly sexy smirk. “I like science; you like art. I want to understand what you see when you look at it.”
“You seem like you belong in spaces like this,” I say, puzzled. Dane is almost painfully suave, and I’ve imagined him to be a man who enjoys the finer things in life. “I can easily picture you at a glitzy gallery opening with a glass of champagne in your hand. Or at some sort of charity gala.”
It’s the kind of world I walked away from two years ago, and I’m surprised to realize that I don’t resent this impression I have of him. He embodies effortless elegance rather than putting on a show for others.
Maybe it’s just the sexy English accent throwing off my usual judgmental assessment of entitled rich people, but I can’t see Dane in the same negative light as I view my family’s social circle.
His eyes shutter for a second, and his smirk melts away. “I’ve attended my share of gallery openings and galas,” he allows. “It’s never meant much to me.”
His hand fully engulfs mine, and a thrill rushes through me, blanking my mind for a moment.
