I wish I could say I feel some sense of hope or relief, too.
All I feel is the heat of Jared Rush’s smoldering gaze still fixed on me.
He stares unflinchingly, unapologetically, while Daniel hurries to reach for the bait now dangling in front of him.
“Tell me what you want, Jared. I know we can work this out.”
“I hope we can.” Those hot, molasses-brown eyes don’t leave my face for a second. “Ultimately, that’s going to depend on Ms. Laurent.”
“Melanie?” Daniel’s head swivels toward me. “What’s she got to do with this?”
“I want to paint her.”
My breath seizes in my lungs. I wasn’t sure what I expected him to say, but this is the furthest thing from my mind.
I want to bolt. I want Daniel to grab my hand and race with me out of the room, out of this mansion—away from Jared Rush—as fast as we possibly can.
That’s what I want, but my feet stay frozen beneath me.
As for Daniel, he doesn’t move, either. “What do you mean, you want to paint her?”
“Was I unclear? I want Ms. Laurent to pose for me. In my studio.”
Jared Rush wants to paint me?
Images of his notorious artwork bombard my memory. I’m nothing close to an expert when it comes to the art world, but I’ve spent enough time near Manhattan to have seen at least a few of his provocative nudes, whether hanging in galleries or museums, or making headlines at exclusive auctions.
I’m also aware that it’s been some time since he’s produced anything new. Easily a couple of years. The fact that he’s looking at me as his next subject would be laughable if his expression wasn’t so joltingly serious.
“I’m not a model,” I blurt. “And definitely not the kind you’re known for painting.”
His head cocks slightly, making some of the thick chestnut waves at his shoulders break against the crisp white silk of his shirt. A ghost of a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. “You’re familiar with my work?”
“I know enough.” My reply sounds brittle, disapproving. Maybe it is, but it’s the sudden hammering of my heart that puts an edge to my words.
He doesn’t seem fazed either way. “Few of the women I’ve painted were models. I’m not interested in professionals.”
That still doesn’t explain why he would be interested in me. But he is. The current of heat arcing toward me from his hooded stare leaves little room for doubt.
I wonder if it’s obvious enough that even Daniel senses it now. He clears his throat. “I don’t think I like where this conversation is heading. Melanie’s not part of this, Jared.”
“One hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars,” Rush replies evenly. “She can make it all go away. I’ll clear both your debts personally, the one you incurred tonight and the one closing in on you from Las Vegas. In exchange, all I’m asking for is a few hours of Ms. Laurent’s time in front of my canvas.”
“Naked,” I point out, and just saying the word aloud in front of him makes me feel as if I’m already unclothed. A shiver dances down my spine, not chilled, but warm. Much too warm. Heat spirals through me, flushing me from my face to my toes. I fold my arms in front of me, the only shield I have against the unwanted heat this man is igniting in me.
Daniel makes a sound of discomfort in the back of his throat. “I’m familiar with some of your work, Jared. What kind of painting are we talking about where Melanie’s concerned?”
“The only kind I’m interested in creating.” Those dark eyes still hold on to me as he speaks. “I paint what’s real. Things I find beautiful, provocative. Raw. Anything less is a waste of my time, and, frankly, my talent.”
God, the arrogance. Not that he hasn’t earned the right to some of it. His ability and critical acclaim as an artist has made him an extremely wealthy man. His power and fame in this city isn’t in question, but neither is his reputation as a debauched manwhore. I’m not sure which of those traits bothers me the most.
Jared Rush wears his confidence as comfortably as he fills out his expensive suit and unbuttoned shirt. I’m sure he’s used to women fighting over his attention wherever he goes, which makes me wonder all over again why he would want to paint me.
I’m not sure I want to know. I sure as hell have no intention of finding out.
I glance at Daniel, expecting him to shut this whole ridiculous conversation down. Instead, he stands there in silence, a tendon twitching anxiously in the side of his cheek.
My pulse kicks. He can’t possibly think any of this sounds reasonable, can he? The fact that his tongue is apparently glued to the roof of his mouth doesn’t give me much reassurance.
