He watches me, totally relaxed, arms still draped over the edge of the tub. The water glides around his chest and shoulders, catching the light on every plane of muscle.
“Why not?” Another slow sip of vodka, his eyes on me.
Because I’m insanely attracted to you and you’re my boss.
Because my brother is working undercover and if you poke too hard into my background to find him you might put us all in danger.
And because men like you ruin women like me without even trying.
“Because.”
He tilts his head. “You’re uncomfortable being naked.”
It’s not a question. It’s a true statement. And it lands on me like a spotlight.
Heat rushes through my body. “I didn’t say that.”
He smirks, amused. “You didn’t need to.”
I force a shrug. “Well, I don’t make a habit out of stripping at work in front of my boss.”
“I already told you, I don’t mix women with my son. This—” he gestures lazily to us, the water, the room, the very obvious tension “—is separate. What happens here, stays here.”
Just as I thought, but how is that even possible? How the hell could I look him in the eye tomorrow?
I glance down at the surface of the water. “I guess I’m not comfortable being exposed like that in front of someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“You know. All of… that.” I do this stupid little wave in the direction of his gorgeous, powerful-looking chest. It’s a mistake, because now I’m very obviously staring right at it.
“Rich?” he asks. “Dangerous? Older?”
How about all of the above?
Max pops into my head and I hate it. I hate it so much.
“It’s just… your body. It’s toned and muscular and—” I gesture to him again. “And my body... isn’t.”
There’s a pause. Water bubbles softly against tile.
His voice is lower. Rougher. Almost like he’s angry. “Look at me, Amalie.”
I do. He holds my gaze, unflinching.
“I thought you were an artist?”
“Huh?” I’m genuinely confused.
“An artist. If you call yourself an artist, that suggests you’ve studied the great works of art throughout history. Correct?”
“Of course I have.”
He nods, as if that was the answer he was looking for. “In that case, you know that your body,” he looks me up and down, “is the kind that’s inspired artists for thousands of years.”
My heart and breath stop at the same time.
“Soft,” he continues quietly. “Full. Real. Not this starved, edited nonsense the world is obsessed with. Women like you...” His eyes move over my body again, slowly, unapologetically, over the curve of my breast under my cardigan, the line of my hips, the thickness of my thighs, “...are the reason marble was carved. Paintings were made. Men went to war.”
