His mouth twists with dry humor. “‘Never!’ she says, so firmly. So honorably. But honor always has a price. Ten thousand clearly isn’t yours, so I’ll amend my offer—after dinner. Until then, let’s get to know each other, shall we?”
For the next several minutes, in between the arrival of the wine and the ordering of dinner—duck breast for him and beef tenderloin for me—we chat about the weather, Charleston, and the art scene in the city, carefully skirting the topic of portraits. I dip into the cauliflower and mushroom soup, which Dorian recommended, and though I was skeptical, it’s fucking divine.
When my main course comes, it’s a tiny portion, artfully arranged. Dorian watches me take a bite of my tenderloin. It’s all I can do not to let my eyes roll up in bliss as the delicate meat melts in my mouth. “God, this is good.”
He gives me a catlike smile and murmurs, “You look as if you’reabout to come.”
I nearly choke on the food. Dorian laughs, pushing my water glass toward me across the creamy tablecloth.
“Don’t die on me, Baz,” he says with a teasing lightness in his voice. “I need you.”
“Shut up,” I wheeze.
“Judging by that reaction, you’re in a bit of a dry spell. I assume you don’t have a partner, since you’re here with me.”
“You shouldn’t be assuming any such thing, since this isn’t a date,” I counter. “What about you? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“I have as many lovers as I want, whenever I want, of any gender I prefer in the moment.”
“But no one special?”
“Special?” He crooks an eyebrow. “You mean love? Love is nothing but a lie, first to yourself and then to others. There’s nothing more dull or more deadly.”
Like a sparkler on a dark-blue night in July, my interest flares. That’s the most intriguing and genuine thing he has said all night. He’s been coolly playing a part this whole time, but with those words, he lifted the heavy curtain and let me glimpse what’s behind it—something philosophical, jaded, maybe a little twisted.
“You’re young to be so cynical,” I say. “Heartbreak, I’m guessing? True love has a way of making people unromantic.”
“Am I young?” Dorian takes a large swallow of wine instead of sipping it. “I’d forgotten.”
“You avoided my question.”
“If I loved anyone romantically, it was long ago, and I don’t remember it.”
“Liar.”
He sets down the wineglass, his lips shining scarlet. “Look in myeyes and tell me if I’m lying.”
I place another bite of beef tenderloin on my tongue, and while I’m chewing, I look deep into his eyes. Wide, honest eyes, with an expression so soft and innocent I wonder if I imagined the predatory look he gave me in the studio. Those eyes can’t possibly be concealing any deceit, not in that beautiful, godlike face. Not with the exquisite, symmetrical perfection of every feature, the straight line of his nose, the masculine strength of his jaw, the softness of his lips—the top one temptingly arched, the lower one full and smooth and kissable.
When I see something beautiful, like the cosmic expanse of the ocean, or delicate lichen on weathered gray wood, or the bright, sunlit emerald of trees against a stormy blue sky, the sight pierces my soul like a lance, like the sweetest pain. I want to seize the shaft and drive the spear in deeper, hold it in myself forever, pin that beauty to my psyche with a spell of blood and breath.
I’ve been resisting Dorian’s charm. Fighting against what I thought was fakery, makeup, and a carefully cultured persona.
But there is more here. Right now, there’s not a trace of makeup on his face, and yet he’s divinely, impossibly beautiful, with that glow of harmless sincerity in his blue eyes.
He’s so pretty I want to cry.
And I want to paint him.
His lovely lips move, and I watch them, mesmerized.
“I need your help, Baz,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one who can save me.”
His mouth is scarlet, wet with wine, red like—
A scene flashes before my eyes—a cream-and-brown paisley-patterned sofa, soaked in blood. Chunks of flesh and crushed bone.
I straighten in my seat, jolted back to reality.
