From the corner of my eye, I see him lift the other half of my sandwich.
Irritation prickles under my skin. “You better pay me for?—”
“Holy shit. This is so good.” He inhales two more giant bites while practically moaning.
Well. At least he’s got taste. “It’s from the deli around the corner. One of my favorites.”
“I can see why.” He catches a falling bell pepper between his teeth. “Fucking delicious.”
As he devours that half of my sandwich—and Iamgoing to insist on him repaying me—I can almost see past Connor the Mobster and Dane the Art Dealer to whatever lies beneath both. He licks sauce from his fingertips in an almost childlike manner.
He looks…honest. Like a kid.
Where’s this guy been? Why can’thetalk to me instead of the version that lies and torments me for kicks?
I’m open to an alliance if he’d just stop being such a prick.
After finishing the other half of my sandwich and wiping crumbs from his shirt, Connor finally remembers that I exist. “I like what you do for a living, by the way. Your ‘cover,’ or however you describe it.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m sure.” If “like” means using me to get an in with my bossandmy family, sure. I believe him.
“Seriously.” He glances over at the museum building. “I don’t have any sort of passion or anything like that. I’m Declan’s underboss. That’s all I’ve got.”
I nearly snort. “Are you for real right now? Are you trying to bond? Are we friends?”
“Why not?” Connor offers a sharp and not-at-all-friendly grin. “We’re in the same line of work. We like the same sandwich. Plus, there’s the art connection. You like theMona Lisa, and Dane Ryder likes theMona Lisa?—”
I do scoff at that. “I don’t, actually.”
He faces me, one leg crossed over his knee. “Who doesn’t likeMona Lisa?”
“Me.” I wipe my fingers on my napkin and mirror his pose.
He holds my gaze, sincere curiosity on his gorgeous face. His cologne wafts to my nose again, tickling my throat.
This man’s unfairly handsome. Even when he’s just talking about artwork, those dark eyes pierce mine like daggers. My heart thumps against my ribs, trembling under his scrutiny.
I pull my scarf up over my mouth and nose and focus on how much I hate him instead of how good he smells and looks. “Just because Mommy and Daddy’s money bought a J. Rochelle that’ll draw a younger audience and you walked it into the building without tripping doesn’t mean you know shit about art.”
“I know the Renaissance was boring as fuck. The art was too subtle. Picasso shook things up. You might like to stand in the background, but your taste is bold and daring. A face with a landscape of a hillside behind it? Hardly. No, you want your art to breathe, to have a backstory.” He lowers his voice. “A few bullet holes through Marilyn’s forehead. You like it messy and fearless.” He arches an eyebrow, that smirk back on his lips. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
The air punches from my lungs, and my head spins.
This bastard.
How the hell does he know my art preferences? We spent a combined total of six hours together, and he’s somehow anexpert on my opinion on the Renaissance? Aware that my favorite piece is Andy Warhol’sShot Marilyns?
I hate that he’s right. So much so that I want to claw his eyes out and feed them to the winter ducks.
Why won’t he let me fade into the background where I belong?
I pick a bread crumb he missed off his wool coat. He’ll not get the best of me. “Don’t think you know me just because your alter ego got me drunk and saw me naked.”
“Oh, but what a glorious sight it was.” He closes in, his lids low over his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind another round with you, Kitty Cat.” His voice rumbles through me, pooling warmth in my stomach. “Or maybe I’ll commission a Pop Art piece of you to hang on my wall. Four silk screen images, your beautiful body in paint.”
His fingers absently graze the area between my shoulder blades, and the caress shivers over my skin, causing my thighs to clench together. A deep ache forms in my core as I picture him nude and erect and hovering over me.
Shake it off, Cat.
