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“But you got me in front of her.”

“I just introduced you. Your work speaks for itself.”

Samantha stepped closer and wrapped her arms around my neck. That surprised me. I barely had time to put my glass down before she kissed me.

Not one of the careful kisses she’d been giving me for the past three weeks either. She kissed me like she’d forgotten we were standing in a gallery.

I slid my hands around her waist and pulled her closer. Samantha didn’t retreat this time. Her body pressed fully against mine as the kiss deepened, her fingers slipping into the hair at the back of my head.

Fuck.

Every instinct I had told me to take more. My hand moved up her back, holding her against me as her lips parted beneath mine. She made a soft sound against my mouth, and whatever restraint I’d been congratulating myself for having became considerably harder to maintain.

This was the closest she’d let me get.

Three weeks of dates. Three weeks of kissing her goodnight and stopping when she pulled away. Three weeks of pretending I didn’t mind that Samantha seemed perfectly content keeping my hands exactly where she wanted them.

Now she was the one closing every inch between us. And I liked that much better.

When she finally pulled away, she stayed against me, slightly breathless and smiling so widely I almost laughed.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I got excited.”

“I noticed. I like it.”

She laughed and buried her face briefly against my chest. I kept my arms around her.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

I looked over her head at the painting.

“You should.”

She pulled back enough to look at me.

“You really think I’m that good?”

“I wouldn’t have brought Denise here if I didn’t.”

She studied my face for a moment, then kissed me again. I smiled against her mouth.

Samantha thought I was showing her what her life could become as an artist.

But I was really showing her what her life could become with me.

Later that night, I turned the Jaguar onto my parents’ gravel drive shortly before nine.

Nearly every light on the first floor was on. Catherine hated arriving home to a dark house, and Leonard hated paying the electricity bill she created. Somehow, they had remained married for more than thirty years without realizing how much they despised each other.

They had invited me to dinner, although neither of them had mentioned food. Leonard only summoned me when he wanted to lecture me. His house. His company. His rules.

I parked near the front entrance and let myself inside.

The estate looked almost exactly as it had when I was a child. Same furniture. Same paintings. Same stale obsession with preserving everything carrying the Kincaid name.