Dark Deception (Vampire Royals of New York #1) - Sarah Piper Page 0,9
chosen identity served two purposes—getting in the door and making fake bids on the art. Nowhere on the list was making new friends.
Even extremely sexy British friends with the kind of body built for pinning her down on the bed and a mouth she’d already imagined melting between her thighs.
“So you’re a regular,” he said, eyeing her up. “Let’s see. A curator, collector, or just another member of the idle rich?”
Charley laughed. “Depends on your definition of collector.”
“How so?”
Charley gestured behind them, where the beautiful elite sipped champagne and laughed agreeably at one another’s polite conversation. Serious collectors occasionally attended, but private auctions were more often populated by eccentric billionaires who treated rare art acquisition like hunting safaris, and bored socialites looking to one-up the neighbors.
As a girl hanging on her father’s arm, Charley had attended these same events, watching in awe as he worked the room. Not much had changed since then.
“Out of the dozens of people here,” she said, “how many know anything about the pieces they’re bidding on?”
“Perhaps they just know what they want when they see it.” He held her gaze, those eyes entrancing her as he inched closer. Heat radiated between them where their thighs touched. “Some things are quite pleasurable in their own right, aren’t they.”
He wasn’t asking her. He was telling her.
A thrill shot through her veins.
Charley looked away, unable to take the intensity building between them. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, or if the alcohol had lowered her guard, or if her fantasies were finally overtaking the last bit of logical resistance in her head, but everything about this man—his words, his sultry voice, the way he’d come to her aid in the bedroom—was making her embarrassingly, undeniably wet.
She shifted on the barstool, still not meeting his eyes. “Just because something looks pretty doesn’t mean it’s art.”
“What is art, if not beauty? Art stirs our deepest passions, regardless of its origins. Is knowledge of its history a prerequisite to our pleasure?”
“Of course not, but that definition is too broad. Bordain’s Garden of the Divine is art, but then, so are the flowers that inspired it. Is a building art? A sunset? A child’s painting?”
“The curve of a lover’s mouth?” he asked.
She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on the glass. “Depends on the lover, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed, it does.”
Charley finally met his gaze, electricity crackling between them. A lock of her hair slipped from its knot, falling over her cheek, and he reached up to brush it aside. Despite their flirting, the gesture felt shockingly intimate, sending a hot rush of desire between her thighs.
She’d never had such a strong, visceral reaction to a man before, and the idea left her both terrified and excited.
“We’re talking about what makes a serious collector,” she continued, forcing herself to stay in character. Besides, this was the easy part. Charley adored art. If she’d been born to a different family, a different life, she might’ve been a real collector, or an art history professor, or any one of the roles she played for Rudy. It was the one bright spot her career afforded—a chance to indulge in her true passion.
Maybe that made her a fraud, but it was the truth.
“Collectors know the history because they care enough to find out.” Charley turned to face him fully, her bare knees brushing against his thigh. “How much more pleasurable is a painting when you know what inspired it? When you know what kind of struggles or pain served as the artist’s muse?”
“Pain as a muse?” He lifted his eyebrows. “And here I thought you were the rainbows-and-sunshine type.”
Charley touched his knee, her manicured fingertips resting lightly against the cool fabric of his suit pants. “Precisely what happens when you judge without knowing what lies beneath.”
She kept her hand there, unable—or maybe just unwilling—to remove it. It was a dangerous tease, and one she couldn’t indulge in for long.
But damn, it was fun.
“To pain, then.” He touched his glass to hers again. “And beauty.”
“And the wisdom to know the difference,” she added confidently.
He frowned in mock disappointment.
“Too far?” she asked.
“Sorry, love. Now you sound like a motivational speaker. A bad one, at that.”
Charley laughed, relishing in his warm gaze, in the way he called her “love.” By the time he signaled the bartender for another round, she was feeling so good, so carefree, she almost forgot she was on the clock.
Almost.
Chapter Four
Dorian had come to the Salvatore to acquire one new possession—the Hans Whitfield painting.