Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,8

dotting its walls were huge canvases by famous twenty-first-century artists.

“My house is decorated with art, thanks to a buyer and ex-girlfriends,” —girlfriends, of course— “but no, I don’t actively collect. You look disappointed.”

I laughed, covering, drawing on my actress alter-ego. “No, not entirely disappointed. Simply adjusting my plans. If you won’t be my benefactor, you’ll simply have to be my muse.” I slanted a look at him, indulged myself by admiring the line of his jaw, the sculpted length of his neck disappearing beneath the lavender of his shirt. He made the color look so masculine.

“Emily.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard that before,” I said quickly, “but I’m not the jealous type.” A fine statement for a woman who was playing a game, who didn’t intend to get emotionally involved, but I knew, if I were really interested in Daniel Hartmann, I wouldn’t be willing to share.

My words charged the air, laid out a challenge. We both understood where this was leading. There was no doubt the attraction was there. What I didn’t know was, would I gather up my clothes and be driven home in the wee hours of the morning, or would there be breakfast and normal, awkward, next-morning conversation? And why was I considering sleeping with a man I didn’t like? On the first date? When only half an hour earlier I had rejected the possibility.

I had always believed that personality was part of attraction, but since I didn’t really know Daniel, had every reason to dislike him, I was coming around to the idea that attraction was a purely physical thing.

• • •

At the restaurant, he ordered a bottle of wine, made sure my glass stayed full. Watched me carefully as I grew more relaxed over the course of the meal, more aroused by the alcohol and him. Every part of my body came alive and I wanted to feel everything with my skin—the coolness of the silverware, the sleek wood of the chair beneath my thighs.

The air was tense and electric yet somehow the conversation passed with nothing of import said. Instead we talked about safe topics like food, people and places. In Boston’s social scene, chefs were as much celebrities as musicians and actors, and of course, Daniel knew the restaurant’s creative director. I wasn’t a particular fan of molecular gastronomy, but nonetheless, I enjoyed the puffed mozzarella bites and the basil oil-injected grape tomatoes.

“Well, truthfully,” I said, eventually answering his question from the day before, “working for you isn’t my first job. I’ve been painting murals for local businesses for a few years now. Between that and designing posters for musicians, I’ve managed to avoid the usual part-time jobs.”

The waiter left the dessert plate on the table, with a spoon in front of each of us.

“Why did you come to work for me?” His mouth pressed into a thin line, as if maybe he wanted to say more, or hadn’t even meant to say that. As if maybe Daniel Hartmann could be as impulsive as I clearly was. Maybe he simply didn’t want to get serious, to change the playful, flirtatious, charged atmosphere between us. Or maybe that was just me.

“For Hartmann Enterprises, you mean?” I shrugged, choosing the vaguest of answers. “I should think anyone would jump at the chance for a position with growth, with an excellent entry-level salary and benefits.”

“But why would Mark Anderson’s daughter?” Ah, there we were. I looked down at my plate. He’d clearly known all along.

I looked up again, met his gaze head on.

“I was wondering if that was why you’d asked me out.” I swallowed hard. Honesty time. There really was nothing else to say or do. “I was curious about you, but I never imagined … I should hate you. In some ways I do.”

He laughed. I watched him closely, trying to decode the tone of the sound and the way his body seemed to contract. I’d learned to read emotion and symbolism in sculpture, but that didn’t help me understand. I watched him tap his finger against the leather seat of the booth as if the motion were the biggest mystery in the world.

For me, he was the villain. He’d ruined my family, taken away our wealth. And yet, I found him compelling. I wanted to press my lips to his just to see how he tasted. Was that attraction purely because he was forbidden fruit?

“If you were your own son, you could be innocent,” I said softly. “You and me sitting here? This