Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,41

has nothing to do with art. No wonder Estelle said he requested you especially. I’m nothing more than a pawn in the pissing contest between two billionaires.

How in the hell did this become my life in the span of two short days?

I don’t have time to answer my own question, because he’s nearly reached my side. He moves with a slick, sinuous grace — like oil sliding through water, barely disturbing the atmosphere around him. I’m rooted in place, watching him get closer and closer until he’s only a few feet away. When he comes to a stop, he offers his hand in greeting, and for a moment it just hangs there in the space between us, as I try to wrap my head around what’s happening, here.

After an uncomfortably long slice of time, my manners finally kick in, and I lift a deadened arm to slide my palm against his. As we shake, I note his skin is cool to the touch, and almost freakishly soft — like he’s never done a hard day’s work in all his life, and has manicures more frequently than I do. Granted, I only get them about twice a year when Chrissy and Shelby drag me along on a “girl’s day” or for pre-birthday preparations, but you get the idea.

His grip tightens on mine but I barely feel it — at that moment, my mind is on an entirely different set of hands, the opposite of these hands, the ones I felt cupping the sides of my face as their owner kissed me in the rain, warm with heat and rough with calluses. Hands I’ve actively imagined exploring other parts of me in moments of weakness over the past few days, when—

Stop it, Gemma! We hate him, remember?

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” Brett asks, snapping me out of my unhealthy thoughts.

“No,” I blurt, shaking my head again. “It was fine.”

“Great.”

He’s still holding my hand.

I want to pull away, but I don’t want to insult him. I can’t afford to screw up with another VIP, or Estelle will have my head.

“So.” The cheer in my tone is as forced as my smile. “You’re looking to add to your collection?”

His eyes sweep my face, then move down my body, lingering too long on certain aspects of my anatomy in a stare that sets my teeth on edge.

“Yes,” he murmurs, his eyes still lasered-in on my legs. “Definitely looking to acquire something new.”

At that, my polite manners evaporate and I pull my hand roughly out of his.

“Great,” I snap, stepping purposefully out of his space. My tone is bordering on rude, but I don’t care. “Any spot in particular you were thinking about putting the new piece? Something over there, by the fireplace, might work beautifully, though it depends what you’re looking for, of course.”

I turn to face the mantle, focusing on the floor-to-ceiling, white brick fireplace that dominates the far wall. After a moment, he moves to stand beside me, maintaining the careful distance I’ve placed between us.

“Of course.” Just like that, his voice has flipped from seductive back to businesslike. “Most of my pieces are oils, impressionist, late 1800s. But I’m looking for something a little more modern, perhaps for my personal office.”

I relax a little.

Maybe he got the hint.

“Or my bedroom,” he adds, and my spine stiffens again as my eyes fly in his direction.

Maybe not.

He looks at me, one side of his mouth tugging up in a smile. “Follow me.”

I watch him walk away, disappearing down a hallway to the left of the fireplace, and try not to freak out.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I totally freak out.

But only for a few seconds, because even pissed off and slightly mortified, I remember that I’m not the kind of girl who allows herself to be intimidated by someone just because they have money and an annoyingly possessive gaze. Pulling a deep breath through my nose, I set my shoulders, tighten my grip on the art binder, and march after him before I lose my nerve.

***

“Monet really gets all the credit and attention — rightfully so — but when it comes to composition of light, personally, I prefer Degas. I mean, the evolution of his work over the years is amazi—”

Tap, tap, tap.

A series of sharp knocks on the study door cuts off my defense of Degas over Monet as the premier impressionist painter — which is probably a good thing. I have a tendency to get carried away, when talking art, often