The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,30
proud of it, I admit.”
“Plenty to be proud of, sir,” Damon says.
“I’m sorry to see it go, but I trust you to give me a fair price.”
“I’ll have to see what I can do.” Damon wanders over to the near wall, where a monstrosity of a dark and gloomy Baroque oil painting depicts John the Baptist losing his head (not my taste, art history major or not), and takes a closer look. “I can give you a great price if you want to part with some of those Picasso sketches.”
My father chuckles. “That’s the problem with you Americans. Give you an inch, and you take the whole continent. Admire your tenacity, though.”
“You never know unless you try,” Damon says with an easy shrug and a flash of those dimples that makes my heartbeat skitter.
“Sit, sit.” My father waves a hand as he settles on the main sofa. Damon sits in the chair to his right across the coffee table, and I sit in the chair to my father’s left. Right on cue, a new member of staff—I don’t know the woman’s name yet—appears to take our drink orders. “What do you drink, Damon? I’m a whiskey man, myself.”
“I have a taste for a dirty martini.” Damon glances in my direction, the spark of mischief in his dark eyes belying his bland expression. If he finds it difficult to be on his best behavior for my father’s benefit around me, he’s not giving anything away. The bastard. “They’re my new favorite. Thanks.”
“A dirty martini,” my father booms with delight, as though he gets a royalty every time anyone in the world drinks a dirty martini. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. It’s been like this all afternoon, during lunch and our tour of the gallery. Everything Damon says and does seems to send my father into fits of ecstasy. As someone who also appreciates the finer points of Damon Black, I certainly understand this impulse. Still, if it gets any thicker in here, we’ll all need to put on our Wellington boots to make our way through the shit. “Perfect. And you, Charlotte?”
The effort of not blushing, simpering or grinning at Damon in front of my father has consumed most of my energy for the day, especially with Damon’s thrilling scent of incense and amber lingering in the air, keeping me high on hormones, so it takes a beat longer for me to peel my attention away from Damon than I would have liked.
“I’ll have a martini as well,” I tell my father. “Also dirty. Thanks.”
“Lovely. The usual for me, dear,” my father tells the staffer absently. I can tell by the subtle deflation of the woman’s expression that she understands perfectly well that my father hasn’t bothered to learn her name and probably never will. Still, she keeps her game face on. I give her credit for that and make a mental note to mention this to my father later. “And bring us some of those nibbly things I liked yesterday. Maybe a cheese plate.”
“Right away, sir,” the woman says, bustling off.
“You’ll be comfortable in the guest house cottage tonight,” my father tells Damon. “I’m sure you’ve already noticed that you have a great view of the rose garden and the fountain. That rose garden was my grandmother’s—”
“Pardon me, sir,” the staffer says, reappearing and then whispering something in my father’s ear.
“Ah.” My father beams at Damon and me. I wouldn’t have thought that anything could make him happier than Damon’s drink selection just now, but evidently, I was wrong. He pops up and trails the staffer to the doorway. “You’ll excuse me for a moment, won’t you? I need to have a quick word with someone.”
They both disappear, their footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Leaving me alone with Damon for the first time today and the first time since he left my apartment the other night.
Our gazes connect across the length of the coffee table as he gets up and takes my father’s seat on the sofa, supercharging the air and making my skin heat. He is focused. Intent. And the smoldering desire I see as he skims me up and down, his attention lingering on my legs, which are crossed and bare, and the hint of cleavage revealed by the square neck of my sleeveless navy dress, leaves me breathless and agitated inside my too-tight skin.
My condition is not helped by the fact that his absence from my days creates an exhausting new phenomenon that makes time