The Finished Masterpiece Boxed Set - Pepper Winters Page 0,14

hoping he’d be able to do the same. “I want to stay. If you refuse to talk about what we had in the past then I’m happy to begin again.”

His eyes liquefied with pain. For a moment, he struggled to reply. “What we had...it meant nothing.” He flinched as if his own words cut him like fatal swords.

“Why did you leave, Gil?” My voice hugged a whisper, my pain bleeding out without permission.

He looked away, his fists clenching. “I had a reason.”

“Tell me.”

He shook his head again, his temper returning to shield him. “No past. No history. You’re nothing more than a canvas and I’m nothing more than a painter. That’s it. That’s all there can ever be.” The way his voice mixed with merciless misery sent curiosity slashing through me. He harboured something that chewed at him. It lived behind his eyes. It thickened his every breath. It begged me to uncover it.

But...I’d already pushed too far.

I teetered on the edge of falling to my knees and begging for answers or slapping his flawless, heartless face.

I needed time to regroup. To come up with a better plan.

Striding wordlessly toward the stage, I climbed onto the small platform. Turning my back on him, I tugged the robe up and over my shoulders for privacy and, with trembling hands, removed my black G-string. Quickly, I ripped open the packet and traded my underwear for the skin coloured one he’d given me.

The plastic bag and my old G disappeared into the pocket of the robe.

I paused.

I sucked in a breath.

I searched for bravery.

This was it.

No going back.

Gritting my teeth, begging my heart to stop being such a traitorous fool, I spun around, shrugged out of the bathrobe, and tossed it to the side. Not giving myself time to second-guess, I ripped off my sports bra and let it fall.

My hands balled as my nipples pebbled from exposure and nerves. I dared look at Gil, bracing for a sneer or some condescending remark, expecting to be broken into pieces by his frost.

However, his eyes blazed as brilliant and as bright as wildfire. He stood frozen in place. Fists curled, body taut, lips pressed together as if he didn’t trust himself.

Just like before, lust sprang violently between us.

I was no longer cold.

He was no longer pretending.

In that aching, wanting moment, the truth was vibrant as it was vicious.

With a quiet grunt and monumental effort, he tore his gaze away. He stumbled toward his workstation, rubbing his face as if he didn’t have the strength for more torture.

With jerky movements, he dragged the airbrush on its rolling frame toward me, keeping his attention locked on his tools, fiddling with dials and hoses.

I stood bare and vulnerable, waiting, begging him to look at me and let go of whatever held him trapped, but he never did.

He acted as if I had the power to kill him with a single touch, doing his best to keep shields high and decorum fiercely in place.

Without a word, he placed a tray of pre-mixed colours beside the podium. Taking his time, he arranged the supplies until they were neatly rowed by my feet. When he had nothing else to occupy himself with, he sucked in a tattered breath and...looked up.

I clenched my tummy, ready for the ricochet of heat and hurt, but his jaw worked and his eyes remained cold, clinical, totally unaffected that I stood before him in just flesh-coloured knickers and bare breasts.

I breathed harder, my chest rising and falling in invitation.

But he didn’t crack. He’d buried himself deep within discipline. His gaze slipped over my hardened nipples, his tone snowy and detached. “Some painters use pasties.” He followed the curve of my breast. “I don’t as I dislike the way it wrinkles the skin and brings more attention to the area than if they were left bare. Do you have a problem with that?”

He kept his stare resolutely on my flesh, as if my body didn’t hurt him as much as my eyes.

I’d never felt so naked or so vulnerable.

Never been so confused.

I fought the urge to cover myself. “That’s fine.”

“Good.” Swallowing hard, he commanded, “Now...turn around. I need to know what I’m working with.”

Dressed in new goosebumps, I did as he asked.

Secrets or no secrets.

Job or no job.

I couldn’t hide my flaws anymore.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, an explosive curse. “Holy shit.” His voice slipped from detached to drenched in shock. “O...”

My knees buckled. How could one little letter echo with lifetimes of love?

Tears