Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
It’s right at seven when I turn into the Chateau Cellar Winery that is home to the gallery. It’s literally a stone castle, covered in ivy with a dungeon-style front door. Just the sight of it has my nerves jolting into action, fluttering in my chest and belly, and not just because I’m late. I’ve never been featured in a show this high profile. And while I tell myself this night is one last hurrah, as I turn into the parking lot, I see every space is filled, and all I can think is that this is my dream. This is still my dream. I pull on around to the back of the building and find the lot equally full, those nerves expanding, but I dare to allow myself some excitement as well. How amazing would it be if my dream saved my father’s?
I park, and I’ve just killed the engine when there is a knock on my window. I roll it down to find Josh in view, his dark hair trimmed neatly as always, his handsome face clean-shaven. “They’re waiting on you to make announcements.”
“Oh no. Oh God. I shouldn’t have taken the photos tonight.” I click the locks, and he immediately opens the door, offering me his hand. I snag my purse and flatten my palm in his, struck by how good-looking he is in his tuxedo and how unaffected I am by his touch, even before I’m standing and under the full impact of his dark brown eyes giving me a once-over.
“You are stunning, Faith Winter.” He releases me and waves a hand in the air. “I see it now. You in a bathtub on the cover of a magazine with a headline: sexy, successful, and talented.” He doesn’t give me time to reply. He shuts my car door and snags my arm. “Let’s go.”
I double step to keep up. “I’m never going to be naked on a magazine.”
“Not if you keep smashing grapes instead of painting.”
My heart sinks. “You hated the photos. You think I lost my touch.”
He stops walking and settles his hands on my arms. “They’re magnificent, like you are. Go in there and be a painter, because I don’t represent winemakers.”
The door opens, and a woman steps outside. “Josh. Now.”
“Let’s do this,” Josh says, taking my hand and leading me into chaos. There are greetings and handshakes, and before I know it, I’m sitting in a chair on a spotlighted stage with two other artists I don’t know but admire on either side of me, the gallery around us in darkness, the crowd standing around us.
“Welcome all,” the announcer says from the podium in front of us. “As you know, we have three new artists to introduce you to tonight, but because I know you are all anxious to see the Chris Merit release, I want to explain how this works. We’ll unveil the painting in exactly one hour. Highest bidder wins, and all proceeds—one hundred percent—are donated to the Children’s Hospital. In the meantime, we have our three featured artists here tonight. They will be donating twenty percent of all sales tonight to the Children’s Hospital as well. Please visit them in the crowd tonight. Please visit their displays and our many others.” He has each of us stand, and after a few more words the lights come up. I stand and look left to find Josh waiting for me at the steps, but something intense, something familiar, compels me to look right, and I suck in air. Nick Rogers is standing there, looking like dirty, sexy, delicious lust in a tuxedo.
Chapter Six
Tiger
I don’t lie. I meant that when I said it to Faith earlier today.
She does intrigue me, and the reasons are many. For starters, I like a challenge, and she is that, both in character and physical perfection. She doesn’t look like a killer, but rather a beautiful woman, who is somehow delicate and strong at the same time. She doesn’t smell like a killer, but rather like the garden where I’d first touched her. She doesn’t even read like a killer on paper, but then I knew that when I sought her out. And right now, with her standing on the stage, staring at me, stunningly beautiful in a blue dress, I vow to know her body as well as her mind, vowing to feel every curve that dress hugs—of which she has many—next to me before this night is over. Right after I find out if she tastes like the killer and enemy I still, regretfully, suspect her to be.
I watch now as she recovers from the surprise of my appearance, the shell-shocked look on her heart-shaped face fading, her composure sliding back into place remarkably fast. She walks toward me, grace in her steps, those long legs of hers peeking out from the slit in her dress, teasing the fuck out of my cock in the process. Legs I want wrapped around my hips, but not before I’ve licked every last inch of them and her. She stops at the edge of the stage, at the top of the stairs while I’m at the bottom, those full, lush lips of hers painted a pale pink, subtle and yet beautiful, the way she uses a brush on a canvas. She’s talented, gifted as few are, and capable of making a living on her own, without involvement in blackmailing or killing my father.