"Indeed, it does."

Charley finally met his gaze, electricity crackling between them. A lock of her hair slipped from its knot, falling over her cheek, and he reached up to brush it aside. Despite their flirting, the gesture felt shockingly intimate, sending a hot rush of desire between her thighs.

She�d never had such a strong, visceral reaction to a man before, and the idea left her both terrified and excited.

"We�re talking about what makes a serious collector," she continued, forcing herself to stay in character. Besides, this was the easy part. Charley adored art. If she�d been born to a different family, a different life, she might�ve been a real collector, or an art history professor, or any one of the roles she played for Rudy. It was the one bright spot her career afforded�a chance to indulge in her true passion.

Maybe that made her a fraud, but it was the truth.

"Collectors know the history because they care enough to find out." Charley turned to face him fully, her bare knees brushing against his thigh. "How much more pleasurable is a painting when you know what inspired it? When you know what kind of struggles or pain served as the artist�s muse?"

"Pain as a muse?" He lifted his eyebrows. "And here I thought you were the rainbows-and-sunshine type."

Charley touched his knee, her manicured fingertips resting lightly against the cool fabric of his suit pants. "Precisely what happens when you judge without knowing what lies beneath."

She kept her hand there, unable�or maybe just unwilling�to remove it. It was a dangerous tease, and one she couldn�t indulge in for long.

But damn, it was fun.

"To pain, then." He touched his glass to hers again. "And beauty."

"And the wisdom to know the difference," she added confidently.

He frowned in mock disappointment.

"Too far?" she asked.

"Sorry, love. Now you sound like a motivational speaker. A bad one, at that."

Charley laughed, relishing in his warm gaze, in the way he called her "love." By the time he signaled the bartender for another round, she was feeling so good, so carefree, she almost forgot she was on the clock.

Almost.

Dorian had come to the Salvatore to acquire one new possession�the Hans Whitfield painting.

Now, he wanted a second.

Neededit, actually. The siren call of her scent stirred him to a frenzy that muted all else�his father�s death, the unfortunate incident in the alley with Chernikov�s demons, the convergence of his estranged brothers on his home.

Not to mention Renault fucking Duchanes, doubtlessly angling for a way to parlay his father�s death into a power grab. The bastard had been trying to break into the Redthorne family for a century; Dorian guessed he�d shown up here tonight hoping for a meeting.

How and why he�d tangled with the woman, Dorian could only guess. But that was over now. Dorian was the new king, and he�d all but claimed her; further harassment from Duchanes could only be treated as an act of aggression, responded to in kind.

Thatwas a war not even a bloodthirsty, power-hungry vamp like Duchanes would bring upon his house.

So for now, Dorian set aside the politics of his father�s demise and focused his attention on his fiery, auburn-haired beauty, determined to end the evening on a better note than how it�d begun.

The hosts called for everyone to take a seat in the main room, and Dorian held out his arm. With a soft smile, she reached for him, but then hesitated, a silent war waging in her eyes. JrNovels.com