Page 5 of Sinful Blaze

I wasn’t walking away from a goddamn thing.

The beauty with the absinthe bottle mouths two words. Two little words that make her luscious lips pucker. And call me crazy, but if I squint and tilt my head just so, help me looks an awful lot like kiss me.

Fine.

If she insists.

For a moment, I forget the rest of it. My reason for being here, at this godforsaken dog-and-pony show. (Buying art to bribe a United States senator—what a fucking joke.) I forget who I am, what I’m capable of. I forget the blood on my hands and the men waiting outside for me to give them their orders.

For one moment, while my lips seal against hers, I stop thinking and scheming and conquering.

I just kiss her.

It ends sooner than I like, although longer than I should’ve allowed. I have to pull myself away, if only so that I don’t throw her on the table and fuck her brains out right in front of God and everyone watching.

Not that I wouldn’t enjoy it—seeing the look on Conrad’s face would more than make up for the ensuing dramatics—but I didn’t come to cause trouble.

Not tonight, at least.

The artist eyes me up and down. “Well, Daphne, you sure moved on fast,” he grumbles to my new little accomplice.

“You’re one to talk.” The girl—Daphne—smooths out her dress and holds her head up high. “At least I waited until after the breakup.”

I like her.

I loathe him.

The bitch of a mistress—who I understand has recently been promoted to “bitch of a fiancée”—glued to his side sniffs and makes a whole show of caressing her man in ways designed to flaunt the gaudy rock on her finger. “NeNe, please. Let’s not do this here. It’s so low rent of you.”

She flicks her gaze to me and offers a coy smile.

I suppress a shudder at how viscerally she makes me hate her.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” I drawl. “To the happy couple as well as the talented artist.”

It’s funny—I’ve lied to police, to special agents, to enemies holding literal guns to my head. Somehow, it takes the most effort to lie to this asshole in particular.

I feel Daphne stiffen at my side. When she starts to back away from Ewing and his mistress, I pull her into my embrace instead, one hand looped around her waist.

Relax, my touch says. I’ll handle this.

“Yes, well,” he snaps at me, “I’m sure you’re not here just to drink free wine and seduce the staff. Got your eye on anything in particular?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I answer coolly.

My grin is wolfish as I keep Daphne close to my side and point to the nearest painting. In the corner of my eye, I see Daphne’s face curdle. I’m guessing this piece is Conrad’s worst sin of them all.

I’m inclined to agree. It’s atrocious. A huge, gaudy painting of a woman with two freckles on her breast and a haughty look in her eye that demands, Worship me.

One glance at Ewing’s woman fills in the blanks. The dress she’s wearing doesn’t leave much to the imagination, so it’s easy to see two small freckles on the side of her breast, matching the painting.

Ah, yes. That makes sense.

“How long did this one take you?” I ask Ewing. As I do, I feel the woman at my side shudder.

Again, I’m no hero. I’m definitely not the good guy.

But I’m also not a cowardly fucking cheater. And I have zero tolerance for those who can’t muster up the minimum amount of loyalty.

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