Page 9 of Iron Blade

He shoved some pens to the side as he lay a hand on the surface of my desk. I hoped one of them broke open and stained his expensive suit.

He read the descriptions of the art and frowned, as annoyed by them as I had been.

“I aim to unseat the viewer with the tactile blending of haunted dreams, from the chasm of my traumatized mind,” Eoghan read aloud, before wrinkling his nose as if the words themselves smelled bad. “Christ, did he step in dog shite when he ventured out of his mum’s basement? Is that the trauma he’s talking of?”

I peered down. It was an image of a thin young man with a moustache, his arms over his naked body as he sat in the fetal position. Even in this glorified self-portrait, he looked like a dweeb.

I tried not to smile, as we shared a little moment. A piece of schadenfreude at a young “artist’s” expense.

Could this be the evil Eoghan Green I had heard so much about? The man as sadistic as his father, Alastair Green? Surely not. From where I stood, he looked and acted like a trust fund kid with an intelligent passion for art. Harmless in every possible way.

“It’s a wonder how these people get out of bed in the morning,” he continued. I felt him turn his head, his eyes landing on my cheek, searing a hole into my face. “How much do you have left in your workday?”

“A lot.” I crossed my arms in front of my breasts, suddenly self-conscious as his eyes caressed down my body and back up again.

Jesus. What was he seeing? Whatever it was, he liked it, as his fingers gripped the edge of my desk, his knuckles turning white.

“That’s not true,” he said with a snort. “You’ve already clocked out for the day.”

“Are you spying on me?” I was shocked and looked at him with widened eyes.

“Yes, I am.” He pushed off my desk and extended a hand towards me. “Now, come with me. There’s a new gallery that has a traveling exhibit of the old classics. It’s just down the street.”

It wasn’t a request, but a command, his open palm between us was a royal decree.

“No.” I wanted my voice to sound firm, but it came out as a whisper instead.

“You know you want to,” he said with a little wink.

“I know no such thing.”

He tilted his head back in exasperation, then said with a completely straight face, “Miss Kekoa, it would be my distinct pleasure if you would allow me to escort you to one of the best art exhibits to come to New York City in the last decade.”

He pushed his hand out closer to me, and I looked down at it with suspicion.

A scar bisected his palm horizontally. It ran deep, as if he had sliced his hand there not just once, but many, many times. Was he a cutter?

“My treat.” My eyes shot back up to his face. A lock of his blond hair fell over his forehead, giving him a roguish appearance. “I’ll even take you to dinner after, like a gentleman.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Mr. Green.” I stepped away from him, my eyes narrowing into angry slits. “I’m not that kind of woman.”

“We’ll see about that.” His smirk was doing strange things to me. My heart fluttered, as I was tugged into its spell. “If you don’t care to see where the evening takes us, then I give you my word that I will drive you to your door, and not attempt to enter your dwelling. Scout’s honor.”

He put his hand up, his pinky and thumb touching, three fingers up like a Boy Scout.

“You don’t look like a Boy Scout.”

“And you don’t look like a prude,” he chuckled. “So, we’re both full of surprises.”

I narrowed my eyes at his presumption. Privileged little rich boys were all the same. They thought they owned the world and all its wine and women.

“You’re an asshole, Mr. Green,” I said, taking another step back. “Just because I don’t want to sleep with you, doesn’t make me prude.”

He didn’t seem offended. He just waited; his hand extended to me.

“You’re charming, Miss Kekoa.” His voice was softer. “I like hearing you speak. It would delight me to spend some time in your company this evening.”

Chapter four

---