Page 12 of Iron Blade

Was my mind playing tricks on me, or was she leaning towards me as well?

“The other paintings tend to sexualize the presentation of the breast.” Was her voice becoming breathy and unstable? Was she affected by my proximity? Was she losing the manicured control she always had? Would she come undone in my hands if I touched her? “In this one, the breast isn’t…”

“Stop talking about breasts,” I quietly growled into her ear, my hands grabbing her by the bicep and pulling her back against my chest as I leaned in so my cheek grazed her temple.

The relief of feeling her, even through our clothes, was immense. She molded into me, and I wanted to push her for more.

But I needed to be gentle, despite my aching need.

I cleared my throat and whispered, “Stop talking about breasts or I’ll need to taste yours.”

Chapter five

What Would You Pay?

Kira

What the fuck was happening to me? One minute I was looking at Delacroix, and the next, I was talking about breasts and feeling his hard chest against my back. He was so close - too close.

Only by the flimsiest common sense was I able to pull myself out of this fog and into reality. I could not be here with Eoghan Fucking Green… I was supposed to be in their orbit to observe while I did my real duties. That was it. I was never supposed to break the pane of glass that split me from them.

But I couldn’t conjure up a “no.”

I should run. I should run far, far away, but he smelled so good. He felt so warm, and I couldn’t move. He may as well have bound me to him. I was drawn to his magnetism.

I didn’t know how to lose his attention now that I had it.

Worse yet, I didn’t want to lose it.

He stepped away and put distance between us. The overwhelming disappointment started at my toes and rose to my chest. I turned to look at him, but he had moved on, and was staring at a different painting, as if his talk of tasting my breasts hadn’t happened at all.

How can the rumors about him be true?

How could a man who knew art and beauty be as cruel as they said? Gangsters didn’t know Delacroix. People who took out knee caps didn’t speak French. They didn’t recognize Cimon and Pero. They didn’t wax poetic and make jokes about art. I had seen those bastards in action, and none of them ever acted like Eoghan.

He presented his elbow to me like some kind of regency gentleman, his black eyes looking at me with a quizzical expression.

“Come on, Miss Kekoa,” he gently coaxed me like I was a skittish animal. “We have much to see before the night is through.”

And we did. So many great classics were on display here. There was an entire wing of impressionists and modern art that Eoghan loudly groaned through.

“Fucking twats,” he said, loud enough that the patrons in the room all turned their heads and glared at him. “Impressionism is the style of the lazy bastards who can’t paint.”

The Pero and Cimon had been painted by a woman. He had gone to look at the exhibition catalog and beamed as he said, “you’re right.”

He kept my arm tucked in his elbow, his free hand stroking my fingers as he led me from place to place like we were some fancy couple. It was courtly, and sweet. When I pulled away, even if just to reach for another wine glass, he tightened his elbow to his side, not letting my hand slip from our connection.

It was a subtle and possessive move, one that no one would have noticed. No one but me... and I liked it.

I liked that I could smell the cologne of spice and musk, and the faintest smell of wood pencil shavings and charcoal. And I loved the way he introduced me to everyone who nodded in his direction.

“This is Miss Kira Kekoa,” he kept saying. “She’s one of the great art experts at Gallery Four. You won’t find an eye as good as hers anywhere else!”

It wasn’t lost on me that some of the women glared with jealous resentment. How many of them had graced his bed? How many others had he led around like this? My stomach clenched at the thought, but I pushed it aside when he brought me in front of another beautiful masterpiece.

It was a woman, her naked back pointed to the viewer. A cherub held a mirror as she adored her own reflection. It was wildly sensual, and created in a time when nudity was verboten to the Catholic Church. The shock gave it a place in art’s history.

The subject had a knowing smirk, as if she knew she’d be witnessed by thousands, if not millions, of people who would derive pleasure from her creamy skin. And she liked it. She liked being looked at and admired.

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