Page 82 of Dare To Live

When the doors open, there are three other people inside the small compartment. I wait for Arabella to enter, then follow her inside and move to stand in a corner. The ride down is taken in silence until the elevator stops with a gentle bump in the lobby. I offer her my arm again and lead her out of the hotel.

“My car is just along here.” I stop beside a black sedan and open the back passenger door. She frowns at me. “I have a driver tonight.”

A faint blush stains her cheeks, and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about what I said to her last night when I asked if she’d come to dinner with me and told her the things I would do.

“No games, Ari,” I remind her. “I just don’t want to drink and drive.” I wait until we’re both settled on the back seat and then wave my hand toward the driver. “No privacy glass to hide us away, either.”

The car pulls into the traffic and it’s a couple of minutes before she speaks.

“What did you do today?”

“I had to go back to the gallery where I had my showing the other night to sign off on the sold items.”

“Did you sell many?”

“Everything that had a for sale sign on it.”

“I … umm … saw one of your showings in L.A. before Christmas. At Ivan’s gallery. He showed me the private collection you display but don’t put out for sale.”

I keep my attention on the window. “What did you think?”

“I was a little shocked.”

“Shocked? Why?”

“I didn’t realize you’d drawn so many images of me.”

My mind goes to the stacks of sketchbooks back at the cabin. If she had any fucking idea just how many of my drawings were of her, she’d probably get a restraining order against me.

“You’re easy to draw.” I turn to face her and reach out to brush a finger over her cheek. “The perfect muse.”

Chapter 45

Arabella

Heat rises up the back of my neck, and I have to resist biting my lip. “I’m your muse?”

Eli’s hand drops from my cheek. “Who do you think the blonde woman is in all my art?”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“It’s you.”

I gape at him. “Me? In those paintings? The ones you’ve sold for thousands of dollars?”

He smiles slightly, his eyes never leaving my face. “People always ask me who my inspiration is.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t mentioned your name to any of them. Your secret is safe.”

I frown, recalling the beautiful ethereal female figure entwined in all of the paintings by the artist Sin that I’ve seen. “But it can’t be me.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s beautiful.”

“So are you.”

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