Page 44 of Gilded Saint

“I don’t know.” His answer comes across as distinctly honest. “I hear you have an agent interested in your work?”

“Yes. The shipment with some of my older work should arrive in a day or two, and he’s going to come by next week to see it.”

“Who is shipping it?”

“Scarlet handled it for me.”

“You trust her?”

“Yes. Completely.”

“Be careful who you give your address to. I don’t share my address broadly. Do you understand?”

“I gave Scarlet the studio address.”

“That’s a trail anyone could follow.”

I feel scolded, and annoyance seeps through my skin. “Understood. Are those all the rules?”

“Yes.” I expect him to push up from the table, but he lifts the wine bottle and refills his glass. “Would you like more?”

“No, thank you.” I’ve lost what little appetite I had. I should be ecstatic, yet I’m not. “Security, rings, and all my orgasms come from my fingers or a battery-operated device. Got it.”

He does not look amused. I don’t really care. I’m annoyed. I’m probably also acting like a brat. Getting worked up is nonsensical.

This arrangement couldn’t be more ideal, yet I’m let down. I shouldn’t be. I have no right to be. He did this as a favor. We’re temporary, and that’s what I should remember. This is not my life forever.

Chapter16

Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint

Willow’s clearly upset, but damned if I know why or what to do about it. She clears the table and cleans the kitchen as if she’s a reprimanded kid. Only, for all my talk about her being too young, she’s nothing like a child. As if I could forget her tempting figure wrapped in lace on our so-called wedding night. She’s all woman.

I have half a mind to tell her to leave everything, that the staff will clean it. But, if I do that, she’ll leave and either go to her room or to the studio, leaving me alone.

As she cleans, like a horny jerk, I watch her backside closely, perusing her curves, remembering those sexy-as-fuck globes in a thong. By the time she folds the cloth and hangs it below the cabinet, I’m uncomfortably hard.

“Goodnight.”

Her blonde waves swish with her pissed off steps as she departs for her bedroom.

I could’ve asked her to stay and talk, but what are we going to talk about? I can’t talk to her about my business. I know jack shit about art. What I know of her family, I can’t stand. I can’t breathe a word to her about mine. And around her my body falls completely out of line.

Beyond the glass walls, London twinkles with a deceptive purity and promise. A closer examination, if one hits street level, reveals the grit, the homeless, and the grind. But up here in the tower, from a distance, the night shines beautifully. Sure, the stars are few and far between, but who needs stars with a luminous horizon?

On the way to my bedroom, I pause at Willow’s open bedroom door. She’s closed the drapes, and she sits on the edge of her bed. There’s not much to do in here. There’s no television. It’s her forlorn expression that tears at me. It’s like stumbling on a grenade on base. Unexpected, but in this case, it shouldn’t be. This is a safe space, but it’s not a home—for either of us, it seems.

“What’s wrong?”

She startles, as if she hadn’t heard me approach. Maybe she didn’t. After all, she hasn’t been through awareness training.

“Nothing,” she answers.

I half chuckle. Yeah, that’s bullshit. I’ve got sisters to thank for being able to grasp that much.

I step into her room and pick up a framed photograph of Willow and Scarlet taken on a yacht with the Amalfi Coast as the backdrop. She’s younger in the photo, and her blue eyes sparkle.

“Do you find me attractive?”

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