Page 11 of Canvas of Lies
When I arched a brow, that slow smile of his took on a different light. Fire streaked along my veins, though I tried to hide it. My cheeks burned in direct response to the tempting array of images he’d summoned from the depths of my imagination.
“Unless requested, of course,” he added, his voice soft and dangerously seductive.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
His low chuckle resonated deep within my belly, but after another slow perusal from the top of my head to the boots on my feet, he took a deliberate step backward. The sudden distance both calmed and irritated me as he winked and handed me his phone.
“Here, text your assistant. I’ll put dinner in the oven.”
As children, Nico had never done more than hold my hand, and even that had been infrequent, aside from the night of the incident. I thought back, but even when I’d practically thrown myself at him my freshman year—clumsy though it had been—Nicolas Beaumont had been the perfect gentleman.
He’d certainly never smiled at me likethatbefore, never run his eyes over me in a nearly tangible caress.
As I forced myself to ignore the way my blood sang inside my veins, I slipped down from the table and sat in one of the chairs, facing the kitchen. I took a few deep breaths as I fired off the text, telling Erin I was using a neighbor’s phone since mine was dead. She responded immediately, asking what I needed herto do in my absence, and some of my anxiety about being away from work faded under her assurance that she could handle it all.
Standing in front of the stove, Nico opened a cardboard box, cut through a layer of plastic wrap, and slid the pale circle into the oven.
“Is that a frozen pizza?” I asked incredulously.
Nico laughed. “My dear Papa is rolling over in his grave right now, but this kitchen isn’t quite up to his standards, either. I hope you don’t mind roughing it for a few days.”
“A few days?” I scowled at him. “Is that how long you think we’ll be here?”
With a hip propped against the counter, he hooked his thumbs in his pockets and studied me. “At most, yes. I’d love to get it over with sooner, but I do expect your father to be difficult.”
I scoffed. “Difficult. That’s a nice word for it. You expect him to be a miserly bastard with a mean streak a mile wide, you mean.”
Nico nodded, then turned to one of the cabinets by the sink. He pulled out a bottle of Tylenol, then filled a glass with water and handed them both to me.
“I’ll handle him. We have enough supplies to stay here for as long as it takes.”
“I have a business to run, you know. I haven’t missed a day of work in . . . well, ever.”
“You’ve been working yourself to the bone for years, Kitten. I think a couple days off work will do you some good.”
I scowled at him. “How do you know that?”
“Do you really think you can live in Spruce Hill andnothave everyone know everything about your life? You might not live at The Castle anymore, but you’re still the town princess.”
“Whatever. Just how long have you been planning this?” I asked, tossing back the pills with a long swig of water.
“Since my father died. I really hoped to avoid putting you in the middle of it, but unfortunately, I’ve run out of options.”
I wracked my brain, wondering what the hell my father had taken from Nico that was worth devoting two years of his life to pursuing. I’d get it out of him eventually, especially if we were going to be cooped up here for days on end. Deciding that I’d just have to be patient, I cocked my head at him.
“You know, this is not how I saw my weekend going,” I informed him.
He grinned again. “No, I expect not. Your routines are legendary—work, home, yoga at the studio down the street. Then what, flea markets, yard sales? What do you call that part of the job?”
The glare I sent him didn’t dim his smirk. “Scouting. It’s called scouting. You know, you’re starting to sound like a stalker. Are you obsessed with me?”
“Obsessed,” he repeated, pushing away from the counter to stroll slowly toward me.
He pulled out a chair, turned it backward, and sat down facing me with his arms folded across the chair back. Those dark eyes locked on mine until I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.
“God knows I’ve never managed to get you out of my head, Kitten.”
I remembered being irritated by the nickname when he’d first started using it—what, twenty years ago now? Twenty-five? As I got older and my infatuation with him grew, the name had become a stamp of pride, an inside joke between us, a symbol of his affection for me.
