Page 52 of Canvas of Lies
When I opened the door to let her in, she took two steps inside and halted so quickly that I bumped into her.
“This is where you live,” she stated, looking around.
The place was spacious enough, but I knew it was bland, devoid of color and lacking, as far as one could tell from where we stood, a single personal touch. Sad beige furniture, blank white walls, shining but bare wood floors.
“Yes. Home sweet home.” I skirted around her to set the suitcase off to one side, then studied her critical expression. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, I guess, if you like generic and cold.”
I laughed and wrapped my arms around her middle, drawing her against me so I could bury my face against her neck.
“Does this feel cold to you?” I asked softly.
Though she gave a soft hum of pleasure, she refused to be distracted. “I want a tour. Let’s see the rest of this pitiful bachelor pad, hmm?”
I acquiesced only after twirling her around and kissing her soundly. For the most part, the remaining rooms were more of the same, though the master bedroom showed evidence of at least a few strokes of color, thanks to the plaid comforter I kept on the bed.
The second, smaller bedroom had been turned into an office where I spent the most time, and as such, it was the only room in the entire apartment that looked remotely lived in.
“This is rough, Nico,” she said, shaking her head. “When’s the last time you brought a woman back here?”
I considered it, then shrugged. “Four years, maybe.”
Kat’s jaw dropped and she said, “You cannot be serious. When did you become a monk?”
The smirk on my face had color rising in her cheeks before I even spoke. “I didn’t say I haven’t gotten laid in four years, just that I don’t bring women here. And before you ask, it’s been almost a year since I did even that much, okay?”
“No wonder you’re such an enthusiastic lover,” she quipped, smiling brightly at me.
My smirk widened into a teasing grin just before I picked her up and tossed her over my shoulder, letting her helpless laughter wash over me like a balm.
“No wonder,” I drawled. “Now let’s go add a personal,enthusiastictouch to my nice big bed.”
Beneaththebrightveneerof Kat’s excitement, the fact that she was nervous about the flight flared into evidence several times before we finally settled into our seats on the plane. I laced my fingers through hers and leaned over to peer out the window beside her. When I drew back, I frowned at her tense posture.
“Kitten,” I said gently, “are you afraid of flying?”
Her forehead wrinkled in an expression that looked more troubled than thunderous. “No, I’m not afraid. I just don’t like it.”
“I could distract you,” I offered, angling myself toward her to block the view from the aisle.
Now her expression darkened enough for her eyes to shoot daggers at me. “Or I could disembowel you. That would make a good distraction. You just keep your filthy hands to yourself.”
When I feigned offense and tried to withdraw my hand from hers, she tightened her grip and laid her head against my shoulder.
“Except this one. I’m keeping this one.”
I laughed and kissed her temple. Though her fingers squeezed mine painfully tight as the plane took off, she relaxed enough to enjoy the view once we rose above the scattered clouds and into a brilliant blue sky. For the first part of the flight, we chatted in low tones about random topics—nothing pertaining to the painting or Kat’s father, nothing that might bring back her tension—and then dozed for a few hours with our arms linked and heads tilted together.
By the time we landed, I was fairly sure her nerves had faded into the background, leaving that starry-eyed excitement front and center. Christ, I was ready to offer her the world just to keep it there.
It wasn’t until we found Jérôme outside the airport that I suddenly realized Kat had greeted my cousin in beautifully spoken French. I cocked a brow when I caught her eye, but she only grinned at me. Since she insisted I sit up front with Jérôme during the drive out to the house, I didn’t have a chance to question her until we were unloading our suitcases from the trunk.
“When did you go and learn French?” I murmured against her ear.
Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “I actually minored in French in college, thank you very much. Seriously, your stalking skillsare crap. Besides, my father might not have cared to communicate with your dad in anything other than English, but I’d learned enough to stumble through conversations with him by the time you left for college. I’m just a little rusty.”
“You don’t sound rusty. I’ve barely spoken any French since I was in high school, so I’m sure I’m even rustier. You, however, sound hot as hell.” I chucked her under the chin, then the introductions began.
