Page 4 of Selling Innocence

However, having him staring down at me with those familiar bright blue eyes rooted my feet in place, making me suddenly understand why so many women had come.

He pulled his lips into a smile, one that hinted at mischief. It reminded me that he’d asked if I was okay, and I had entirely missed that.

“Yeah,” I said, rushing the answer out as if to cover up my previous distraction. “No use in crying over spilled coffee, huh?”

His gaze dropped down my front as he lifted one of his blond eyebrows. He lowered his voice so it didn’t carry. “You know, you should consider changing.”

At that, I finally looked down to realize that, yeah, the coffee had managed to turn my previously cute white shirt entirely see through. It showed off the lace bra I had on, like the world’s worst wet T-shirt contest. “Just great,” I muttered, wishing I’d brought a jacket or something.

Vance slid off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, the action smooth enough to tell me he’d done it plenty of times before. “Come on. I always bring some extra items when I’m speaking. They gave me a ready room just down the hallway.”

“No, it’s fine.” I tried to remove the coat, afraid to get it dirty. A man as rich as Vance no doubt had clothing worth a small fortune. I didn’t want to risk ruining the nice coat. “I’ll just go back to my apartment.”

“I insist.” Vance placed his arm around me to halt my objections and guided me back, toward the exit at the far end of the room. “I couldn’t in good conscience let a girl wander around with her shirt see-through. If someone attacked you, I’d never forgive myself. Please?”

It was the ‘please’ that got me. No one asked me anything in my life. Instead, people dictated to me, told me where I would go, what I would do. Sure, he was being pushy, but the please made it impossible to resist.

“Fine,” I muttered, giving in. I’d just have to keep my wits about me, because Vance was the exact sort of man I didn’t need interfering in my life.

* * * *

“Here.” Vance dug a shirt out of a black rolling suitcase. The cotton was so soft in my hands that I struggled to not rub my cheek against it when he tossed it to me.

“I really can’t take this.” The idea of being indebted to anyone didn’t sit well, but the thought of getting any closer to Vance was beyond a bad idea. A relationship with anyone wasn’t smart for me, but someone with as much money and fame as Vance would only end up putting me in danger.

Him, too.

Still, Vance flashed me a smile I’d seen so many times from him in interviews. There it was, the face that had made the world fall in love with him. It made my stomach shift, that old cliched feelings of butterflies I knew better than to trust. He’d used that smile, that face to get him a place in the world.

Despite the fact he hadn’t released any new art in five years, as far as I knew, he’d managed to stay the It-Boy of the art world because of his charm, his money and his good looks. He wore a long-sleeve black turtleneck along with a pair of gloves that covered his hands. I thought back to the interviews I’d watched.

Did he always wear them? I couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t. Maybe it was some weird artist quirk?

“I insist,” he pressed. “This is just a T-shirt. It’s no big deal and it’s the least I can do. Come on, change. There are wipes on the table over there in case you need to clean off the coffee. Take them into the dressing room right there, and I’ll keep an eye on the door since there’s no lock.”

My ability to say no had dwindled to nothing, so, defeated, I grabbed the wipes and went into the dressing room at the back. It had a curtain for privacy, and I pulled that closed. Red skin showed where the coffee had hit me, and I used the wipes to clean the sticky area. Once I’d done the best job possible at that moment, I pulled on the shirt he’d handed me.

It was baggy on me, of course, but something about the soft cotton made me want to snuggle up in front of a fireplace and drink hot cocoa. It was like a piece of comfort sewn into the form of clothing. A faded image sat on the front, so old that I couldn’t make sense of it beyond strips of colors.

Was this shirt important to him? If so, why would he let me use it? If it wasn’t, why would he have had it for so long?

Or maybe it was one of those things that was made to appear old while actually just being trendy.

I bundled my old shirt and stepped out, finding Vance there with a sketchbook open and in his arm. He seemed fully focused on whatever he held, a seriousness in his expression I hadn’t seen from him before.

It drew me in, made my feet pause as I just watched.

At least, it did until I realized that he didn’t hold just any sketchbook. That was my sketchbook.

“Hey!” I rushed over to snatch the book away, indignation swelling inside my chest at the fact he would go into my bag and take my private things.

Vance didn’t hand the book back, instead twisting and holding it out of my reach. “You’re not bad,” he said, his tone different from it had been before.

“Give that back! It’s not yours.”

“What year are you?” He flipped through my book, effortlessly avoiding my attempts to swipe it back each time I tried.

“First year.” I crossed my arms, giving up. I wasn’t getting that back until he decided. Trying to fight him over it wouldn’t get me what I wanted, so why try? I’d only end up looking foolish.

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