Masterpiece (8 page)

“Chickens?”

I’m actually feeling a little bit
pissed off by this point. He won’t even
consider
it? That’
s just …
crazy!
And t
here’s no way I’m giving up that easily.
No way.

“I wasn’t counting any
chickens
, actually,” I notify him.
“
I’m just trying to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Your paintings are extraordinary. You’re an incredible talent.
I mean, we’re talking a once-in-a-lifetime kind of talent.
I think your work deserves to be seen. By people that know how good you are. People who would value your talent more than you can imagine.”

“What people are these?” he says, sounding completely unimpressed.
He puts his feet up on the wooden railing of his balcony and I can’t help but stare at the cowboy boots, the leather chaps over worn thigh-hugging jeans (and, holy Jesus, those muscular thighs), the
gargantuan swell --

Focus, Elle, I scold myself.
Focus.
I adjust my glasses.
“Um, well, like art dealers. Buyers. Collectors. Museum curators. Magazine editors. Art writers. Critics.”

“Critics? Why would I want critics analyzing my art?”

“Well …” I begin. I obviously need to tread carefully. He’s a cynic. But I’m sure I can convince him. I
have
to. “People who pay a lot of money for art often have one or two
knowledgeable critics they trust to compare the artist’s work to other artists, and that can help determine the value of a piece.”

“Shit,” he chuckles. “Why should I care what critics think my art is worth?”

I’m incredulous. But I forge
on. “
Um, because that’s how you make
money
out of it. Lots of money, if they think it’s worth it. Which they will. Because it is.”

Then he says, “I have enough money.”

At this I
am
speechless. For exactly ten seconds. “Everyone could use a little more money,” I venture.
Especially me
, I want to say.

“I have a ranch,” he says. “
My own house. A truck. Three horses. Four guns.
More than enough ammo.
A bottle of whiskey in hand and several more inside. What else do I need?”

I stare at him. “I don’t know. Maybe … to
travel the world.
Or … buy some new chairs so you don’t get splinters.” I’m struggling here. I never imagined anyone could be so obstinate.

He’s laughing again.
Goddamn
him, he’s gorgeous. I’m angry and dejected and my panties are clinging to me
in a warm, very-distracting caress.

I don’t laugh along with him. I can feel my gallery slipping through my fingers.

So I try a different approach. “
Please
, Mr. – Max. I really
think you’ll reconsider when I give you more details about exactly how I plan to publicize you and your show …” Maybe it’s hopeless. Maybe I can’t convince him.

“I might,” he says.

I perk up immediately. “You might?”

“I might show
you my paintings.
They’re upstairs.
But there’s something I need to ask in return.”

I glare at him warily. Is he going to try to take advantage of me? Would I mind?
Of course you wouldn’t mind, you idiot. You know it already: you would do absolutely anything Max Cash asked you to.
“What … kind of thing?”

“I doubt you’ll agree to it.”

“Does it have to do with … rodeo?”

He laughs again, loudly. His laughter is musical and genuine and so damn masculine I feel my panties getting even more saturated. My nipples bud and ache and my body feels soft. Lusty and alive.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs
. “No. Although you could probably
talk
a bull into submission.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that. Because my body is reacting to the shape of his mouth and the sound of his rough,
cowboy voice.
I have never been so turned on in my life.
Please
, I almost say.
Take me upstairs and show me your paintings then kiss me like you did in my dream
.
But of course I won’t. Dreams aside, I need to take this business opportunity seriously. I can’t go messing up my plans just because I had a ridiculously-vivid and outrageously-
erotic dream that just so happened, incredibly, to star the sexy cowboy who’s now, if I play my cards right, possibly going to make all my wildest aspirations come true.
“What is it?”

“I’ve been wanting to do a new series,” he says.

“A series?”

“Yeah. Of paintings. Nude paintings. I need a model.”

Chapter Nine

Oh, yeah. My little librarian’s definitely a wildcat.
A very sassy little wildcat who I plan on letting out of her
cage at my very first opportunity. Because
she’s as turned on as I am. No doubt about it.
Her cheeks are flushed and I’m imagining all the other places she’s blushing.

But th
en she starts laughing. The whiskey’s definitely starting to loosen her up because her laughter is real and so
damn cute I can’t help but stop and just listen to her. It’s the sweetest sound I ever heard. She finally stops laughing enough to speak. “No. Oh, god
, no.
There’s no way in hell I’ll be your nude model. I can’t.”

A strange, unfamiliar emotion surfaces that takes me a few seconds to identify.
Respect? Possibly,
but it’s sort of hard to identify because it’s being consumed by a fucking tidal wave of hundred-proof lust.
I stare at her for a second.

She’s turning me
down
?

I can’t remember the last time a woman said no to me. In fact, I don’t think one ever has.

So
this
is what it feels like. And I’ll tell you this much: it
’s a fucking turn-on. She’s
challenging
me and I’m more than up for it. And so’s my cock, which is possibly harder than it’s ever been.

But I keep my cool. I have to get
her to agree to get naked for me. I
need
her naked. I need to see
her, paint her, taste every inch of her skin before I make her mine
.
The thought that maybe I
can’t
have her makes me more determined than ever. She might walk away. She might mince her way back
out to her tiny car in those high heels and drive twenty miles an hour out of here, all the way back to New York.

I can’t let that happen.
Suddenly, I
want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Or anyone.

Before I speak, though, I make my voice sound moderately disinterested. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let her know how suddenly-voracious I
am.
“Why not?” I drawl.

“I’m a curator and soon-to-be gallery owner.
I’m not a
model
,” she scoffs.

“I’m pretty sure the two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

She’s staring right back at me. And through those trendy little black-framed glasses I notice that her eyes are green.
Bright green. The color of the grass on a spring day.
And she’s got these long, sweeping eyelashes that are dark at the roots and paler
at the tips, like she’s not even wearing make-up.
I find myself mesmerized by those eyes. And I realize I want to find out a whole lot more about her. Not just what she looks like naked, but what her favorite song is.
What side of the bed she sleeps on.
What makes her happy.

I
have
to convince her to be my model.

I can already tell that the sex is going to be mind-blowing. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. My little wildcat’ll make me come so fucking hard it’ll break my heart. The anticipation is starting to taste sweet on my tongue. My heart already feels strange. Like her challenge and her presence have amped-up my heartbeat and turned the world more colorful than it’s looked in a very long time
.

“No,” she laughs again. “I’m sorry.
There’s simply no way I’m going to be your model.”

So she wants to play hardball.
I
can play hardball.
I can play
hardball so fucking hard
she won’t remember her own name afterwards.

“Then I’m afraid I won’t be able to show you the paintings,” I tell her. “I guess you’ll have to find another artist to exhibit in October.”

She eyes me, all traces of her smile now gone.

I miss that smile, already.

So I start to up my game. “I’ll tell you what. How
about you come upstairs with me, and just take a look. Then you can decide if you want to
model for me or not.
Because it’s the only way I’m going to agree to give you twenty or more of my paintings to put in your gallery – which, if I understand correctly, doesn’t even
exist
yet.
Did I get that right?”

She takes another sip of her whiskey. “Well, yeah.”

“Right. And, if I’ve got the gist of what you were saying – and I’m pretty sure I do – you
need
my paintings. You need my paintings to set up your business and
make a commission off the hundred grand each you’re planning on charging.
Fleur told me the gallery she’s exhibiting in charges a thirty percent commission. So,
if I’m about to make one point four mil then your commission for twenty paintings is six hundred thousand dollars. Am I right?”

“Um … yes,” she admits.

“So it’s worth your while to at least
consider
agreeing to my terms, as I see it. Looks to me like you’ve got a whole lot to lose by being so rigid.”

“I’m not being
‘
rigid’.”

“Uptight, then.”

“I am
not
being
uptight
.” She bristles a little, like the word is offensive to her. Like she’s been called that before, more than once.

Goddamn
, I want to eat that pouting little pink mouth. Lick her lips.
Sink my tongue into all that sweet, uptight perfection until her protests melt away.

“Listen,”
I say. “
You
want my paintings.
I
want
a model. We each have
something the other one needs.
I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement.
”

I’ve already decided I’ll agree to her terms if she’ll pose for me. It’ll be worth it. Besides, I’m done riding bulls. I need a new
pastime.
Elle Parker’s going to be my new
pastime
. And if making a shitload of money and getting written about by a bunch of pansy-ass critics in some faraway city are the only downsides,
then fuck it. I’m in.
I’m fucking
all in
. She’s too goddamn cute
not
to be in.
Damn, I can’t wait till I get her naked and sprawled out across my bed with her
little pink pussy wet and ready for me.

“But that’s not fair,” she says. “You c
ould get plenty of other models.
Any one of those girls who fawned all over you today
at the rodeo would do it. But
I can’t find
any
other artist that’s as good as you are.
I’ve spent my whole life looking for you.
”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” I say, and as I say it, I realize it’s fucking true. “I can’t find any other model who’s as perfect as you are.
None of those girls are what I want. I want you.
”

Those green eyes
blink at me. Pale flags of pink color her cheeks.

The thing is: I’ve been looking for her for my whole damn life, too
. I just never knew it until now. She’s not just cute, she’s so
fucking gorgeous it hurts.
And her refusals are – weirdly – the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me.

“I guess I could … take a look,” she finally says.
“Without committing to anything.”

“That’s all I’m asking. Then you can decide what you want to do.”
And if you say no, I’ll drive after you in my big truck and block your way until I can change your mind.

“Just so you know,” she says. “I’d be a terrible model.”

“Why do say that?”

“I’ve never done … anything like that before.”

“All you have to do is get naked. I’ll do the rest.”

She stares at me.
“Would I have to be …
completely
naked?”

My sassy little wildcat has gone shy but her green eyes are bright. I’ll take my time. I’ll carefully arrange her body, parting her legs, touching her slowly, until she’s flushed and juicy enough to take me
.
“Yeah, that’s usually how it works. It makes the paintings a lot more interesting.”
If your pussy’s hot
and wet. Needy for my colossal hard-on
.
Fuck, a small gush of pre-cum seeps from my angry-hard cock.