Seduction’s Canvas (Crimson Romance) (5 page)

Oh shit. The painting was as it was before, but then again, it wasn’t. There was something new. Coming out from behind the dumpster in the painting and rounding a corner was now the front end of a motorcycle. She had captured it in motion coming toward her, headlight on and instinctively she wanted to step back as the rays from the light blazed her way. Instead, she leaned in and peered closer.

Double shit. Her stomach knotted.

If you squinted, you could just make out the banded tattoo along the muscular bicep of the rider she’d painted hidden behind the dark helmet.

Sam leaned back and fell hard on the stool behind her.

Oh hell twisted two times.
This was not good. It wouldn’t do to have him invading her mind and her work like this. The large loft suddenly felt like a constricting box and in that moment Sam knew two things.

One: she needed to go out. And two: she needed a drink.

• • •

Mark pulled up in front of Club Shift and watched for a moment, taking in the eclectic mix of those waiting to get past the club’s bouncers out front. It was your typical Thursday night throng of fashionistas, wannabe style gurus, and bridge and tunnel commuters. He didn’t know if it would pan out, but hey, any lead was good. Besides, better to survey the place, get a good take on things so when he went into his meeting with the club’s owner the next day, he’d arrive with as much knowledge as possible to land the contract for his guys. He rounded the corner and stowed his bike in the back alley.

Knocking on the back door, Mark was given admittance by an old buddy. Chad was a good enough guy and someone he’d like to pull into his operation when it got bigger. Mark knew from experience that it paid to have friends in both high and low places. He also knew that in this city your friends in those low places may turn out to be the most valuable you ever had.

Mark made his way into the club and was instantly hit by the loud bass of the music and the blinding strobe lights. Shit, he should have brought his shades and his earplugs. This music sucked. He did a quick scan from a back corner, checking all the exits and possible blind spots, when suddenly he stilled as his mind went all tunnel vision, target on, set phaser to stun as he spotted her.

Damn. Samara Leighton.

She was holding court on a low semi circle banquette with a group of three friends. One, a tall, voluptuous, caramel skinned beauty sporting a tight black mini dress, and on her other side, a petite, look-but-don’t-touch blond who he recognized from coming in and out of their apartment building quite a few times. Cozied up next to the blond was a Latino woman with wild curly hair and striking features that he’d swear he recognized from the latest issue of
SI
. Too bad she was currently sporting a scowl that could singe a man.

Mark watched from the end of the bar as a guy, clearly on the make, made his way over to the women, egged on by his friends. Mark shook his head, knowing what was to come. There was about ten seconds of small talk before bar dude was sent packing. He saw Samara’s mini wearing friend mouth something about being rude, but Samara seemed not to hear or pretended not to as she bobbed to the sound of the music. Mark narrowed his eyes, noticing the loose waving of her body to the beat of the shitty music. She looked like she had already been there a while and had had her fair share and was into nothing but the music, the drinks, and maybe forgetting. Forgetting what, he didn’t know, but a few more drinks and he’d bet neither would she.

A few minutes later, a waitress came over with a bottle of champagne, pointing to a group of men a ways down the line of booths. Mark followed her hand. They were Wall Streeters, late thirties, early forties, and he could tell some were clearly out past their wives’ curfews and paying the overpriced table service fee off the company’s expense account. The women looked at each other and shrugged, accepting the drinks, though he could tell by her expression that the Latin beauty was not impressed by either the music or the drinks. She whispered something in blond’s ear and got a nod and a laugh in return.

Mark stared at Samara. She was still bobbing her head to the music and now talking animatedly to her other friend. He decided to order his own drink.

“A beer.”

“What?” the tight shirted, barely squeaking it to twenty-one-year-old bartender yelled back at him.

“A beer,” Mark said softly.

“Well, what kind?” the bartender asked, confused. Mark knew he was probably used to people coming at him rattling off an array of exotic requests.

“Whatever you’ve got that’s cold and ready and in a bottle.”

He took the beer the bartender offered, paid, then turned back around. The banquette was now empty.

Scanning the club, he went for the Wall Streeters first. They were all accounted for. Then Mark surveyed the dance floor. There were all four women, dancing for all they were worth and putting on quite a show. And to make matters better or worse, depending on your view, there was Samara leading the pack, balancing on high ankle boots showing off more leg than should be legal and gyrating her slim hips so suggestively, he thought he might lose it right there.

Instead, he took a swig of his beer.

He watched as she moved and dipped and swayed and, oh Christ, ground her hips to the sound of the music. The tempo changed and was now suddenly more tribal. Samara closed her eyes and for a moment it was like she seemed to retreat into another world, raising her slim arms and reaching for the sky.

Mark’s breath caught in his throat. He saw the sheen of moisture that now was across her brow and her upper lip. Felt the heat as it radiated from her clear across the club.

Mark was so distracted that he didn’t come out of his trance until he saw Samara’s eyes pop open in clear surprise.

He went on full alert looking for the source of her distress.

It was then that he noticed the large hand that was on Samara’s bare back. This was not one of the Wall Street crew. Mark saw Samara look around for her friends, pivoting on slightly unsteady legs. The blond and the curly headed chick had edged to the other end of the dance floor, now intent on gyrating against each other and giving a show to a couple of guys that looked straight out of college. The curvy brunette in the mini was now back on the banquette, batting her lashes at one of the Wall Streeters who’d made his way down the line.

Mark took a step toward the dance floor, but stilled when he saw that despite the slight teetering from her drinks, Samara had sidestepped the guy with his hand on her back and was headed toward the other end of the bar and away from him. Leaving him leering, but empty handed behind her.

He sized him up quickly. Jeans, pressed as if straight from the cleaners. Striped shirt, tight and untucked, three buttons undone; as if he was eager to show off his pale but look-at-me-making-it-to-the-gym-three-times a week and benching one-twenty frame. His greasy brown hair was long and flopped into his face. But then he pushed it back and that’s when Mark caught it: that hint of anger that flashed hot in his eyes. Mark checked out his shoes. Shiny. Newly polished for the night. Probably a size nine but he no doubt claimed them to be an eleven.

Mark followed the guy’s dark eyes to where they were settled on Samara’s bare back. He felt his heart rate rise and slowed his breathing to rein it back in. As he watched, Samara easily got the attention of the bartender, ordered a shot, and kicked it back.

Oh crap. Just as he thought, in no time Size Nine was right beside her with a leering smile, putting up a hand to indicate he’d like one too.

He noticed the slight movement as Sam stepped back a bit toward the woman behind her. As she did, Nine inched forward, still smiling, chatting as if they were old friends. He saw her shake her head no as Nine asked her something. He then took a slight step back, holding his hand up to indicate surrender. Mark breathed a small sigh of relief. Cool, Samara was handling it.

He watched Samara turn, he guessed heading back to her table, and felt his shoulders ease. But just in that moment, he saw it. Nine reached out, sailing past Samara’s denim mini and put his fucking hand on the inside of her upper thigh.

Oh shit. Fucking hell no.

In two strides, he was there. And then his hand was there too. Between her thighs, grabbing the fingers of the other man and twisting, just as Samara was about to open her mouth to say something.

“If you don’t get your fucking hand from between my girl’s legs, you can say goodbye to the use of your goddamn fingers forever.”

Mark stared at the man, letting the truth of his words sink in, and watched as the shock passed and reality sunk in. But unfortunately for Nine, it didn’t sink in fast enough. The bastard actually smiled. “How the fuck was I supposed to know she was taken with the way she was coming on to me.”

He felt Samara tense beside him and shook his head.

“That was so the wrong thing to say.” He twisted Nine’s fingers back and was rewarded by the sounds of his bones popping and his squeal over the sound of the hard thumping music.

Samara quickly stepped back and stumbled. With his free hand, he reached out to catch her and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her in toward him. Her body was warm and everything in him went hard as their eyes made contact and he watched as a soft flush bloomed beneath her brown skin.

“So it looks like I can’t leave you alone for one minute, sweetheart.”

Her eyes narrowed and she shot him a hard look of anger as she push at his chest. “Okay, tough guy, I think he’s taken enough punishment.”

And with that, Mark remembered the asshole he had gripped in his other hand. He looked down. The guy was turning blue and falling to his knees. He let him go. “I suggest a splint for a while and then you watch where you put that hand from now on. The next man may not be as nice as me.”

He watched as Nine went running off and disappeared into the crowd that had gathered around them.

Samara stared at him, her brown eyes flashing fire. “What the hell was that? Now you’re some knight in … ” She paused, looking him up and down, taking in his black long sleeved tee and jeans. “Knight in I don’t know what, but it doesn’t matter. I could have handled him. He was just a drunk guy off his ass.”

“Yeah, a drunk guy off his ass with his hand up your skirt. Sorry to tell you, but you weren’t handling him for shit.”

“Well, I was about to before you came over like freaking Superman. News flash, I didn’t need saving. Scratch that, I don’t need saving.”

Mark held up a hand. “Well, excuse me for helping out. My mistake. I’ll take note. Miss Leighton does not need saving.”

She looked around the club. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Mark shrugged then pulled out his cell.

“Hello. What are you looking for? I asked you a question.”

Mark turned back around and tried to put a bored look on his face. “I was here for some business. Checking the place out. Also thought I might meet my boy here, but I guess he must have hooked up with someone. So much for an easy night out.”

Samara gave him a glare. “So that’s what’s you’re here for? A hook up, an easy one at that?”

He raised a brow. “Nah. Maybe I’m here to practice my superhero skills. Thanks for helping me make my quota for the night.”

She let out a snort.

“So what are you here for?” he asked.

Sam looked down the bar and raised a hand. The bartender came over and gave her a suggestive look that he squelched when Mark gave him a return look that said pour and step off. He did.

Samara took her shot and kicked it back.

“Wow.”

She peered at him now through slightly watery eyes. “Wow what?”

He shrugged. “Just wow is all.”

Samara leaned back and frowned looking up at him with eyes blazing fire. “You know what? Screw you, Superman. Add to my list. I don’t need saving
or
your judgment.”

With that, she turned to walk away and before he could stop himself, this time he did reach out and touch her elbow. But quick, even quicker than he could have guessed, she turned on him and clocked him in the gut. He doubled over in surprise.

“And I was being kind. It could have just as easily been a knee to your balls,” Sam leaned down and purred in his ear, a seductive hiss over the music.

Mark grinned as the sting of pain radiated through his stomach to his outer extremities. Okay, so maybe she could have taken Size Nine. The women had a hell of a punch.

“What in the world was that all about?”

Samara had made her way back to their banquette and was now looking into the dark wide eyes of a shocked Gabrielle Russell. Gabby tugged on her mini as she scooted over for Sam to sit.

“Who the hell was that?” Lauren Chambers, her friend and the owner of the gallery where she would be having her show, chimed in.

“And where can we get one?” Kara added, her dark curls bouncing a bit too eagerly, causing Lauren to flip her blond waves and give her a pointed frown.

Samara flopped down. “That, ladies, is my new neighbor.”

Gabby picked up her drink and took a long swallow. “What? The biker boy? Life is so unfair. You get him and I get Mrs. Branders and her four cats.”

Kara shot a wistful glance Thorn’s way. “Hmm, boy? I don’t see nothing about him that says boy. There is
man
written all over that one.”

Samara leaned back as the women talked over and around her, but she half tuned them out and instead watched Mark Thorn as he eased his large body against the bar and reached for his beer. She knew she didn’t hurt him one bit with her punch. If anything, she had only hurt her hand. Sam rubbed her knuckles and narrowed her eyes as she felt her lips thin. A petite blond in tight black pants and a low draped silver tank came up to Mark. The blond was clearly trying to give him her number, but the whole while he kept looking Sam’s way, his eyes half-lidded and trained toward where she was. Heat ran from her thighs to her cheeks and she let go of a deep breath and crossed her legs.

Just then, the blond turned and shot her a look as she boldly handed Thorn a piece of paper she’d taken from her cleavage. Sam snorted to herself.
Hmm, prepared much?
But she couldn’t help but inwardly grin when Thorn folded the paper and placed it on the bar like a discarded napkin.